‘I always knew stamp collecting would get them into trouble,’ said the woman, who I assumed was the 13th Earl’s widow, ‘but look here, they were only doing a harmless spot of thieving – and it was the 2d Lloyd-George Mauve.’
‘With the Anglesey cancellation,’ said a man off to our right.
‘Only one in the world,’ said another.
‘Stealing is stealing,’ said Fodder, ‘and they were in the town. Off-limits, as per the truce.’
They stared at one another for a few moments.
‘Will you take tea?’ asked Lady Farnesworth. ‘I always find it so terribly, terribly uncivilised doing deals on matters of life and death just standing in the snow.’
‘I’ll take tea,’ said Fodder.
The piece of furniture that one of the group was carrying turned out to be a gate-leg table and two folding chairs. These were soon set up, along with a tablecloth, cups and saucers and a cake stand with fresh Victoria sponge cake. Another member of the group had set up a small Primus stove and was heating the water.
‘I do so abhor tea from a thermos,’ said the countess, inviting Fodder to sit and then sitting herself, ‘it always tastes stewed.’
She turned to the man heating the water and reminded him to warm the pot.
‘It is so hard to get reliable staff these days,’ she said to Fodder, ‘which is why we have to resort to kidnapping and the occasional murder. Help yourself to some cake, why don’t you?’
Fodder did so, while I stood there uneasily. Beneath the politeness was real menace.
‘So,’ said Lady Farnesworth, ‘how is Aurora these days?’
‘Pretty well, I think.’
‘Is she still doing that thing where she’s two people?’
‘Yes.’
‘She always loved to be centre stage,’ said Lady Farnesworth, ‘ever since we were little. I liked her, despite that. Would be happy to kill her now, of course, but with regret. So: how do we know you’ve not got my husband prisoner, with that reptilian Agent Hooke scouring his dreaming mind for intel? I know what you lot get up to at HiberTech.’
‘We’re Consuls,’ said Fodder, ‘not HiberTech, and we’ve no real idea what goes on there.’
‘Nonsense,’ scoffed the countess, ‘you Welsh are as thick as thieves and I don’t trust a single one of you. Ah, Chuck, bless you.’
The man boiling the water had brought a Meissen teapot to the table and laid it on a mat.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you,’ said Fodder, ‘that the 13th Earl speaks only to the Winter.’
He unzipped the holdall that he’d laid at his feet, removed Lucky Ned’s head and placed it on the table along with a large gold signet ring. The 13th Earl was blue-white and frozen solid, and his expression seemed to be one of, well, surprise.
Everyone stared at it, as though sizing up a goose’s suitability for the pre-winter feast.
‘We thank you kindly for returning what is ours,’ said Lady Farnesworth after staring at the head for a few moments. ‘You know what this makes me?’
‘Angry?’ suggested Fodder. ‘Vengeful?’
‘No,’ she said, passing the gold signet ring to her son, ‘this makes me the Dowager Countess Farnesworth and my son the 14th Earl.’
We all looked at the earl’s son, who tried not to look as though he was pleased. There was a ripple of applause and someone blew a party hooter, but in a dispirited manner. To the Villains, it seemed that death was neither something to become sad over, nor particularly unusual.
‘Marigolds, please, Chuck,’ said the Lady Dowager, and once he’d passed her the yellow washing-up gloves, she removed the late earl’s head and placed it in the picnic hamper with a gingham cloth on top. She then patted it in an affectionate manner, and returned to the table.
‘One lump or two?’ asked the Lady Dowager, pouring the tea.
‘Two, please,’ said Fodder.
‘Well, then,’ she said, pushing the cup and saucer across the table to him, ‘is this the Novice that killed my husband?’
She looked at me directly for the first time, and my heart thumped nervously.
‘It is indeed,’ said Fodder.
‘Looks a mite scrawny to have taken His Lordship in single combat,’ she said, peering at me through a lorgnette. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to palm us off with a sacrificial patsy, now, would you? The disposable runt of the litter?’
