“And perhaps settle our differences without violence?”
“Quite possibly, Groat.”
“If no violence, then you can count Spigot and me out,” he said.
“Perhaps a little bit of violence then,” said Tom. “I wouldn’t want to lose your talents.”
“When we get these whiskers back home, I might go and join the strike force we are building. You can do all the chatting you like, but you’ll need us when negotiations break down.”
“What makes you so sure the talks will fail?”
“Everyone knows that talks are only an excuse for expense accounts and rich dining, and if you are lucky, a tryst with your secretary. When they bomb, we will be ready with ours.”
Audience
In which the Magus and Rannie risk facial mutilation
R
annie and the Magus relaxed with the Dearheat Enterprises ‘seedy bar’ experience. The Magus was back in his familiar detective’s coat and fedora, with the gun in the shoulder-holster, the other gun in his pocket, and the third gun in his sock, that actually was there for a change.
“I’ve got us an invitation to the Conference.” She prodded him in the chest. “By the way, why are you carrying so many weapons? The one in your pocket was poking me all last night. Don’t you trust me or something?”
“Not yet,” said the Magus with a grin. “You’ve pretended to be dead, attempted to have me killed several times...”
“A girl needs a hobby.”
“...and even drugged me, with your ‘Mickey-Finn Special’.”
“I thought the name of the drink would have given it away.”
“I assumed it was one of those cocktails like a ‘Screwdriver’ or a ‘Bloody Mary’, or a ‘Shot up the Arse’.”
“And what did you tell me was the first rule of being a private detective?”
“Never wear red pants whilst bending over in a field of bulls?”
“The other first rule.”
“Oh, ‘Never try to stop a car with a unicycle in the snow’.”
“I meant the first rule that says ‘never accept a drink from a dame’.”
“I didn’t know you were a dame,” said the Magus.
“I was knighted and given the ‘Most Honourable Order of the Sprinkling’ for my services to creative free enterprise, and supplying those USB shower curtains for the researchers’ changing room in the House of Doddering Old Farts on Sapristi.”
“I’d have been more wary with the drink if I’d known. I must make a note of that. Revised first rule of being a private detective; always check the Honours List before imbibing in a sleazy joint. Anyway, you were saying about the Conference. Oh, look at this...” He pointed to an article in his recently delivered copy of Gong Farmers’ Weekly. “Did you know that the price of dung is going up, owing to its newly discovered properties as a light, but strong, construction material? Apparently, doku fed on marijuana stems produce dung that is easy to work with but sets like poly-poly-poly-euro-thane-ether-propyl-anti-acetate would do if you hadn’t left the top off the tube.”
“And how is that relevant?”
“We need money to make ourselves heard, so I thought if I could get my own herd on to that, we could amass a fortune and then the Chancellor of Sapristi could be petitioned to hear our problems and perhaps do something about STOP.”
“Or we could go and talk to him at the Conference,” said Rannie with a sigh. “He will be there, as will all the heads of the significant powers across our galaxy. When you accused me of supporting the enemy, after we had played those games I promised you, I might add, I thought I should do something to make amends.”
“That would save all the mess, testing the dung I suppose. How did you manage to get the invite?” The Magus sipped at a long glass containing umbrellas, bits of fruit and a mini doku-head on a stick. “This is nice, by the way. What’s it called?”
“The ‘Bromine and Brobat Passion-killer’. It’s a new one, thought up by Luigi. Do you really like it?”
“Not now I’ve heard the name. Anyway, about the invite?”
“During my days on ‘Paradice’, the pleasure for more pleasure planet...”
“Famed for gambling, and the absence of clothing for security reasons, as I recall,” said the Magus, his eyes misting. “I was there too.”
“...I came into contact with many dignitaries.”
“I don’t think I want to know about that sort of connection. How is that little trouble you had?”
