A miniature sun.
A globe webbed all over with delicate patterns of brown and green.
Then a silver-bright bubble of light, which squeaked in
‘Did I do well?’ said Shabble.
‘Oh, you did very, very well,’ said Odolo. ‘Did I give you the cues at the right time?’
‘I didn’t really need them,’ said Shabble. ‘I remembered what to do when. But you told them right, you did, if I’d forgotten something I’d have remembered when you told me.’
‘The best bit was the water,’ said Odolo. ‘The water steaming. Was that hard to do? To go from cool to hot?’ ‘Not when you’re a shabble,’ said Shabble. ‘I’m really a sun, you know. That’s how I do it.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Odolo. ‘You know I know. You know why I know.’
‘Of course I do,’ said Shabble.
‘You did do very well,’ said Odolo, knowing that Shabble loved praise. Then: ‘Shabble, we need your help. You could help us again.’
‘Oh no,’ said Shabble. ‘I explained about that already. This was the last time. For old time’s sake. I have to go now. I have to get back to the temple.’
‘I could send you to a-’
‘You said you wouldn’t!’ said Shabble. ‘You promised. You swore!’
‘I know,’ said Odolo, an unfamiliar note of tension and regret in his voice. ‘So I did. But, while I’d like to think of myself as a man of honour-’
Shabble abruptly grew red hot and spun, spitting out a dozen fireballs. Odolo dodged and ducked, and ended up flat on his face on the floor. And Shabble, with unexpected anger in Shabbleself s voice, said:
‘I wargamed this with Uckermark. He told me you’d try to make me your slave.’
‘What else did he tell you?’ said Odolo, shocked and shaken. ‘What else?’ And here the conjuror picked himself up off the floor. ‘To kill me?’
‘If necessary,’ said Shabble. ‘You were going to say it, weren’t you? You were going to say the words. You were going to make me do things. Weren’t you?’
‘I… I… Shabble, my… could we… can we… could we still be friends?’
A silence.
Then Shabble spoke:
‘Yes. We could still be friends.’
‘Very well, Shabble my friend,’ said Odolo. ‘Thank you for your help tonight. I’m sorry I… I’m sorry I almost gave way to temptation. Go back to your temple, Shabble my friend, and go with my good wishes. But do bear us in mind. I don’t say you could solve all of our problems, but you might help us to save some of them.’
‘I have, I have,’ said Shabble, sounding hurt.
From Shabble’s point of view, a good deal of the last twenty thousand years had been spent doing very little but helping people. Shabble had taught them and counselled them, had played music for them and kept them company in prisons and elsewhere, had designed machines for them, had translated foreign languages for them, had told them stories and had worked out their income tax.
But people seemed to be in as much of a mess as they ever were, and they were still as full of demands as ever.
After twenty thousand years, Shabble had had enough. Shabble was a priest now, the High Priest of the Temple of the Holy Cockroach, with Shabbleselfs own life to lead, so people would just have to get on with the job of helping themselves. And if they didn’t, if they continued to make importunate demands upon poor old overworked Shabble — why, then Shabble would burn some of them up, and Shabbleselfs lawyers would have something to say to any who were left unburnt!
‘You did very, very well,’ said Odolo, laying on the praise for on e last time. ‘And I’m very proud of you.’ ‘And you’re going to kiss me goodnight,’ said Shabble. ‘You promised.’
‘And I’m as good as my word,’ said Odolo.
And the conjuror kissed dear Shabble, who thereafter took Shabbleself off to Xtokobrokotok in Marthandorthan, and spent the rest of the night leading the congregation of the Cult of the Holy Cockroach in rituals of worship and praise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
As the banquet continued, Jean Froissart rapidly got drunk and slid beneath the table. Manthandros Trasilika drank just as much, but had a greater ability to hold his liquor, and managed to stay in his chair. Juliet Idaho, another big drinker, vomited thrice and fell off his chair more times than one could easily account for, but stayed conscious and semi-capable.
Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek drank not at all, but smoked furiously, looking a very dragon in his rage. In due course, Aath Nau Das returned with the iron ball, which he had anatomized into three main fragments and seven smaller ones, plus a great many flakes of rust and a liberal sprinkling of iron dust.
‘There’s no trick here,’ said acolyte Nau Das.
‘But there’s a trick somewhere,’ said Master Ek.
‘You mean — you mean you think we didn’t see a genuine miracle?’
‘Oh, grow up!’said Ek.
‘If not a miracle,’ persisted Nau Das, ‘then what?’
An acolyte does not — should not — blatantly question a High Priest in this manner. But Master Ek kept his temper and gave a reasoned answer:
‘Injiltaprajura has a Cabal House, has it not? And the Cabal House is packed with wonder-workers, is it not? And have not the wonder-workers powers magical? And does it not follow that such a sorcerer could easily have intervened tonight on Froissart’s behalf?’
‘It could be,’ conceded Nau Das. ‘But who?’ ‘Varazchavardan,’ said
Master Ek. ‘To name but one possibility. Dolglin Chin Xter is another. I have long thought him to be in alliance with the Thrug.’
‘Xter?’ said Nau Das. ‘But he’s sick in bed. Sick to the point of death with hepatitis and malaria in combination.’
‘So our spies tell us,’ said Master Ek grimly. ‘But I no longer believe we can trust our spies. They led us to believe a false wazir would be produced tonight.’
‘And there won’t be?’
‘Use your eyes! Look! The Thrug’s as merry as a pickled gherkin. She’s sozzled. Juliet Idaho’s no better. There’s no risk of swords going to war tonight. If the Thrug has a false wazir in hiding, she means to hide the thing still.’
‘But our spies were so confident!’ said Nau Das.
‘So maybe the Thrug is deliberately feeding them false information,’ said Master Ek.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We grab someone we can trust to have reliable information,’ said Master Ek. ‘Juliet Idaho. The ideal choice.’
‘Why?’ said Nau Das. ‘Why ideal?’
‘For obvious reasons,’ said Ek in irritation. ‘Work it out for yourself.’
Juliet Idaho had the confidence of the Empress and so would know what was going on. He had few administrative responsibilities, so would not be swiftly missed. And, by the end of the night’s celebrations, the much-befuddled Yudonic Knight would be in no state to put up any resistance whatsoever.
As Ek was so thinking, his thoughts were distracted by a pair of spoons which had started drumming their way along the tabletop. They were porcelain spoons brightly painted with green and yellow dragons shown breathing out red flame and purple smoke. Now the spoons were dancing, and drumming as they danced.
The spoons jumped up on to a big platter. It was an elegant piece of pottery in the most dignified Janjuladoola grey, and it held great discards of sucked bones and fish scales, of fruit pips and banana peels, of the