‘Tell them you did it,’ said Fodder.
‘Are you kidding?’
‘Tell them.’
I could feel my hands trembling and wanted to put them in my pockets, but thought that might appear threatening, so simply pressed them against the side of my coat.
‘I was there when Lucky Ned— I mean, His Lordship was taken,’ I said, forcibly trying not to let my voice crack. ‘One moment he was about to kidnap me, the next he was gone.’
‘Don’t try to tell us it was the Gronk,’ said the Lady Dowager, ‘trying to wriggle out of your responsibilities by invoking the Wintervolk is beneath contempt.’
‘It might have been me,’ I conceded, ‘but I have no recollection.’
The Dowager Countess took a sip of tea and gathered her thoughts.
‘I don’t want this to escalate to war any more than you do, Mr Fodder, so we’ll accept reparations for our loss – your Novice there, for a ten-year servitude. Agree and the truce is kept as though it were not broken, nor even bruised.’
Fodder took a sip of tea, and they all stared at him, waiting to see what he would say.
‘I came to bargain,’ said Fodder, ‘not to hand over one of ours. We will parley some more.’
‘Then we’ll take the stamp instead,’ she said, ‘the 2d Lloyd-George Mauve.’
‘With the Anglesey cancellation,’ said the same man off to our right.
‘The only one in the world,’ I said, when no one else had chimed in.
‘We have no ownership of the collections,’ said Fodder, ‘you know that.’
‘Then it’s the Novice.’
‘We’ll bargain some more.’
‘No, Mr Fodder, we shall not. It’s the Novice, the stamp, or nothing. And think wisely and fast, my friend, for I’m of a mind to take you as well. Don’t be upsetting a widow on her day of grieving.’
One of the small group drew out a large hunting knife and they all took a step forward, but Fodder simply reached down and pulled a dark cylindrical object the size of a rugby ball from the holdall. It was a Golgotha. Even if they started running now, Fodder could wait ten seconds before pulling the pin and they’d still be shredded. There was a sharp intake of breath from the assembled Villains. A mix of fear, respect and curiosity. Everyone had heard of a Golgotha, but few had seen one detonate. It is said the multiple shock waves are quite lovely to behold as they tumble and spiral outwards like a Romanesco cauliflower.
‘No one moves,’ said Fodder, who had a finger hooked around the detonation pin, ‘or we all go. You get nothing from this, and I get my long-deserved peace.’
‘I so love your style,’ said the Lady Dowager with a chuckle. ‘No fear or compromise. You’d make a fine Villain. We’ll talk some more. What will you be putting on the table, Mr Fodder? And don’t say the 2/6d Dylan Thomas Parcel Post red, because we’ve already got one – in mint condition, too.’
‘The Novice remains free,’ said Fodder, ‘and in return we offer you six gross of Snicker bars, two Favours and a Debt.’
‘A fig for your chocolate and promises,’ said the Lady Dowager. ‘No, you can pull the pin and know that the 15th, 16th and 17th Earls will all take vengeance upon your people from now until the end of time.’
This could be going a lot better than it was.
‘Death suits none of us,’ said Fodder, ‘but we will find a trade. I offer you . . . a healthy infant.’
Up until that moment most of the eight had been swapping random and irrelevant quotes to one another in Latin but they soon fell quiet as the idea found favour. I could easily see why. The gene pool was narrow in the groups living at the glaciated fringes of Albion, and an injection of genetic variation could mean a huge improvement in their long-term health prospects.
‘I’m listening,’ said the Lady Dowager, ‘but we don’t want any runts. A strong baby, genetically first tier. Make that so and you’ll have the truce you seek, Mr Fodder.’
I couldn’t see how resorting to child theft would be a healthier alternative to offering me up for a decade. Besides, I couldn’t allow it.
‘I’ll take the ten,’ I said. ‘We’ll not be taking anyone out of the Nursitorium.’
The Lady Dowager looked at me and smiled.
‘Your Novice has grit,’ she said, ‘probably make a fine servant.’