“Cleared up nicely now,” said Rannie with a grimace. “It cost a lot of money to cure, though, but I shall get it all back eventually; the court has ordered the scumbag to pay 10 drachmae a month in compensation, so it’s not the best of incomes.”
“That’s why you are back on the old black market? Funding the court costs has stretched your finances.”
“You could say that, but ‘Old Black’ commands a good price these days and is becoming more popular, now that people value a shiny shoe.”
The Magus put down his magazine and leaned back in the chair. “The idea is that if you talk directly to the Chancellor of Sapristi, you can highlight our plight and get him to put through legislation to curb the monopoly of the car-parking junta?”
“I have two tickets and I’m not going to miss this. I still have a few ‘Experience’ T-shirts from the Swedwayland Ladies’ Football team to sell, and only world leaders or property developers can afford them.”
“Can I have one?” The Magus sat up straight. “I thought you said they’d all been sold.”
“Returns from dissatisfied customers,” said Rannie darkly. “As you are acutely aware, the shirts simulate the after-goal feel-up from the team. If you close your eyes, you can enjoy every one of the players congratulating you.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a pair of shorts equivalent is there?”
“I’m working on that with my suppliers, and you can be the first to test one, after signing an indemnity form in case of dismemberment, but the players don’t seem so keen to share the experiences.”
“I’ll take one.”
“You really couldn’t afford it.”
“Once I get the doku on their new fodder...”
“By then, it will be some new craze, I expect, and the shirts will be ‘old hat’.”
“I already have an old hat. Could that be converted?”
“I’ll get my best people on it after the conference. We have time to get there if we leave now and use the Spam Javelin. Make sure you have change for the parking meter.”
The conference ballroom was bedecked with glittering decorations and at one end, a small stage held a band playing the sort of music that only film producers seem to like. In the sumptuous conference hall, and resplendent in their traditional costumes, dignitaries mixed in with property magnates, shipping developers and disgraced leaders of financial institutions. Rannie was dressed in her best business suit and drew the occasional double-take from the security guards. The Magus, wearing a long smock and boots made of doku hair, tapped her on the shoulder.
“Why do the guards keep looking at you?”
“How do you think I got us in? They are some clients from long ago, and owe me favours.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, I used to send samples off to them, to test demand for the products. How better to get in to sell to the wealthy, than by bribing Security? Rich folks never notice the guys in uniform.”
“Of course not. And you are sure this outfit I’m wearing doesn’t make me look silly?”
“It does, but the fact it is made of doku hair shows you are richer than most of the people here.”
“But I’m not. I simply have a herd of doku who think I’m wonderful and are happy to share their moults with me.”
“These individuals don’t know that, so keep your voice down. Look, there’s the man we need. Let’s go and have a chat.”
“Ex
cuse me, sir...” The Magus caught the Chancellor’s gaze. The man raised his nose and deliberately turned away.
“That was rude,” said Rannie.
“What happened?”
“He deliberately snubbed you. That nose movement signified that he thought you were a smelly little jerk, who was not fit to lick his nicely ‘Old Black’ polished boots. Told you there was a market for it.”
“I wouldn’t lick his boots anyway. The slobber would take the shine off.” The Magus glared at where the Chancellor was now leaning on the buffet table and slipping cocktail sausages into his pocket. “I’ll try again. Wish me luck.”
“Excuse me, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” said the Magus as he put his face between the Chancellor and the sausage tray. The Chancellor pushed his head to one side with a greasy hand, and then moved over to the pizza pile. “I need to talk to you, sir.”
“I think the Chancellor has made his position clear.”
The Magus found himself flanked by two men in black suits, wearing dark glasses and packing ‘heat’ in the form of mini-hairdryers. “You should move on, sir,” said one, with his hand slipping menacingly inside his jacket. “Did you not see the nose movement?”
“I thought it was a mistake; a misreading of the situation.”
“It will be, if you attempt to contact his comrade-ship again.”
“But I’m rich.”
