Louder, this time. And by then Justina had an answer.
‘Where?’ she said. ‘To the roof, of course! Seize the high ground!’
‘Whatever for?’ said Olivia.
‘So we can see what’s going on,’ said Justina. ‘Olivia, you can carry my dragon.’
So saying, Justina took the saucer upon which the dragon rode in state, and handed it to the Ashdan lass.
‘Take this?’ said Olivia. ‘Whatever for?’
‘I think it needs some sun,’ said Justina. ‘It’s getting jaundiced. Don’t drop it!’
And with that, Justina set out for the roof forthwith, thinking furiously as she did so. What should she do next?
Justina’s main problem was that the fundamental political dynamic of Untunchilamon remained unchanged, and that dynamic was hostile to her. The greatest force for evil on the island was the favoured religion of Aldarch the Third, that is to say the worship of Zoz the Ancestral. Ultimately, when it came to the crunch, a substantial part of the populace would side with Aldarch the Third or his minions. And now that the Multilator of Yestron was known to have triumphed in Talonsklavara, now that Al’three was revealed as the victor, the populace had little excuse for enduring the rule of the Family Thrug any longer.
So whatever Justina tried — be it a bluff with a false wazir or an imitation Crab — it would have to be very very good.
Otherwise she would shortly lose her head.
Justina was still thinking through her problems when she came out on to the roof. And the first thing she saw was Pelagius Zozimus, the wizard of the order of Xluzu who had lately served the Crab so well as a master chef. Zozimus was stark naked, a condition which lacked erotic appeal; for, while Zozimus was still hale in limb and shapely enough, the Empress was not in the mood. Besides being naked, the wizard was also dripping wet. ‘What have you been doing to yourself?’ said Justina. ‘That,’ said Zozimus, ‘is a long story.’
Since Nixorjapretzel Rat had hexed Pelagius Zozimus, the unfortunate wizard of Xluzu had been incarnated variously (this list, please note, is not exhaustive) as a grampus, a sun scorpion, a beady-eyed puttock, an eyeless whore’s egg, an ostrich, a snow dragon, a puma and a penguin. In the last-named incarnation, Zozimus had recently been swimming in Justina’s rooftop swimming pool, which he had found uncomfortably warm for his blubber-clad penguin body. But for the moment his original flesh had reclaimed him, though he had no certainty that such reclamation would be permanent.
‘Well,’ said Justina, ‘tell us your long story. Then we’ve one of our own to tell.’
Already Justina was figuring Pelagius Zozimus into her political calculations. Was he her ally? Not exactly. But he was not her enemy, either. He was a wizard, and so naturally at odds with Untunchilamon’s wonder workers, and so ‘You may think you have time for long stories,’ said Zozimus, ‘but in fact you do not.’
‘And why not, may I ask?’ said Justina.
‘Go to the edge of the roof,’ said Zozimus. ‘The view answers all.’
Justina went to the edge of the roof and looked out over portside Injiltaprajura. There were two ships in the harbour. The personal banner of Aldarch the Third flew from the masts of both, and both were disembarking troops.
‘It’s him!’ said Juliet Idaho.
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Julie,’ said Justina sharply.
‘Those are the Mutilator’s banners!’ said Idaho.
‘Yes, and any of his generals can fly them,’ said Justina. ‘He’s not here himself, he can’t be. He’d lose the Izdimir Empire entirely if he trifled himself here to dispute possession of this overgrown bloodstone ballast block.’
‘Then one of his generals is here!’ said Idaho. ‘We will fight and die!’
‘We will not fight,’ said Justina firmly, ‘and we will not die.’
She looked at the airship. To her untrained eye, it looked as if it was almost finished.
‘Pelagius!’ said Justina. ‘Where is your brother? It is time for us to leave, and I know not the secret of flying his airship.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Zozimus, ‘for it is a branch of wizardry entirely different to mine. I don’t know where Sken-Pitilkin is, either. Oh, and while I’m about it — he’s my cousin, not my brother.’
‘Pedantry!’ muttered Justina. ‘But what can one expect from a wizard?’
Then, nothing daunted, she scrambled into the airship, seeking to learn its mysteries.
The rooftop of the pink palace must have been under observation — either from the Cabal House or elsewhere — because as soon as Justina climbed into the airship it started to disintegrate.
‘Chegory!’ screamed Olivia. ‘Stop it!’
Her hero rushed forward and grabbed hold of one of the branches. It pulled away. He pulled back, throwing the full strength of his sledgehammer muscles into the contest. The inner wood slid free of its sheathing bark, which crumbled immediately to black flakes in Chegory’s furious grip. The wood waggled away at its leisure.
‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said Idaho. ‘The next wonderworker I see, I kill!’
Justina looked upwards at the sticks scattering in all directions. The timing of the airship’s destruction could surely be no coincidence. The wonder-workers were watching her even now. She thought to shake her fist at the Cabal House — but did no such thing. The gesture was too weak, too puny, and unlikely to be perceived at a distance.
Bereft of ideas entirely, Justina stared out at the Laitemata Harbour and the two ships still steadily disembarking their soldiers. Soon, they would march up Lak Street. They would secure the palace. They would arrest her. And if she fled Downstairs? Why, she would be hunted down, for there was no ultimate refuge there — as many escaped slaves and eloping lovers had discovered to their cost. And if she fled to Zolabrik?
Justina turned.
Zazazolzodanzarzakazolabrik awaited, its waterless wastelands stretching away for league upon league to the north. In vain she scrutinized those barrens, looking for an army. That was her last hope — that the warlord Jal Japone might have sent men south in strength to seize Injiltaprajura while the seizing was good.
But there was no army.
Maybe Justina’s envoy had never got through to Jal Japone. Or maybe Japone declined to come south. Or, more probably — the roadless way was far and the going was rough — the envoy had yet to reach his destination.
‘Still,’ said Justina to herself. ‘I tried.’
Then she felt defeat, for she could think of no further tricks she could try.
As Justina stood there upon the rooftop of the pink palace, she realized that even then — right at that very moment — there would still be people in and around Injiltaprajura who were catching fish, drawing water, cooking meals, washing dishes, collecting coconuts or weeding market gardens. And if she died that day, why, the mundane life of the city would still continue, for all the world as if she had never lived.
Thus Justina endured a vision of the world as it would be when she had died. She would die, her bones would be scattered, her memory desecrated. And still the sun would shine; still the red seas of sunset and the red seas of dawn would break against the shores of Untunchilamon.
Then she knew despair.
She walked to the edge of the rooftop, half-minded to throw herself off.
Then she stopped.
For she remembered.
In that time of despair, Justina remembered a story which had once been told to her by her father, the great Lonstantine. He had told her of an experiment once performed by a half-mad master of experimental philosophy. The man had obtained two rare and wonderful bottles made of glass, and had orientated these transparent vessels so they lay with their butts presented to the light and their throats in dark shadows, the darkness being enhanced by the careful arrangement of black cloth. Into each of these bottles the experimenter introduced an insect.
Into one bottle went a bumble bee.
Into the other, a fly.
The fly was too stupid to try to think its way out of the bottle. Instead, it flew around at random, blatting this way and that in the manner of flies — and in moments had triced its way out to freedom by inevitable
