‘Then show him in,’ said Varazchavardan moodily.
Whereupon Justina’s messenger boy withdrew, returning shortly with the conjuror Odolo, an oliveskinned foreigner of unknown nationality.
‘Your mission?’ said Varazchavardan bluntly.
‘I come from Justina on a mission of some sensitivity,’ said Odolo, glancing at Rat.
‘Nixorjapretzel!’ said Varazchavardan. ‘Vanish!’
‘As you wish,’ said Rat, somewhat offended by this abrupt dismissal.
Then the young sorcerer raised his hands and cried out in his most imposing of voices:
‘Foo! Fa-brok! Fajanthamoglostima! Ka!’
Thunder burped, lightning fizzled through the air with a sound similar to that made by a fire when it is abruptly extinguished by a bucket of water, and Nixorjapretzel Rat vanished. Where he had stood, nothing whatsoever could be seen except a boiling cloud the colour of octopus ink.
‘Oh, get out of here!’ said Varazchavardan in disgust. ‘As you wish,’ said the cloud in a muffled voice.
Then it perambulated away to the stairs and descended. Perhaps it could not see properly, for its departure was followed by the heavy sound of someone falling downstairs and a brief cry of pain (or was it surprise?). Then there was the sound of loud-voiced argument between cloud and house slaves, a hiatus, the sound of a door slamming emphatically, another hiatus, then the confused sounds of combat between a purple cloud and a bewildered but belligerent mange dog.
All that time, Aquitaine Varazchavardan sat chewing ice cubes, endeavouring to intimidate Odolo through application of silence. Odolo displayed no anxiety, but waited patiently until Varazchavardan deigned to speak.
‘Now,’ said the wonder-worker, as the noise of that battle receded into the distance, ‘what was it you wished to talk to me about?’
Odolo then explained about the destruction of the airship.
‘The Empress Justina saw it,’ said Odolo. ‘The thing came apart and was carried into the sky.’
‘It was poorly made, then,’ said Varazchavardan.
‘The wizard who built the thing protests that such spontaneous destruction is impossible,’ said Odolo. ‘He declares it must have been masterminded by the Cabal House.’
‘Very likely,’ said Varazchavardan sourly.
He did not elaborate. He had no need to. Both Odolo and Varazchavardan knew that Injiltaprajura’s wonderworkers were largely loyal to Aldarch Three, the dreaded Mutilator of Yestron. It was an open secret that Varazchavardan would have liked to give his loyalty to the said Mutilator. Unfortunately, the Hermit Crab of the island of Jod had forced Varazchavardan into an alliance with the Empress Justina. And Aldarch Three, a notable exponent of unreason, was most unlikely to forgive that alliance.
Is it tedious to have this twice remarked upon? If so, then spare a thought for poor Varazchavardan, who remarked upon this calamity not twice a day but fifty times at least. As the advent of the Trade Fleet had drawn nearer, his apprehension had steadily increased; hence his nightmares, his angers, and his waking visions of drenching blood.
There was a pause; and this time it was Odolo’s turn to maintain a disconcerting silence.
‘Well,’ said Varazchavardan at length, ‘so the flying thing is dead.’
He said it blandly, as if this were a matter of no importance; whereas in fact he had hoped to escape from Untunchilamon by air, paying for his passage with a small quantity of the considerable treasure he had amassed during his stay on that island. While the blow was a heavy one, Varazchavardan had endured many dreadful blows in his life (the death of his much-beloved friend Wazir Sin, for example) and so had experience in absorbing shocks and sorrows.
‘Yes,’ said Odolo. ‘We have no hope of escape by air. Furthermore, Justina says the destruction of the airship proves that Master Ek is ready to move against us. She declares that we must attack Ek first. Today. Lest we be arrested by Ek. He has the support of the Cabal House.
He could do it. He will do it. Unless we move. First. Attack, you know, is the best means of defence.’
Varazchavardan received this extraordinary declaration in complete silence. Then he thought about it. The scheme was lunacy, of course. Flight was possible. Difficult, dangerous and uncertain. But at least possible. They had possessed a hope of getting away by air. They might yet leave the island by sea. But to dare an armed confrontation with Master Ek? No. That was lunacy.
Ek had no Powers.
Ek was but a priest, albeit the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral on the island of Untunchilamon.
However, Nadalastabstala Banraithanchumun Ek had the support of most of the wonder-workers of Injiltapra-jura’s Cabal House, for most of those worthies were worshippers of Zoz the Ancestral. Justina’s soldiers were largely disloyal and untrustworthy, and far more likely to fight for the Janjuladoola-skinned Ek than for a child of Wen Endex like the female Thrug. As for the populace, at least half would support Ek rather than the empress.
Varazchavardan clawed more ice from his amphora. He rubbed it between his hands. Ice-melt lubricated the palms of his hands. Then, abruptly, Varazchavardan crammed the ice into his mouth and smashed it with his teeth. His jaws bit, savaged, crunched. The ice broke, splintered, shattered. Varazchavardan swallowed convulsively. Then smiled sweetly upon the disconcerted Odolo and said:
‘This is not Justina’s plan. Justina is not a lunatic.’
Odolo said nothing.
So Varazchavardan went on:
‘A plan such as this, a jejune and bloodthirsty plan based on senseless, hopeless violence, could only have been hatched by Juliet Idaho.’
Odolo did not deny it.
‘However,’ said Varazchavardan, ‘even Idaho would never come up with something so witless unless he was truly desperate. Which means things are as I have long feared. The Crab is no longer prepared to support Justina Thrug against her enemies.’
‘You are correct insomuch as the plan originates with Juliet Idaho,’ said the conjuror Odolo, choosing his words with great care. ‘I must admit that I am his messenger. That, as you have doubtless suspected, Justina knows nothing of this plan. However, as for your surmisals about the Crab, of this I know nothing, for I am not privy to any information so sensitive.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Varazchavardan. ‘You’re not fit to be trusted, not if you let a mad Yudonic Knight entangle you in schemes so witless.’
‘Juliet Idaho,’ said Odolo, ‘threatened to remove my head from my shoulders if I failed to bear you this message.’
‘Extravagant,’ said Varazchavardan, ‘but in character. Very well. Tell that madman of a Yudonic Knight I wish to see him.’
‘Why?’ said Odolo.
‘That,’ said Varazchavardan, ‘is for me to know and for you to wonder about. Go!’
So Odolo went.
Leaving Varazchavardan to ponder the strategy he would pursue when he met with Juliet Odaho. It was difficult, difficult. As he laboured with the problem, his hands began working in an insidious rhythm, thrap-patting against his thighs, thus:
Thrap — thrap — thrup!
Thrap — thrap — thrup!
Abruptly, Varazchavardan realized what he was doing.
He was drumming!
‘Stop that,’ he said to himself.
Then went back to work on his problem.
It was possible, just possible, that Idaho might have devised a scheme which would give them some slim hope of overwhelming Ek and his allies by an act of force majeure. If so, then Varazchavardan wanted to know about it. Might even go along with it. For… such a possibility would be very, very tempting.
Suppose all those loyal to Aldarch Three were slaughtered. Then Untunchilamon would be safe from the Mutilator for ever. The island was far from Yestron, the seas dangerous, the approaches narrow and easily defended. A resolute population loyal to its leaders could make any conquest of the island impossibly expensive. All nightmare would be at an end.