‘The text is written in Slandolin, my lady,’ said Idaho.
Justina had never got round to learning that language. She supposed she should have; but then, there were so very many tongues that the learning of them could easily have overwhelmed a lifetime.
‘What is your interest in this… this Slandolin?’ said Justina. ‘What have we here? A work of scholarship?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Idaho. ‘It purports to tell of the creation of a dragon. A new kind of dragon. A dragon no longer than your finger.’
‘This dragon?’ said Justina.
So saying, she pointed at the little nest of cat’s fur and feather-fluff which sat upon her desk. Within was the dragon Untunchilamon, so named by the Empress Justina. This was a beast of heroic lineaments but decidedly unheroic physical capacities; seven days previously it had been mobbed by a squabble of seagulls on the island of Jod, and would have died but for the personal intervention of the imperial veterinarian, who had been upon Jod to give the Hermit Crab a medical check. The poor mite of a dragon had been half-dead when brought to the palace, but had been recovering steadily ever since; indeed, the veterinarian averred that it would soon be fit to fly.
For those who lack knowledge of alien tongues, it should here be noted that the dragon Untunchilamon was so named for the same reason that cats are so often called ‘Cat’. In the Janjuladoola of the Izdimir Empire, ‘Untunchilamon’ means ‘dragon’, hence many firedrakes have thus been called, and doubtless many more will thus be denominated hereafter.
Why then was Justina’s island named ‘dragon’ in Janjuladoola? Here there is no great mystery. The ruling rock of the island was and is the sunset-tinged bloodstone, its red colour oft associated with fire and hence with dragons.
‘The document,’ said Idaho, ‘would appear to speak of the creation of this dragon, yes. However, there is a fractional notation of greater interest at the very bottom of the page. A translation reads thus.’
He handed the Empress a piece of paper, rough stuff incorporating patent splinters of wood. The Slandolin of the purple script had been translated into Janjuladoola and set down in large letters of lamp-black ink written in a bold, confident hand. The translation read thus:
‘A neat trick, this creation of dragon from cockroach. But greater feats have been done in the past. Take for example the attainments of the organic rectifier, that magnanimous piece of machinery which allowed selected citizens of the Golden Gulag to make themselves immortal. Such was the jovial vigour of its accomplishments that it could jest a man to woman in less time than a twinkling wave takes to break from curves as smooth as haunch and hip to a flurry of foam and galactic scintillations, which is certainly less time than it takes to write these words which seek to encapture that motion. Damn this light! And how is a man to work with the dogs so wrath? Anyway: the rectifier. It could easily have delighted the Crab by converting that frustrated dignity to human form. Furthermore, though Untunchilamon knew it not, there was-’
Justina frowned.
She read through the translation a second time.
The implications made her head spin.
‘Are we to imagine that there might be a… a device of some kind?’ said she. ‘Here, I mean? On Untunchilamon? A device to magic Crab to human?’
‘I’m a Yudonic Knight,’ said Juliet Idaho. ‘I don’t imagine things. I kill things. I vote we find the person who wrote the original. Find, interrogate, torture, kill. That strikes me as better work than any labour of imagination.’
‘Julie, darling,’ said Justina, smiling upon her trusted retainer. ‘Your energy and enthusiasm are a constant inspiration to me. Verily, we shall seek the author of the original text. Where did that text come from?’
‘It was thieved from the Cabal House by one of our spies,’ said Juliet Idaho. ‘He knew not the value of what he had carried away, for he could read no Slandolin. In truth, he is illiterate; he reads nothing.’
‘What else did he steal?’ said Justina.
‘A great many bills, most of them invoices for deliveries of medicinal alcohol. A book of bad poems, a lampoon upon Aquitaine Varazchavardan, a street map of Obooloo, the plans for a twenty-oar galley, the deeds to the title of Ganthorgruk and a letter addressing birthday greetings to Jal Japone.’
‘Try to find another thief,’ said Justina. ‘A literate one. With such a thief found, send him into the Cabal House to steal some more of this purple writing. Meanwhile: who did our translation?’
An obvious question, since Juliet Idaho knew no more of Slandolin than did the Empress herself. Furthermore, since no imperial business was conducted in that Ashmo-lean tongue, no official translators of such were on tap.
‘A soldier,’ said Idaho. ‘I knew it for an Ashdan tongue so I sought out an Ashdan to read it. Shanvil Angarus May.’
‘May!’ said Justina. ‘I know him well. But he tells himself to be from Ashmolea North. Are not the secrets of Slandolin the sole possession of the south?’
‘Of livers and kidneys and buckets of blood, of such is my teaching,’ answered Idaho, speaking with unabashed violence. ‘I asked as a soldier will. I asked: can you do it. He answered: yes. So I told him: do it.’
‘Well!’ said Justina, sounding slightly miffed. ‘I’m sorry I asked!’
‘Forgive me, my lady,’ said Idaho.
That much he said in a stiff and formal manner which entirely failed to suggest remorse. But Justina replied with grace and gratitude, for all the world as if he had made an impassioned and extended apology on bended knees:
‘Julie, my love, of course I forgive you. I know what a strain you’ve been under. You’ve been working so terribly hard and doing such a darling job. I couldn’t possibly ask more of you. What say you fetch me Shanvil May so we can talk over the translation in detail?’
Whereupon the doughty Juliet Idaho — ‘Julie’ to his Empress but ‘Thugboots’ to his troops — was much mollified. He bowed to his Empress, though such was not his custom, then departed to search for Shanvil May.
While the Empress Justina ruled Idaho with velvet, it would be wrong to suppose that all her dealings with the world were thus. Some she flattered; some she urged to her assistance by feigning that melting weakness which your romantic and misogynist alike will describe as being womanly. But others she bent to her will by exercise of brute force and unprincipled violence, for the strenuous demands of keeping order in her faction-fraught kingdom did not allow her to eschew these standard weapons of stateswomanship.
Then Justina rang for a manservant and told him to fetch Dardanalti.
While the Empress still intended to visit the Dromdanjerie, and soon, she first wanted to discuss the latest development with Dardanalti himself. Was there really an ‘organic rectifier’ on Untunchilamon? An immortality machine? A device which could translate Crab flesh to human? Justina thought she had better find out, and quickly.
Unfortunately for the Empress, her time for research was going to be strictly limited. For the day had advanced while she conferred at length with her lawyer and with Juliet Idaho. Unbeknownst to Justina, Untunchilamon already had a new wazir. A heavyweight uitlander had been confirmed in that position by the High Priest of Zoz the Ancestral.
Soldiers disloyal to the Empress had been hastily summoned by Dui Tin Char, and were even then on the way to the pink palace, seeking to arrest Justina Thrug so she could be brought before Manthandros Trasilika and summarily executed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The disloyal soldiers summoned by Dui Tin Char marched into the pink palace and sought out the Empress Justina. The men were led by Coleslaw Styx, a ruthless guard marshal.
The soldiers were soon at the door to Justina’s office. They knocked. Then knocked the door down. Then stormed into the office and seized the Empress.