Be assured, however, that all key players in the politics of Untunchilamon have now been identified, and will be identified yet again should the need arise. Nevertheless, there remains a need to make mention of one more person. This is Bro Drumel, captain of Justina’s palace guard.
On the fateful day on which the good ship Oktobdoj arrived in the Laitemata, Bro Drumel began his morning by attacking some of the paperwork which had piled up in his office in the Moremo Maximum Security Prison. He was still hard at work in that office when he received news of the arrival of a brothel ship in Laitemata.
‘Such rumour is false,’ said Drumel to the messenger who so informed him. ‘If drums could talk, they’d rumour thus, but tongues have no less excuse for ignorance. No brothel ship would sail across Moana.’
‘But it is true, my lord,’ insisted the messenger, as politely as he knew how. ‘I have seen the bark myself.’
‘How absurd,’ said Drumel. ‘A brothel ship! Here! They’ll lose money on that, and badly.’
Then he thought no more about it, which was easy to do as Moremo was located on Injiltaprajura’s desert side, and hence insulated from any immediate knowledge of developments (excitements, alarums, arrests, confrontations and such) taking place portside.
Bro Drumel was currently running the prison (as well as Justina’s palace guard) because the Governor of that institution had died after being attacked and bitten by a rabid pig. The Governor’s deputy was in the Dromdanjerie suffering from delirium tremens and the deputy’s deputy was illiterate; so the Empress Justina, after considering the lack of available talent, had lumbered Bro Drumel with this job in addition to his other duties.
Drumel suspected he was being punished.
Punished?
Why, yes.
For, earlier in the year, Bro Drumel had joined a coup against the Empress, a coup which had almost cost Justina her life. Much had thereafter been forgiven, but not all; hence Bro Drumel’s labours.
His paperwork was finally interrupted by the advent of Juliet Idaho, who was searching for Shanvil Angarus May.
‘What do you want him for?’ said Bro Drumel.
‘To kick in his head,’ answered Idaho.
Which was in keeping with Idaho’s character; though the truth was rather different, the truth being that the Empress Justina had commanded Idaho to produce Shanvil Angarus May so they could discuss a certain translation which May had made from the Slandolin.
‘Why,’ said Drumel, ‘seek him here?’
‘Because May is your deputy, is he not?’ said Idaho.
‘Technically, yes,’ said Drumel. ‘But he’s yet to show his face in the prison. I think he lacks a taste for paperwork.’
So saying, Drumel pointed at his own paperwork in distaste. Petitions; ration requisitions; authorizations for routine maintenance work; calculations for release dates; certificates of birchings, beatings and brandings; and stacks of similar bureaucratic impedimenta.
‘But,’ said Idaho, in extreme irritation, ‘I was specifically told he would be here.’
‘You were lied to,’ said Drumel.
‘It was a soldier who told me,’ said Idaho.
‘Soldiers are not universally truthful,’ said Drumel dryly.
‘I’ll beat him till his bones are bare and bloody,’ said Idaho savagely. ‘He told me a deliberate lie. To my face!’
‘Who was it?’ said Drumel.
Idaho named the miscreant, then said:
‘I’d been looking for May in the palace. Then I… I met these-’
He stopped.
Something unusual had happened.
Juliet Idaho had begun to think.
Idaho thought hard. He had left Justina. He had gone in search of May. He had failed to find May. Then he had met a party of soldiers entering the palace. He had asked after May. He had been lied to: had been misdirected to the desert side prison.
Which meant…
‘You!’ roared Idaho, drawing his sword.
‘Don’t chop me!’ screamed Bro Drumel, throwing up his hands in horror.
‘It’s a plot, isn’t it?’ shouted Idaho.
‘Plot?’ said Drumel in bewilderment. ‘Plot, what plot? What are you talking about?’
‘To kill Justina. It must be. That’s what they came for. Too scared to kill me on the spot so they sent me haring off to Moremo. And you’re mixed up in it!’
Bro Drumel protested his innocence, but Idaho was not placated. Drumel had participated in one attempted coup already, so was unlikely to be innocent if a second was in progress.
Shortly, Juliet Idaho was making for the pink palace with a much-sweating Bro Drumel stumbling in front of him. Idaho’s sword was drawn. Bro Drumel’s hands were tied behind his back, and Idaho had already promised the man that he would be killed immediately if any terminal misfortune had befallen Justina Thrug.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On departing from the Dromdanjerie, Pelagius Zozimus and Ivan Pokrov followed Jon Qasaba’s advice and made their way to Marthandorthan, Injiltaprajura’s ill-reputed dockland area, where they hoped to find Shabble. The most direct route would have been via Goldhammer Rise, but they felt it wisest to avoid the vicinity of the Temple of Torture until they had recruited Shabble to their cause; hence they took a back-cut route which avoided possible embarrassments.
Zozimus and Pokrov reached Marthandorthan. As they strode through this quarter of slumland tenements and brooding warehouses, the feverish pulse of the drums of Injiltaprajura assailed them from all sides.
When they located the Xtokobrokotok, the insalubrious warehouse belonging to the drug dealer Firfat Labrat, they found a group of teenage drummers camped in the street outside it, beating repetitively upon their instruments of diabolical intoxication.
Tok-tok-thuk!
Tok-tok-thuk…!
Ignoring the drummers, Zozimus and Pokrov advanced upon the Xtokobrokotok and begged leave to enter. But the doorman who guarded the portal of the place refused to admit them unless they stated their business; and this both wizard and analytical engineer declined to do. Instead, they overpowered the doorman and forced an entrance.
They found themselves in a large, high-gabled hall studded with doors opening into offices and strongrooms. The light of a few feeble oil lanterns was supplemented by some high-placed slit windows which had lately been cut in the far wall of the warehouse. The air was heavy with the scent of joss, incense and burnt rice.
To his surprise, Pokrov saw a gallows had been erected in the centre of the warehouse. From it there hung a cage. A birdcage? He could not tell, for the cage was distant and the gloom murky. Round the gallows there sat some four or five dozen people of various ages, sexes and classes. They sat cross-legged, and from them there arose a monotonous chanting. What were they saying? If Pokrov heard aright, the chant went thus:
‘Holy holy holy. Holy is thy presence. Holy is the day which thou dost grace. We will worship thee now, and tomorrow, and on tomorrow’s morrow, and on into eternity. Holy holy holy. Holy is thy presence.. ’
Floating above the gallows was a bright-shining bubble about the size of a clenched fist. Or, to be slightly more specific, about the size of the Standard Fist affixed to the end of those lethal clubs wielded by the rubble boxers of the city of Obooloo.
‘They’re worshippng Shabble!’ said Pokrov in tones of mingled astonishment and outrage.
‘That will never do,’ said Zozimus. Then raised his voice to a shout: ‘Shabble! Come here!’
‘At once,’ said Pokrov. ‘Or I will send you to a therapist!’
The chanting ended abruptly. The worshippers around the gallows turned in startlement to see who had intruded upon their sacred ceremony. And Shabble, with a wail of terror-stricken panic, bobbled through the air toward Pokrov and Zozimus.