“That cuts no peat with his comrade-ship. He is only impressed with opulence, and will talk to no-one less than a head of state. That is why he is here... and the sausages—they are most excellent I am told. Now move along.”
“So much for our little venture,” said the Magus, picking himself up from the floor and trying to wipe the grease off his clothes with a gold-edged serviette.
“I thought that might happen,” said Rannie. “All is not lost. See that man over there? It’s Maurice the Bastard of Out.”
“Out? The planet, ‘Out’, the wettest place in the galaxy? What relevance does that have?”
“In the days of the great Basil the Second, after whom the capital is named, and before it started raining there, it used to hold some considerable sway,” said Rannie, slipping a plate of red-panda steaks into her scaler bag. “But then the rain washed all the roads and space-ports away. Some blame it on the disappearance of the great leader, known as the ‘Burglar Slayer’, many generations ago. Apparently it hasn’t stopped raining since he disappeared.”
“Burglar Slayer?”
“He had a lot of trouble with a group of barbarians called the Blurgars, in a neighbouring country, and was advised to invade to pacify them. However, being dyslexic, he got it wrong on the edict, and started a persecution of local thieves instead. Apparently there is no crime anywhere on the planet now.”
“A great place then?”
“Make sure you don’t flash your cash or any other property.”
“I though you said ‘no crime’?”
“A crime is defined as an illegal act resulting in punishment by the government. If you have no laws and no government, then you cannot commit a crime.”
“I see.” The Magus nodded.
“It would be a great place to run a business from. The Temporal Conduct Authority used to have their headquarters there, along with the big distribution companies and the raincoat confederations.”
“And how does this help us?”
“As a businesswoman, I know the leaders intimately.”
“There are more?”
“As I said, the man there is Maurice the Bastard, Grand Vizier and acting ruler until they can get a new emperor. He will have left his twin brother, Maurice the Other Bastard, to protect the country while he is away. Politics is a volatile platform in those parts. The Blurgars are always agitating to take over.”
“And the names came from...?
“Apparently, ‘Maurice’ was the milkman’s grandfather’s. The twins were born in the room with the purple walls, and therefore had the right to rule. The emperor at the time was busy playing with fireworks and had no idea that his wife was ‘in dairy’ as it were. It was only after his untimely death in a yoghurt-related incident, that the empress confessed her twin sons were progeny of milk derivatives.”
“How can he help?”
“Let me ask. You amuse yourself with this pile of nut-related sweetmeats. See how many you can eat in a minute and I’ll be back with a sick bag.”
A short while later, Rannie returned, a big smile on her face. The Magus was leaning over the table, his face a sickly green.
“Five,” he said. “Apparently, it’s a record, but only if you can keep them down. Will you excuse me...?” He disappeared towards the toilets. Rannie grinned after him and was on her second glass of ‘Nishipaign’ by the time he returned.
“Maurice will see you, now you have cleaned yourself up,” she said. “He has an idea.”
“If I have this right, you would like me to be the new ‘Emperor of Out’?” The Magus dabbed at his mouth with the corner of a tablecloth.
“A figurehead only,” said Maurice the Bastard. “You see, we are having trouble with the Blurgars again, and our troops are refusing to fight unless they have a proper non-dairy-related emperor to follow into battle. They keep going on about this Basil character who led them to victory over the Blurgar, Centaurs ago. He’s become a legend with the lower classes who used to get spooked by horses with blokes’ heads.”
“I thought it was burglars he targeted, centuries ago. He was renowned for his services to dyslexia,” said Rannie.
“History is rewritten to suit the victors,” said Maurice, “even if they can’t spell.”
“I thought he was called Basil,” said the Magus.
“Victor was his middle name. He preferred it to Basil.”
“What would I have to do if I was emperor?”
“You stand at the front of the army, and let our generals manage the battle. At the end, you acknowledge the glory and then abdicate in favour of a republic, with a large pension and most of your extremities still attached.”