‘We offer more than that,’ said Fodder, ignoring me. ‘We offer a first-tier confinement sired by a Farnesworth for you to nurture and love.’
‘Oh yes?’ said the Lady Dowager. ‘And which surrogate will you offer? We won’t be wanting madwoman Jonesy, and Aurora would never let Toccata get past the first nine weeks. The one named Laura Strowger would be admirable, but only when she’s of age. One does not approve of child with child.’
‘No,’ said Fodder, ‘not Jonesy, not Toccata – definitely not Laura. I offer up . . . myself.’
There was silence, and several of the Villains looked at one another and began to laugh.
‘We aren’t short of seed, we need a healthy plant pot to grow it in. Twenty-four carat as yours might be,’ she added, looking up and down at his impressive physique. ‘Your deal is no deal. Come, pull that pin and let the Winter embrace us all – or hand over the Strowger girl when she’s ready, or the Novice for our dishes. We are all done talking.’
But Fodder didn’t waver for an instant. I stared at him, wondering where he was going with this. He passed me the Golgotha.
‘If anyone tries anything, pull the pin.’
‘Sure,’ I said, and I meant it. Ten years is a long time, and given previous cases of forced domestic service, in reality it meant a lifetime. You’d struggle until your third year, be reconciled to your lot by the fifth. By the end of the eighth you’d be assimilated and by the tenth you’d be loyal through and through, probably with family and responsibilities. Abductees rarely made it back.
‘You’ve a right to view the goods you’re trading for,’ said Fodder, and began to unbutton his jacket.
We were on the road again in five minutes, the Golgotha made safe and in the holdall, the Farnesworths happy, the wax from the signet still warm on the hastily-scribbled agreement.
‘It’s always better to grab the vixen by the tail and broker a peace,’ explained Fodder. ‘The Winter is all about ensuring the most favourable outcome is enjoyed by the majority – but in a good way, of course.’
‘You could have given me up.’
He turned to look at me.
‘No,’ he said, ‘we don’t do that. You’re young and you’re new and confused and need all the help you can get.’
I couldn’t deny it; I think he’d summed me up pretty well.
‘I’m in your debt,’ I said, ‘but you’re going to bear and then give up your child – to Villains. Are you okay with that?’
‘I’m sixth-generation Pool,’ said Fodder. ‘My people haven’t known their biologicals for over two centuries. Villains are hideously class-conscious and English to boot, but good parents – my child will improve the health of their dynasty for generations. The truce gets to hold, and you don’t get to work in the scullery. It’s the Code of the Winter.’
Fodder had my back. It was a good feeling, but carried with it an awesome responsibility. In time, I would have to risk everything for another, and so on, down an unbroken chain of Winter camaraderie for centuries to come, as had been the case for centuries before us. In that moment, I realised what being a Winter Consul was all about, and I knew then that I’d never want to be anything else.
We drove on in silence for a few minutes.
‘Does anyone else know?’ I asked.
‘No one around here, and you’re not going to tell. I’ll take two years’ leave of absence until she’s born. Money will be short but, well, heigh-ho.’
There was another pause.
‘Can I ask why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why you’re something you’re not.’
‘We’re all something we’re not,’ he said. ‘Every one of us is stuck between the person we want to be and the person we can be. And there doesn’t have to be a why. All things have to do is feel right.’
‘I understand,’ I said, ‘and thank you.’
He didn’t need to tell me to keep his secret. I’d carry it to the grave. I spent the rest of the journey thinking about the Farnesworths’ incredulous expressions as they gazed upon Fodder’s naked body, there in the snow and the sun: bold, muscular, athletic, Snowdonian in stature and physically at variance with the gender with which he felt most at home – but with the rare and highly desirable tiger stripes picked out in auburn on his blond winterdown.
