‘Do what I tell you or I’ll send you to the therapist!’
By such commands, Ivan Pokrov had long bent Shabble to his will. Thus Shabble worked in the Analytical Institute when Pokrov commanded it, designing complex machinery capable of processing algorithms. Better still, Shabble even worked out Pokrov’s income tax. Pokrov had never tried to command Shabble to kill someone. But surely Shabble would obey if commanded.
‘Very well,’ said Pokrov, coming to a decision. ‘I admit it. I can and will command Shabble. But first we have to find our floating bubble. Shabble has not been seen on Jod these many days. I propose that we begin by looking in the Dromdanjerie. Well, shall we be going?’
‘Pelagius will go with you,’ said Sken-Pitilkin. ‘Not me.’
A wise decision, for, though the two cousins were of equal age, Pelagius Zozimus looked at least a thousand years younger and was far more athletic. Sken-Pitilkin’s wizardry could not protect him from the crushing heat and humidity of the day, and there was a danger that if he hastened up and down the steep-rising streets of Injiltaprajura he would shortly fall victim to heat-stroke.
So Pelagius Zozimus and Ivan Pokrov set forth to seek out Shabble, first making their way to the Dromdanjerie, the lunatic asylum where the globular master of mischief so often went for interesting conversation with a wide range of people who had plenty of time on their hands.
Pelagius Zozimus and Ivan Pokrov did not run. Nevertheless, their pace evidenced a certain haste as they went across the harbour bridge, through the slumlands of Lubos, then up steep-rising Skindik Way. Past the slaughterhouse they went, a trickle of monkey blood running into the street as they stalked past. Next came the huge rotting doss-house known as Ganth-orgruk, and then the Dromdanjerie.
Into that bedlam they went. It was cool within, and quiet, but for the ominous beating of a drum.
Tok-tok-tuk!
Tok-tok-tuk…!
The pulse of a remorseless madness!
Zozimus and Pokrov paid no heed to the drumming, but enquired after the master of the place (the eminent Ashdan known as Jon Qasaba). At their request, a servant sought him out. They then interrogated him as to Shabble’s whereabouts.
‘You’ll find friend Shabble in Marthandorthan,’ said Jon Qasaba.
Pelagius Zozimus raised one eyebrow. This raising of one eyebrow was a speciality of his. Though Zozimus was an uitlander who had spent very little of his life on Untunchilamon, he nevertheless knew Marthandorthan to be a singularly insalubrious area, a slumland of warehouses, speakeasies, gangster lairs and over-populated tenement blocks notorious for the delinquency of the children spawned with them.
Pokrov knew this also.
‘Marthandorthan?’ said the analytical engineer, frowning. ‘What would Shabble be doing there?’
‘Do you by chance know of a drug dealer by name of Firfat Labrat?’ said Qasaba.
‘Well… yes,’ conceded Pokrov with some reluctance. ‘Labrat is a cousin of an employee of mine.’
‘So he is,’ said Qasaba. ‘So he is. And unless I am misinformed, you once had occasion to shelter in the Xtokobrokotok.’
‘The Xtokobrokotok?’ said Pokrov.
‘That,’ said Jon Qasaba, ‘is the name of Firtat Labrat’s warehouse in Marthandorthan.’
‘Oh,’ said Pokrov. ‘So. What are you trying to tell me? That I’ll find Shabble there?’
‘Shabble, yes,’ said Qasaba. ‘And Labrat. Did you by chance introduce the pair?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Pokrov. ‘When I was in this — what is the name of the place?’
‘Xtokobrokotok.’
‘Yes, well, when I was there, Forfat Labrat asked for some help with his income tax. As a matter of courtesy I was compelled to oblige, and naturally I asked Shabble to give me some help. It’s an excellent accountant, this Shabble, whatever its other failings may be.’
‘Then you must bear some of the responsibility for what has happened,’ said Qasaba ominously.
‘Responsibility?’ said Pokrov in bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about? What’s Shabble done now?’
‘If I was to tell you,’ said Qasaba, ‘you’d be most unlikely to believe me. It’s best that you go and see for yourself.’
‘This is no time for games,’ said Zozimus.
And elaborated, swiftly outlining the need for urgency. Qasaba remained unmoved.
‘Go,’ said Qasaba, ‘and see for yourself.’
‘Well,’ said Pokrov, ‘well, if you say so. We will. We will. Don’t worry, friend Zozimus. Shabble will soon be a convert to our cause. I guarantee it.’
‘You speak of converts?’ said Qasaba, with a wry smile. ‘You mean to convert Shabble? I believe it is Shabble who is doing the converting these days.’
‘What precisely is that supposed to mean?’ said Pokrov.
‘Go to Marthandorthan,’ said Qasaba. ‘Dare your way to Xtokobrokotok. Then you’ll find out.’
Since the eminent Ashdan therapist declined to say more, regardless of the urgencies of the moment, his two visitors had no option but to remove themselves from the Dromanjerie and set forth for the lair of the drug dealer Firfat Labrat, there to find out for themselves precisely what mischief was presently amusing the feckless and ever-reckless Shabble.
They feared, of course, that by this time Justina might well be dead.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There were at this time some 30,000 souls in the fair city of Injiltaprajura, which means that a comprehensive history of even a single day in the life of the metropolis would be encyclopedic in bulk and mind-boggling in complexity. Fortunately, this is not such a comprehensive history; it is selective in the extreme, which is why only a very few of the inhabitants of Untunchilamon’s capital have been mentioned by name.
Reference has been made to Lonstantine, Justina and Theodora Thrug; to Juliet Idaho and Shanvil May; to the wizards Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin; to the formidable Aquitaine Varazchavardan and his erstwhile apprentice Nixorjapretzel Rat; to certain survivors of the Golden Gulag, these being the bright-bouncing Shabble, an engineer called Ivan Pokrov and a conjuror going by the name of Odolo; to Jon Qasaba and to his daughter Olivia, lover of the Ebrell Islander Chegory Guy, himself a friend of the Crab of the island of Jod; to Manthandros Trasilika, Jean Froissart and Nadalastab-stala Banraithanchumun Ek; to the lawyer Dardanalti and to others.
Now, all of these people know (or will know) all of the others; and each must take the actual or potential actions of all into account when manoeuvring for survival or advantage. Unfortunately, this tends to make for complexity; and there is a danger that some few readers unversed in the ways of history will find the interplay of even this carefully thinned selection of protagonists a trifle bewildering.
But what is the poor historian to do?
Were this a fiction instead of a history, certain obvious solutions could be entertained, most of them involving a general massacre to simplify the outline of events. A glorious and spontaneous bursting of brains, for example; or a sudden plague of meningococcal meningitis; or a rain of rocks from the sky to shatter an appropriate number of heads; or a swarm of killer scorpions invading from Zolabrik to sting, chew, bite and scrabble their way through a living nightmare until Injiltaprajura was suitably depopulated; or evil elves with phosphorescent eyes arriving by the shipload to hack the city’s population down to a thousandth of its original magnitude.
But facts are as they are; and the fact is that no unnatural disaster beset the island of Untunchilamon in the final days of the reign of Justina Thrug. Furthermore, anyone who grew to maturity in the time of Talonsklavara was by definition a survivor; therefore the advent of a new wazir and the political instability thereby produced did not automatically result in large numbers of people conveniently curling up their toes and disappearing from the historical panorama.