CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
It happened halfway between midnight and dawn: midway through the darks of bardardornootha. By then, the moon had sunk from sight. By then, the entire city had fallen to silence, but for a single dog intermittently barking, a single rooster voicing an occasional challenge, several hundred slabender frogs celebrating life and generation, the pulsing rub-drub-thump which issued from a group of half a dozen insomniac drummers who had installed themselves atop the heights of Pearl, the groans of those many sleepers who endured tormented dreams of the Mutilator of Yestron, and the high-pitched assault-hum of several hundred million mosquitoes.
It happened.
The buildings of portside Injiltaprajura abruptly brightened as if the moon had risen anew. But there was no moon. The buildings themselves were glowing. Atop the pink palace, the glitter-dome burnt beacon-bright. The Cabal House glowed a phosphorescent blue. The warehouses of Marthandorthan — Xtokobrokotok among them — shone first pink then gold.
Along Goldhammer Rise, buildings brightened to an intolerable white. In among these buildings lay the Temple of Torture. That was brightest, glowing as if the sun itself had come to life within. All inside the Temple’s walls threw themselves flat and shielded their eyes.
Abruptly, the roof of the Temple shattered. A rockfall of splintered masonry blattered downwards — but dissolved to dust before it could do any damage.
The Temple was roofless.
The naos of the Temple lay open to the sky, and there lay the organic rectifier.
Slowly, a cocoon of purple light began to weave itself around the organic rectifier. Soon the antique device was entirely surrounded by a seamless integument of purple light. Then, smoothly, without making any fuss at all, the organic rectifier rose into the air and slid swiftly toward the island of Jod.
Shortly afterwards, the lights which lit Injiltaprajura were snuffed out. In the renewed dark, dogs and monkeys howled in fear, rage and anguish. Within the Temple of Torture itself, guards, initiates and acolytes picked themselves up from the ground, and began to inspect the damage. When they realized the ‘skavamareen’ was missing, messengers went hotfoot in search of Master Ek, who had taken himself off to his villa on Hojo Street just after midnight.
Shortly, Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek was issuing furious orders. The hell with caution! He was going to act, and now. He was going to kill out all opposition on Untunchilamon. Manthandros Trasilika, Justina Thrug, Aquitaine Varazchavardan, the lawyer Dardanalti — he would make a clean sweep. And if by chance Aldarch the Third failed to approve, well, Ek would deal with the consequences of such displeasure when the time arose.
Ek decided thus because he was sure a crisis was on hand. Had the Crab removed the ‘skavamareen’ from the Temple of Torture? Or had Varazchavardan stolen the thing by exercise of sorcery? Or did the Thrug command some monstrous power of which the world was as yet ignorant? Or had the very Cabal House itself joined Justina in conspiracy? Ek had no firm answers to any of these questions. But he presumed that the Temple of Torture had been destroyed because, one way or another, his enemies were on the point of staging a final confrontation. He was sure that his best chance of survival lay in acting immediately, seizing the initiative, and putting a permanent end to as much of the actual and potential opposition as he possibly could.
By daybreak, Ek had seized Nixorjapretzel Rat, Aquitaine Varazchavardan, the Empress Justina, Jean Froissart and Manthandros Trasilika. And, of coarse, he already held the formidable Juliet Idaho as a prisoner.
Many notorious and dangerous accomplices of the Thrug had escaped, among them the bullman Log Jaris, who had fled downstairs with his woman Molly. Of Shanvil Angarus May there was no sign; and the wizard Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin was another notable who was nowhere to be found. Sken-Pitilkin’s cousin, Pelagius Zozimus, had been sighted briefly in Marthandorthan. But before he could be arrested, he had turned into a carpet snake, and then into an eagle — and had flown away.
‘Never mind,’ said Ek. ‘This is enough to be going on with. We will begin sacrificing our captives to Zoz the Ancestral. Immediately!’
