Froissart stared at the glasses.
‘Two at a time,’ he said. ‘Down to be up and up to be down. Three times.’
‘Right,’ said Justina. ‘To finish with two down, one up.’ Froissart tried to concentrate. But something was wrong with his head. Mentally he configured and reconfigured the glasses. But he couldn’t get the fit he wanted. Sweat bulged from his forehead and his heart raced itself in a panic.
With Froissart debilitated by such stress, the oola he had consumed earlier in the day began winning its battle with his constitution. The beakers stretched, swelled, turned purple and ran with yellow fire. Yet their configuration Their configuation remained the same.
And, for the life of him, Froissart could not see how to manoeuvre them into the configuration Justina demanded.
Yet the Empress had managed it.
As Froissart struggled with the problem, a drum began to beat.
Thop-thop-tup!
Thop — thop — tup…
Froissart looked round for the source of the noise. Then realized it was in his own head. He was still suffering from zen, or else was enduring stress hallucinations, or else was going mad. Or was being bewitched. Froissart stared at Justina.
— Say nothing!
So Froissart thought to himself. But his tongue was already blabbering:
‘You — you’re a — are you a witch?’
‘I have my powers,’ said Justina.
She opened a cupboard, brought out a skin of wine and filled two of the glasses.
‘Drink,’ she said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
Froissart seized his glass and drank convulsively.
‘Now you know me a little better,’ said Justina. ‘You see me for what I am. The possessor of powers.’
Froissart was not entirely convinced. But fatigue, combined with the mind-buckling effects of oola, made it hopeless for him to try to pursue the truth further. He said his apologies and fled.
Once Froissart had left, Olivia Qasaba emerged from behind the screen from where she had watched the proceedings.
‘Are you really a witch?’ said Olivia.
‘Witch enough,’ said Justina smugly, sipping at her wine.
‘You mean you are or you aren’t?’
‘That’s for you to work out,’ said Justina.
Olivia thought about it long and hard, and in the end concluded that Justina was indeed possessed of magical powers. But Olivia was wrong. As others have remarked, there is far less magic in the world than most people think. And, if the Empress Justina was indeed possessed of occult powers, she had not chosen to exercise them on this occasion.
Those who wish to test their intellectual powers against Olivia’s are invited to ask themselves how the Empress Justina worked a swindle on the genius level intelligence of the trained intellect of Jean Froissart. Those desirous of no such test can turn to the very end of this tome, where the explanation is given. Alternatively, the matter may be ignored entirely. For the explanation is, unfortunately, bathotic rather than glamorous; but then, that is the nature of the greater part of life and living.
For the rest of that daylight, Olivia kept Justina company as the Empress supervised arrangements for the night’s banquet. Meanwhile, Jean Froissart lay in a narrow bed in Moremo Maximum Security Prison, staring at the bloodstone walls and trying to get to sleep. He needed rest urgently, but sleep he could not, because of the rats gnawing his feet, the serpent fighting the dragon inside his skull, the octopus writhing from his omphalos.
He decided to go for a walk to calm himself down, walking being one of the standard cures for insomnia. But this improved matters not at all, though he walked to the far north of Untunchilamon and far out across the waters of Moana, coming at last to a grey and undulating plain where live flying fish struggled in their millions in pits of red-hot coals, and where a witch with a green skull for a head was splashing Trasilika’s head against a wall made of crab shells as the distant music of a mandolin dwindled into the darkness…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
That evening, as guests began to gather for the banquet, Olivia served glasses of sherbet on the balcony of the palace. This was rightly a job for a slave; but Justina’s residence was so understaffed as a consequence of the recent alarums that it barely functioned even with the help of pressganged labourers such as Olivia.
The young Qasaba girl did not object to her duties. Everyone was polite to her; or else ignored her, which at least was painless. She overheard a great deal of a great many fascinating conversations, and was not so overworked that she was unable to enjoy the view.
The view!
From the balcony, Olivia could see right across the rooftops of portside Injiltaprajura, across the Laitemata and the island of Jod, across Scimitar and the reefs beyond, and then out across the almost limitless sea.
The sea she studied little, for one eyeful is much like the next. Rather, it was the cityscape which attracted her attention in her idle moments. She was amazed to see how fast rebuilding was proceeding.
While studying the fruits of this enterprise, Olivia was surprised to notice a tarpaulin atop Xtokobrokotok. She had thought Marthandorthan had survived the dragon riots intact; but maybe fire had burnt away a part of the roof of Shabble’s warehouse. Or perhaps something was going on atop that roof, and the tarpaulin was there to shelter a secret rite of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach from infidel eyes.
While thinking this, Olivia saw something bright-flashing in the air above Xtokobrokotok. It was Shabble, spinning in a sun-dance which defied sunset.
Despite such defiance, the seasuck swallowed the sun; and the guests on the balcony made their way inside to the Grand Hall where the banquet was to take place. Unfortunately, like much of the palace, the Grand Hall had suffered thanks to riot and sundry insurrections. For instance, its marvellous glass chandeliers had been smashed beyond repair, and could not easily be replaced since there were no glassworkers of the requisite calibre on Untunchilamon. Indeed, there were no glassworkers at all on that island; and the chandeliers had been imported years before from Wen Endex, to which place they had probably come by way of trade, their ultimate origin doubtless being with the ogres of the Qinjoks.
Olivia had a good idea of what would happen at the banquet, for Chegory had told her all about his own experience of such ordeals. Thanks to Chegory’s accounts of the daunting glamour of the waiters and the intricate demands of protocol, Olivia was well prepared.
But…
If only Chegory could have been there to go with her!
Instead, he was trapped Downstairs with that horrible therapist thing.
If only they could rescue him!
But they couldn’t, not without the help of the Crab.
The only other way to get Chegory back would be to take prisoners to the therapist. But that was hardly possible, since at least two of those prisoners had sailed away. Yes, Guest Gulkan and Thayer Levant, gone from Injiltaprajura for good for all anyone knew. That still left the two wizards, but…
There was no catching the wizards.
But if only…
Olivia, in her innocence, imagined all would be set to rights if only she could be reunited with Chegory. The Ashdan lass still had a touching faith in the redemptive powers of love; and she lamented Chegory’s absence most bitterly. Lament, however, did not stop her from looking around at the assembling guests with a very lively curiosity.
Like many others, Olivia Qasaba’s greatest interest was in the priest who was doomed to endure the test by ordeal that very night. To her surprise, he looked most unhappy about it.
