Was Jean Froissart truly unhappy?
Or did Olivia misread his expression?
Olivia misread not: Froissart was in a state of anguished apprehension. He was sorely afraid that something would go wrong that night. But he knew what would happen if he declined to attempt the ordeal. He would be beaten until his sodden corpse collapsed in a weltering mass of splattered blood and splintered bone. Would be a putrid corpse by this time tomorrow.
It was too much.
He needed to sit down.
So, without thinking, he did just that.
Such was Froissart’s distress that, as he took his seat, the untutored observer might have been excused for imagining he was sitting on knives.
‘Sir,’ said a waiter.
‘You’re speaking to me?’ said Froissart.
‘I wish only to say, sir, that nobody is to seat themselves yet.’
‘Oh,’ said Froissart, in confusion; and stood.
Olivia saw his gaffe and smiled the smile of a polished sophisticate, the smile of a young lady who knows all about banquets and their protocols. Then, turning from Froissart (he was too old to hold her interest for long) she looked for the starvation cage Chegory had mentioned, but it was nowhere to be seen. Justina had had it removed lest it become (as well it might in such troubled times) a source of inspiration to the wicked.
‘Hello, Olivia,’ said Justina, finding her amidst the throng.
‘Hello,’ said Olivia Qasaba to her Empress. ‘Where am I sitting?’
‘On my left,’ said Justina. ‘Varazchavardan will be to my right.’
‘And to my left?’
‘My lawyer, Dardanalti. He’s a very civilized man, but he’ll probably be concentrating his attentions on the man to his left, who will be Judge Qil.’
Shortly, it was time for the banquet to begin. The customary preliminary ceremonies took place and then Justina made a special announcement:
‘There will be no drumming at banquet. Penalty for breach of this regulation will be death.’
This proclamation was greeted with general applause. Such were the tensions in the Grand Hall that all adults present were glad to have one thing they could agree upon unanimously: namely, that the delinquencies of the youthful ‘drumming’ cultists of Injiltaprajura were a threat to law, order and civilization.
Seeing how richly her proclamation was being rewarded Justina began to regret that she had not made it earlier. At this late date she finally realized how she might have been able to unite Injiltaprajura under her rule. A campaign to control, discipline, outlaw and punish the ‘drummers’ would have proved universally popular, and might — just might — have allowed Justina to start the process of unifying Untunchilamon against the threat from Aldarch the Third.
But it was too late for that now.
So…
So sit back and enjoy!
As Justina was still luxuriating in the applause, a little smoke from a mosquito coil eddied in her direction and stung her eyes. For how much longer would she retain the possession of those most delicate of the sensory portals? Not for long, not if something went wrong tonight. She might lose it all. Her hands, those fascinating instrumentalities of the will. Her But enough of such thoughts!
I can. I do. I dare.
And I will win!
So thought the Empress.
Then, like a child determined to fight, she fisted hands. Then caught herself doing just that, and smiled, unfolded her hands and soothed a couple of beads of sweat from her forehead.
‘Some pineapple, Vazzy?’ she said, offering a saucer of these titbits to the guest on her right.
‘Thank you,’ said Aquitaine Varazchavardan, taking a sample.
Varazchavardan was unhappy, as miserable and as fearful in his own way as was Jean Froissart. He felt — what was it? Not panic, exactly. But a merciless desolation.
This I may survive.
But…
We die even as we sit here.
A truism, for all know that nothing can slow the inevitable conquest by time. However, through much of life this underlying reality is masked by life’s trivia, or by work, the ultimate refuge of the sensitive mind.
While Varazchavardan was distressed, afflicted by both temporal fears and existential malaise, he hid his distress well. Such were his thespian skills that he looked totally unperturbed; looked, in fact, every bit the solemn Master of Law; looked slightly bored rather than grossly disturbed.
Elsewhere sat Manthandros Trasilika, his caution rapidly giving way to a grandeur of insolent ego as the banquet got underway and a little liquor got under his skin. Trasilika’s ebullience was not restrained by the fact that he was seated opposite Master Ek, who would surely prove himself a true representative of the institutionalized rage of Zoz the Ancestral should Jean Froissart fail the ordeal which awaited him that night.
Yes, no circumventions of mercy could prevent the inevitable processes of the law which would doom Jean Froissart if he failed tonight’s test. Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek would personally supervise Froissart’s destruction: and then would turn his attention to Manthandros Trasilika.
Already Ek was dreaming of the sly probes with which he would first excite Froissart’s nerves; of the exquisite crunch with which his pincers would mutilate the bones of the foreigner’s fingers; of the lush blood which would pour from the tongue of that child of Wen Endex as the fish-hooks tore free…
While Ek thus dreamt, he rolled himself a cigarette. He blew gently upon a slow-burning mosquito coil to persuade it into fiercer life, then lit his cigarette with the help of this heat source. Immediately a waiter hurried up to remonstrate with him.
The acolytes seated on either side of Master Ek — Paach Ch’ha Saat and Aath Nau Das — immediately became alert. Ch’ha Saat reached for the blade he had smuggled into the banquet, but Ek slapped down his hand before the foolish young man could precipitate a diplomatic incident.
‘What is it?’ said Ek to the waiter.
‘My lord,’ said the waiter, ‘I must ask you to extinguish that paper pipe, for smoking at banquet is strictly forbidden.’
Ek turned his green-flecked orange eyes upon the waiter and said:
‘You are in error. Judge Qil has ruled that the smoking to which you allude relates only to the consumption of opium, kif or grass clippings. That is his judgment, which you will find in the records of the case of the Imperium versus Odolo.’
‘But, sir-’
‘I am not smoking opium,’ said Ek. ‘Nor am I smoking kif, or grass clippings. I am smoking a rare and fragment herb known as tobacco, which is perfectly lawful. If you doubt me, then go and ask Judge Qil himself. That’s him
— there. Sitting by Dardanalti.’
The waiter retreated in confusion.
Perhaps you are asking yourself why this incident has found its way into a history as scholarly as this one. Had you acquaintance with waiters, you would not so ask; for you would know that the overbearing insolence of this breed is such that the public discomfiture of any one of their number is a matter well worth recording for posterity.
Anyway, there sat Master Ek, smoking and dreaming, and watching the banquet guests eat and drink, talk and gossip, or sit in silent speculation.
If the truth be told, there was rather much silent speculation that night. This banquet lacked the uproarious sense of abandonment which had characterized other such celebrations in Justina’s palace. While Juliet Idaho was drinking with a will, others merely sipped cautiously at their drinks, their minds given to fatigue or to forebodings of disaster.
