Surely this was a joke. But a joke in the worst possible taste. The Thrug would pay for this!
But Juliet Idaho was already at Froissart’s elbow.
‘Don’t you tell the Empress what she can or can’t do,’ said Idaho. ‘Speak your piece. Thank the Empress for her favour. Come on! Or I’ll rip you to pieces on the spot.’
He meant what he said.
Too late, Froissart realized Justina was serious. He had been tricked, fooled, double-crossed and swindled. Set up as a sacrifice. If he protested, Idaho would kill him on the spot. With the approval of law and custom, for a priest who flinched from an ordeal was doomed to instant destruction.
But if I die, the Thrug dies.
Surely. For if Jean Froissart was killed, then Manthandros Trasilika would be thought a false wazir. Whereupon Trasilika would be killed too, and Trasilika’s pardon of Justina would be revoked, and Justina herself would be tried then executed.
So thought Froissart.
Unless.
Ah yes.
Unless the Thrug had another wazir on hand.
Froissart had heard the rumours about escaped lunatics from the Dromdanjerie. A great many people believed (or at least claimed to believe) that the Thrug was grooming a cunning psychopath to rule as wazir on Untunchilamon.
Whatever the truth of the matter:
I have no choice.
So:
‘My lady,’ said Froissart, ‘I thank you for granting this trial your favour.’
‘That is well spoken,’ said Justina. Then she said: ‘Would you please step this way?’
Why? Where were they going? This was not part of the prescribed ritual of the trial by ordeal!
Despite his confusion, Froissart followed the Empress. Who led him to Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek. Froissart wanted to run. But Juliet Idaho was just a footfall to the rear, and Froissart knew instant death would befall him if he tried to flee.
‘Master Ek,’ said Justina, ‘I would like you to do me the favour of examining this gentleman’s hands.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Ek, pleased to have this opportunity to make sure that no trickery was taking place. ‘Froissart! Show me your claws!’
Here a grave insult, for the Janjuladoola word which Master Ek used to say ‘claws’ was ‘emokskok’, a term used only of certain taloned beasts which are held to be ritually unclean. To use this word of a human is to suggest that the person in question is no better than a foul and monstrous brute beast.
But Froissart did not protest.
Froissart was having trouble merely staying on his feet as Master Ek examined his hands. Sweat was bubbling from Froissart’s forehead, but his hands were dry.
‘It appears,’ said Master Ek, ‘that no magical or mundane agency has interfered with this man’s hands.’
‘Thank you,’ said Justina. Then, to Froissart: ‘Well, Frozzy darling. Let us go. The executioner is waiting.’
Then Juliet Idaho gave Froissart a little shove, and the hapless priest stumbled toward his doom.
Froissart was terrified.
In moments, he would be dead.
When he had to hold the red-hot iron, he would scream. And his flesh would crisp. And a hideous stench of burning would fill the air. And he would drop the iron. And he would clutch his ruined hand. And all would know him unequal to the ordeal. And all would think him a false priest, for all that he was true. And his death would befall him.
Froissart was almost paralysed by terror. He looked like a zombie as he ambulated toward the brazier.
Ek watched.
Ek drew upon his cigarette. Drew heavily.
The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral was a connoisseur of terror. If he was any judge — and he believed himself to be the best — then the fear of death was upon the young Jean Froissart.
Ek hissed, softly.
‘Master?’ said one of his acoloytes.
‘He knows he will fail,’ said Ek. ‘He was confident this morning, but he’s not now. Something’s gone wrong, at least for him. He’s going to die here, and he knows it. Which means the Thrug has got her false wazir close at hand. Be ready for anything. Swords, mayhap. Or worse.’
‘Worse?’ ‘Burning zen perhaps. Who knows? Just be ready!’
Thus murmured Ek.
The High Priest was sitting forward now, watching Froissart intently. Froissart stopped a couple of paces away from the brazipr and its attendant. Froissart’s face was that of a corpse.
‘I am the master of the ordeal,’ said the cowled figure who commanded the brazier.
Who spoke?
Master Ek listened intently, but could not divine the identity of that shadow-faced entity. The voice was hoarse and half-throttled. It was the voice of a thing from the grave.
‘Master,’ said Froissart. ‘I am-’
Then his voice failed entirely.
‘We know who you are,’ said the masked executioner. ‘You are Jean Froissart, one who comes to prove himself a priest of Zoz.’
Froissart found enough voice to say:
‘Yes.’
Everyone in the banqueting hall heard that single word clearly, for all eating had ceased. Only the waiters still went about their business, adroitly clearing away dirty plates and discarded stabs. But such was their professionalism that they were as inconspicuous as ghosts of the invisible type.
‘Choose,’ said the executioner. ‘Choose the iron for your ordeal.’
So saying, the cowled figure pointed at the basket of iron balls. Froissart reached out. Took one at random. It was cold and heavy. Bits of rust came off on his hands as he handed it to the executioner.
‘Pick up the bellows,’ said the executioner. ‘Stoke the brazier.’
Froissart did so.
It seemed the whole world was watching Jean Froissart as he worked the bellows. Would he faint? Would he collapse? Would he scream and run?
He did none of those things.
Instead, the rhythmical labour of working the bellows helped ease his terror. Good, hard, physical work. An ache in his forearms. Sweat rolling down his forehead, stinging as it burnt into his eyes, and for once he welcomed the sweat, the heat, the cloth wet against his back, he was alive, for the moment, for the moment at least, if he worked hard enough he could maybe extend the moment to for ever.
But ‘Enough,’ said the executioner.
Froissart stepped back. Just a pace. And now all watched as the executioner held aloft the iron ball.
‘Who touches this, dies,’ said the executioner. ‘Unless he touches it by my consent. Nobody yet has my consent.’
Then the executioner lowered the iron ball on to the hot coals.
‘Please,’ said Froissart, his voice a muttering whisper. ‘Please,’ he said, staring at the iron. ‘A thousand dragons if you say I can have it now.’
‘They can hear you at the table, fool,’ said the executioner.
Froissart looked up. Turned on the banqueters. Could they hear him? Really? Their faces showed nothing but anticipatory interest.
‘Please,’ said Froissart.
He was begging.
‘I cannot be bribed,’ said the executioner. ‘You must go through with your ordeal in accordance with the
