A moment later, she saw what Olivia was doing. ‘Olivia!’
This said to the accompaniment of a hand slammed down on the table.
‘It’s Chegory’s fault,’ said Olivia, dropping the wings of her flying fish. ‘He dared me to.’
Chegory kicked her under the table. Olivia kicked him back, hard. He caught her ankle. Drove his thumb into a pressure point between the heel’s tendon and the associated bone. Olivia wrenched her leg back. Such was the violence of her reaction that her knee slammed into the underside of the table with a resounding thump which upset the curry powder and spilt the flying fish sauce.
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Ingalawa.
Olivia looked at Chegory.
Chegory looked back.
He winked.
Olivia clutched her hands to her face as if vomiting. Actually, she was trying to stifle a fit of giggling. She was not entirely successful.
‘I’m serious,’ said Ingalawa, in her now-you-are-adults-not-children-and-I-expect-you-to-behave-accordingly voice. ‘Any more nonsense out of either of you and you can get down from the table and go and eat in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, can we?’ said Olivia eagerly.
‘No!’ said Ingalawa.
‘Would anyone care for some iced water?’ said Ox No Zan.
He was sorely distressed by the display of bad manners which had disrupted the meal. In his home city of Babrika such conflict would be unthinkable. Any young person rude enough so to misbehave in front of an elder would be… well, skinning alive would be the least of it.
‘Thank you,’ said Ingalawa, seeing No’s discomfort and thus, out of courtesy, allowing his attempted diplomatic intervention to succeed and bring the scene to an end.
Some time later, when the meal was well underway, Artemis Ingalawa broke the news to Ivan Pokrov. He had been invited to dine at the Qasaba household that evening. He said he would think about it.
Why such hesitation?
Because Jon Qasaba was in the habit of probing Pokrov.
Who preferred to conceal his true age, provenance and past. Ivan Pokrov was a some-time citizen of the Golden Gulag, and, even though the Gulag had collapsed in war twenty thousand years ago, old habits die hard.
Pokrov was reticent about his true identity because he was a criminal on the run. He had offended against Injunction AA709/4383200/1408 of version 7c of the Authorised Penal Code of the Golden Gulag. A heinous crime indeed! What’s more, a crime unpunished to date, for so far Ivan Pokrov had escaped the extended algetic tutoring he so richly deserved.
‘You must come,’ insisted Ingalawa. ‘Jon keeps saying we haven’t enjoyed your company for… why, he says it feels like a passage of millennia.’
Ivan Pokrov, who was already sweating because of the heat of the day, began to sweat all the more. Was Ingalawa hinting that all was known already?
Before Pokrov could worry about it further, a servant entered to say that a visitor was demanding an audience with him.
‘We’re in the middle of lunch,’ said Pokrov.
‘The visitor,’ said the servant, ‘is the Master of Law. Aquitaine Varazchavardan.’
‘Oh,’ said Pokrov. ‘That puts a different complexion on things! Show him in immediately.’
Very shortly, Aquitaine Varazchavardan was shown to the dinner table. Chegory Guy was most embarrassed to find himself in the presence of a member of the Imperial Court. In obedience to the dictates of courtesy he rose to his feet and made reverence in the Janjuladoola manner: palms of the hands pressed together, knees bending slightly to lower height as head makes a short bow toward the fingertips. Varazchavardan did not bother to acknowledge this homage. He seemed unaware that Chegory existed as he rounded on Pokrov, saying:
‘Pokrov! Have you anything to say to me?’ Varazchavardan oft used this open-ended question on his victims in an effort to intimidate them and startle them into incontinent confession. But it had no such effect on the master of the Analytical Institute, who said:
‘Why, yes. Welcome, welcome! Won’t you sit down? Please. We’ve sea slugs today. Look. Green, succulent. Did you ever see anything more beautiful?’
Pokrov knew his man. Varazchavardan was not a glutton, nor was he an epicure, but he did have a notorious weakness for sea slugs. He accepted the invitation. Nevertheless, he did not allow himself to feed for long before he got down to business.
‘Pokrov,’ said he, ‘did your Analytical Engine by chance have anything to do with the events of last night?’
‘No,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘What happened last night suggests someone was tampering with probability itself. My Engine lacks the power to do such, for it is but pieces of metal in conglomeration.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Varazchavardan, ‘it thinks.’
‘It does not think,’ said Pokrov. ‘It merely manipulates. As the prestidigitation of a conjurer is to the magic of a true sorcerer, so the manipulation in which the Engine indulges at my pleasure is to the freedoms of my thoughts and of yours.’
Despite Pokrov’s denials, Varazchavardan insisted that he would inspect the Analytical Engine after lunch.
By this time Chegory had realised Olivia was casting little avid glances in the direction of the wonderworker. He found himself possessed of a ferocious jealousy. What did old man Varazchavardan have that Chegory Guy didn’t? Answers numerous could be postulated, for, after all, Varazchavardan was a member of the Imperial Court whereas young Chegory was but a dragonless rock gardener. But let the truth be known. The sweet Ashdan lass had not conceived a lust for the wonderworker himself but for his robes, silken ceremonial robes most marvellously embroidered with serpentine dragons ablaze with goldwork and argentry, with emerald and vermilion, with incarnadine and ultramarine.
Chegory, who did not know this, was relieved when lunch drew to a close.
When lunch did end, Ox No Zan absented himself so he could keep his appointment with Doctor Death. Artemis Ingalawa went back to her algorithmic labours. Pokrov told Chegory and Olivia to busy themselves with the mathematical studies which were (as always) to occupy their afternoon, then he led Varazchavardan into the Counting House where the Analytical Engine was at work.
Pokrov gave his standard explanation of the Engine’s function, and concluded by saying:
‘Thus what we see here is no more than the mechanical manipulation of patterns. The person who devises the protocols by which those patterns will be manipulated is exercising intelligence. So too is the person who designs the actual mechanisms which enable data to be processed by such algorithms. There is however no demon in the machine itself. It knows nothing, lacks all sense of self, and is ruled by the same mechanical necessities which rule a stone rolling helplessly downhill. In other words, it cannot think, does not think and never will think.’
But despite Pokrov’s explanation, the Master of Law found the Analytical Engine no more scrutable than before. The collosal construction (otherwise known as the mills of Jod) still defied his understanding. It was still no more than a maze of brass and steel, of intermeshed cogs made of titanium (the sole source of which is fire vanes taken from the corpses of dragons), of levers and wires and ratcheting mechanisms.
‘What is it doing now?’ said the Master of Law.
‘A statistical analysis of the recent census,’ said Ivan Pokrov. ‘The inland revenue wants to know how best they can screw more money out of the populace. We’ll give them the answer. In time! The mills of Jod grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small.’