Dreamspace
‘ . . . The Great Salt Marsh that stretches from Portland in the west and all the way round to the Dogger massif in the north-east opposite Hull represented a warmer period in the Earth’s history, when less water was locked up in glaciers and the ice-caps. Although it is still relatively impassable other than by the east and west causeways, drainage plans are in hand and could convert the land to much-needed agriculture within the next century . . . ’
– The Albion Peninsula, by Roger Vanguard
‘I’m guessing the trip was a success,’ said Jonesy, who was lubricating the offside front drive sprocket of her Sno-Trac with a grease gun the size of her arm.
‘My charm won the day,’ said Fodder, ‘that and a few Debts, Favours and fifty kilograms of banana Nesquik – plus the implicit threat engendered by a Golgotha.’
‘The only live Golgothas we have are the ones in the museum,’ said Jonesy. ‘You used the dummy practice one?’
Fodder shrugged.
‘Big promise is the secret of every campaign.’
Fodder went inside to report everything to Toccata and I stood there for a moment with Jonesy.
‘Was it really just Debts and Nesquik that clinched the deal?’ she asked.
‘Yup,’ I replied. ‘Debts and Nesquik. Fodder’s a fine negotiator. Where did you find Ned’s body?’
‘Pretty close to where we found his clothes. He’d been buried under the snow, and aside from the surprised look on his face we couldn’t see how he died. Oh, and your theory about it being Gronk looks to be correct – his little finger was missing. Unless you removed it yourself. Did you?’
‘No, I didn’t. So you do believe in the Gronk?’
She thought for a moment.
‘I believe there’s something dreamy and inexplicable in the air, and if Gronk is the best way to describe it, then Gronk it is. Look,’ she added, ‘Toccata’s not going to be in a great mood, so why don’t you make yourself scarce for an hour?’
I took her advice and, deep in thought, walked across to the Wincarnis, where the snow had blown up against the door. Exterior doors were always double-hinged; outwards for fire, inwards for drift. There were early snows once at St Granata’s, and when we tried to get out there was merely a wall of snow facing us – with an impression of the front door in minutely fine detail. That sort of thing really sticks in your mind.
The winsomniacs had just lunched on spaghetti that looked as though it had been bulked up with string, and were settling down for a busy afternoon wholly committed to the fine art of not doing very much. Given the vivid nature of my dreams I wanted to speak at greater length to Sha
manic Bob and I found him reading a book next to the unlit fire. There was paper and kindling and logs but they had so far failed to assemble themselves into anything useful. I knelt down and started to lay the fire.
‘Well, now,’ said Shambob when he saw me, ‘you’ve kinda been making a name for yourself. Killing Lucky Ned and you and Aurora a thing. Wow. Just . . . wow. Never would have thought it. Not of you. Hey, don’t let her fall asleep halfway through – she’d wake up as Toccata. That could take one whole heap of explaining.’
‘World-class awkward,’ I agreed, ‘but I didn’t kill Lucky Ned, and Aurora and me aren’t a thing.’
‘It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not,’ he said, ‘it’s what everyone believes that’s important. Come to help us get seriously dreamed up?’
‘Another time.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Shamanic Bob cheerfully, ‘we’ve got a hiccup in supply anyway, but that will soon be sorted. So, what can I do for you?’
I struck a match and the newspaper flared as it caught.
‘When we last met, you told me Don Hector’s initial quest was not for us to dream less, but to dream better. I was wondering what you meant by that?’
He looked at me and narrowed his eyes.
‘You been dreaming, Newbie?’
‘Nope.’
‘Truthfully?’
‘Okay, a little.’
He smiled and moistened his lips.
‘I meant what I said. Don Hector’s initial research was not to find a way to stop us dreaming, but to help us do it better – and more productively.’
I said nothing, just waited for him to continue. He peered at me conspiratorially and looked around to ensure we were not overheard, which we were – the room was full of the sleep-shy. But there you go. Winsomniacs are like that.
‘Did I mention Dreamspace?’
‘Yes, but without details.’
Zsazsa had also mentioned Dreamspace when she was explaining about Mrs Buckley and the remote farm in Lincolnshire. Shamanic Bob laboured to sit upright and beckoned me closer.
Early Riser Page 32
