proper and lawful rituals.’
As yet, the iron ball was still a sullen black. But, as Froissart watched, it slowly began to get hot.
‘Ah,’ said the executioner. ‘It is turning red with the heat. See?’
Froissart could not help but look. It was true. The dead iron was glowing red hot. Sullen waves of heat radiated outwards. The air above the brazier was trembling. Seen through the buckling air, Master Ek’s face warped and distorted.
Without warning, black spots started swarming through the air like so many pestering insects. Froissart swayed on his feet.
‘Don’t fall,’ hissed the executioner. ‘Fall, and you’ll die on the spot.’
Froissart steadied himself. His vision cleared. His focus sharpened.
‘Look at it,’ said the executioner. ‘Look at the iron.’
Unwillingly, Froissart did so.
‘Now,’ said the executioner, ‘reach out your hand. Reach out your hand and pick it up. Do it!’
Froissart reached out with his right hand.
An anticipatory shock sent shivers prickling all along his arms. His vision sharpened. He saw the veins of fire in the charcoal pulsing softly, alive with a luminescent rhythm. He saw the red-hot iron ball glowering, waiting. He wanted to scream. A sob broke from his throat. His hand became a claw. His hand closed around the iron ball.
Which was cold.
As cold as ice.
Jean Froissart lifted the iron ball and held it aloft.
He knew the sensation of cold must be an illusion, something his nerves had done to save his mind from the agony of his burning flesh. He. knew his flesh was burning because he could smell it.
‘That is enough,’ said the executioner.
‘Enough?’
‘Drop the iron.’
Froissart dropped the iron ball. It fell heavily to the stone. The sound of iron hitting stone rang through the Grand Hall. Everyone in the place was utterly silent. Watching Froissart. For a few moments, the iron ball continued to glow red hot, but it rapidly cooled to black.
The executioner picked up the bucket of water which his slaves had earlier brought into the Grand Hall together with the brazier, the bellows and the heap of old iron.
‘I must cool the iron,’ said the executioner. ‘Stand back, for there will be steam when I pour the water over it.’
Jean Froissart did not see how a little steam could do him any harm. Nevertheless, he took a couple of steps backwards. The executioner began to pour water from the bucket. The water splashed around the iron ball and hissed into steam. The executioner continued to pour until no more steam rose from the iron ball. Water spread out across the floor. The executioner exhausted the contents of the bucket, nudged the iron ball cautiously with his foot, then picked it up and treasured it in his hands.
‘Show me your hands,’ said the executioner.
‘What?’ said Froissart.
‘You heard me. Show me your hands.’
Both Froissart’s hands were tightly clenched. He was trying to stave off the pain which must surely be waiting in his right hand, waiting for the moment to reveal itself.
‘Show me!’
Reluctantly, Froissart uncoiled both hands.
They were unmarked, the right no different to the left.
‘But,’said Froissart in a whisper,‘but…’
‘A miracle,’ said the executioner. ‘But then, you are a true priest of Zoz the Ancestral. It is an acknowledged truth that Zoz the Ancestral will work a miracle such as this when that is necessary to prove a true priest true.’
‘It is,’ said Froissart weakly.
Then the executioner said:
‘Go.’
‘Go where?’ said Froissart.
‘Where do you think!? Go to the table. Show them your hands!’
Obedient to this command, Jean Froissart walked toward the banqueting tables. He felt as if he were walking on air. He was delirious with disbelieving relief.
He approached Master Ek. He displayed his hands.
‘Here,’ said Ek roughly.
Moments later, Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek was gouging at Froissart’s hands, digging into them, knuckling them, rubbing them. But he could find no damage. The High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral was furious.
‘Bring me the ball,’ said Master Ek. ‘The iron ball. I want to see it. Now! Get it!’
The cowled and night-masked executioner was still holding the iron ball which had been used for Jean Froissart’s ordeal. Froissart walked toward him.
‘What do you want?’ said the executioner.
‘The iron ball,’ said Froissart.
‘Take it,’ said the executioner, handing the thing over. ‘Keep it. A souvenir.’
‘It’s Ek who wants it,’ said Froissart.
‘Then he’s welcome to it,’ said the masked executioner. ‘Go. Give it to him.’
As Froissart walked toward Master Ek, the executioner made his departure. His slaves came into the Grand Hall and began removing the equipment.
‘Here,’ said Ek, impatiently. ‘Give me the thing here.’
Froissart handed over the iron ball.
Ek took it into his hands and looked at it suspiciously. It was cold, cold as the belly of a dead lizard on a chilly morning. A flake of rust came away in Ek’s hands. A trace of sweat from Ek’s skin moistened the rust, which left a black stain when he brushed it away. Ek handed the ball to the most trusted of his acolytes, Aath Nau Das.
‘Take this thing,’ said Ek. ‘Take it, and test it to destruction.’
Then he turned to Froissart.
‘You have passed,’ said Ek. ‘You have passed the test. You have proved yourself a true priest of Zoz.’
‘Then,’ said Manthandros Trasilika loudly, ‘since Froissart’s a true priest, I am a true wazir.’
Ek looked at him coldly.
‘You are,’ said Ek. ‘All Untunchilamon will know as much by this time tomorrow. That I promise you. For now — let the banquet continue.’
Saying that was strictly the prerogative of the Empress Justina, but she let it pass. She felt quite weak with relief. So it had all gone off as planned. She had expected it to, of course. But there were so many things which could have gone wrong. So very many things.
What, for example, if Master Ek had demanded that the executioner be unmasked…?
Elsewhere, in a secure room far removed from the Great Hall — Justina’s bedroom, as it happens — the executioner was unmasking. The cowled figure proved to be Odolo, Injiltaprajura’s master conjuror. Once unmasked, Odolo reached into his mouth, withdrew a bit of palate-contorting wood, and tossed the much-hated thing aside.
He worked his jaw this way and that, experimentally, then said, in accents far removed from those the chunk of wood had forced upon him:
‘That’s better.’
Then Odolo reached into one of his capacious sleeves and withdrew a rusty iron ball.
‘OK,’ said Odolo. ‘That’s it.’
The ball quivered.
It became a spherical watermelon.
A gleaming golden orb.
A mirror.