‘But,’ said one of his acolytes — Aath Nau Das, as it happens — ‘this is hardly regular.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Master Ek.
‘I mean,’ said his acolyte boldly, ‘that there are prescribed forms for sacrifices and such.’
‘Yes,’ said Ek, ‘and prescribed forms of politeness for acolytes to use when addressing their masters!’
‘A thousand apologies,’ said Nau Das, without sounding very apologetic. ‘But, master of the many decades, there is such a thing as legality. These people haven’t had a trial as yet.’
Ek smiled grimly, showing his blackened teeth.
‘The hell with legality,’ said Ek. ‘We’ll start killing them here and now.’
‘What?’ said Ch’ha Saat, the youngest of his acolytes. ‘Without even torturing them?’
Ek considered. Arranging for torture would mean delay. On the other hand… he had endured a great deal over the years, and it would be a shame to send the Thrug out of the world without saying goodbye in the appropriate fashion.
‘Very well,’ said Ek. ‘We will torture them before we kill them. Let’s get busy then!’
And busy they got, and soon gathered together clamps and throttle-bands, stabs and wrecking irons, tweezers and cactus probes, shark hooks and purple veils, bottles of torture water and vials of vitriol, and heavy- duty urns packed with writhing centipedes and fat juicy scorpions.
Then Ek had all the captives brought out into the courtyard of the Temple of Torture. In the pungent heat of the morning they were lined up at spearpoint. Ek was pleased to see they all looked more or less undamaged. And that they were, for the moment, fairly calm. This way, he would know that the end result was all his own work.
Ek made no speeches but proceeded with the ceremonies of destruction immediately, beginning with the slow and studied sacrifice of a vampire rat. This he performed with his own hands, even though it cost him much in pain, for his arthritis was bad that morning.
‘Now,’ said Ek, ‘what I have done with a rat I will do with a human. Bring forward Jean Froissart!’
Froissart was dragged forward, flung down on an operating table and tied into place. Froissart lay there, staring upwards in terror. His heart was staccato. Master Ek loomed over him with a knife. Then Justina screamed.
‘Shabble!’ screamed Justina. ‘Kill them!’
Ek looked round wildly. There was no Shabble, no magical rescuer. Justina had bluffed. But her bluff had worked. While her guards were distracted, she had broken free, and ‘Stop her!’ cried Ek.
But already the Thrug had a wrecking iron in her hands. And Juliet Idaho had broken free — someone must have cut his bonds! — and had wrested a scimitar into his hands. And the guards were looking on in askance, residual loyalties to the Empress or to Trasilika making them hesitate rather than intervene.
‘A pardon,’ said Varazchavardan, looking at Ek.
‘Done!’ said Ek.
Thus did Aquitaine Varazchavardan plead with Master Ek for a priestly pardon for any and all sins he might have committed during the years of the rule of the Family Thrug on Untunchilamon; and Ek granted him that pardon. Whereupon Varazchavardan threw forth his hands and cried:
‘Bobskabo! Bobskabo! Bro!’
Thus he conjured into life a huge and hideous monster with half a thousand fangs. Purple were its feet, and its legs were twenty in number. Its muscles pumped outwards like dough rising with miraculous speed. It roared. Then it advanced upon Justina Thrug and Juliet Idaho, meaning to destroy them.
Not to be outdone, Nixorjapretzel Rat threw out his own hands and cried:
‘Mikrandabor! Mikrandabor! Splotch!’
Instantly, another monster materialized. This one was orange, and spindly, and was pocked all over with little blue sores, and looked in the worst of tempers imaginable.
Snarling savagely, Rat’s monster attacked that which had been created by Varazchavardan. The two monsters tore each other to bits in moments, whereupon both melted into pools of a watery pink liquid which smelt like crushed sugar cane. Varazchavardan wrested a spear from the nearest soldier and began to beat the hapless Rat with the butt of the thing.