“And what’s in it for me?”
“Maurice the Other Bastard says that once the Blurgars are suppressed, he will let you use the Out army to regain control of SCT. And of course, you will share your technology,” added Maurice the Bastard. “We will be able to provide you with space and stilts to build a new manufacturing plant, of which we will take a fifty percent stake.”
“We will need a one hundred percent stake to keep the factory up out of the water.”
“Forty percent then.”
“More acceptable,” said the Magus. “But suppose I like the job as emperor. Could I stay on?”
“We do have a tradition, I’m afraid. An emperor is there by divine right and cannot be removed. However, should he want to leave, the accepted way is to mutilate him by cutting off his nose and putting out his eyes.”
“Put them out where?”
“I think you are the ideal man for the job,” said Maurice, clapping him on the back. “Come with me to our apartments and be initiated.”
The Magus stepped back into the ballroom with Rannie on his arm. After a quick ceremony, he had been awarded the purple robes and golden sugegasa (a conical hat made of bamboo, and noted especially for its itchiness and ability to attract giant pandas from anything up to five metres) with the Sacred Tyres of Clarkson, to denote him as the new Emperor of Out. Rannie had the long white extravagant dress, silver crown of mirrors, and holy antlers of the empress, and they outshone every other dignitary in the room. An honour guard of four soldiers, dressed in the chequered pattern of the cathedral walls of Hiya-Gloria and armed with pikes (on sticks) and nose trimmers, flanked them closely. Maurice the Bastard clapped his hands loudly.
“Pray silence for the Emperor and Empress of Out, bearers of the Purple Nose of Basilopolis and Leaders of the Ninth Day Opportunists Cult of Clarkson. Bear with, bear with.” The sold
iers clacked the end of their pike sticks on the marble floor. Silence fell. Heads turned. “I give you Emperor Magus the First, and Empress Rannie Dearheat,” continued Maurice. “Form an orderly queue for a blessing.”
There was a mad scuffle, as elected heads of state hurried to be first in the queue. They were shouldered aside.
“Great to talk to you,” the man said, putting his arm around Rannie. There were gasps of shock, and then the guards picked him up bodily and threw him to the floor. They crossed their pikes in front of the Magus.
“Nobody touches the sacred imperials,” said Maurice, waving his finger at the man. “Have you not read the etiquette guide?”
“I touch whom I like,” he said, getting to his feet again. “I am the Chancellor of Sapristi.”
“Nobody, I repeat nobody. You are fortunate that the nose trimmers are only ceremonial, and therefore blunt, or you would already be disfigured by now, more, that is, than you are already,” he added, regarding the chancellor’s ruddy features with distain.
“Look,” said the Magus, “I’m sure the noble fellow meant nothing by it. Please accept my apologies, and a crate of Golden Nishi to wash down the sausages.”
“I know nothing of sausages,” said the chancellor, regarding his squashed pockets guiltily, “and if that is ale you have there, then you can keep it. If I want to drink, then root beer is the beverage for me, and also a preferred antiseptic in case of cuts and abrasions.”
“Then you only have our apologies,” said Rannie, “and I wish to talk to you about a miscarriage of authority.”
“Miscarriage of authority?” blustered the chancellor. “I think you have committed an oxymoron crime here. If you were on Sapristi, that would incur a fine of two thousand drachmae and a spell in the punishment laboratory where you would be tasked with turning counterfeit coins into lead.”
“It’s about the car-parking monopolies,” the Magus said.
“I know nothing of them either, and if I did, I would do nothing. You have to have car parks, otherwise the country would be gridlocked with people abandoning vehicles anywhere they chose. I have never been so insulted, since they suggested that I was only elected because the Nishi Corporation hacked the results. Yes, Nishi, the makers of reasonably priced, reliable family personal transport—‘Lyrics in Gesticulation’ as it says on their advertising literature... which I haven’t read of course.”
The Fourteenth Adjustment Page 21
