Early Riser_The new standalone novel from the Number One bestselling author

by Jasper Fforde

  ‘Don’t like these things,’ said Fodder as he climbed aboard, chucking a large black holdall on the seats behind, ‘but we’ve got some distance to cover.’

  His eye was badly bloodshot from the thump the previous day, but otherwise he seemed in good spirits.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ I said.

  ‘A surprise.’

  ‘I like surprises.’

  ‘I’d hold off judgement in this particular case.’

  We moved off with a low rumble from the engine and a shudder from the transmission.

  ‘Take it out of town past the jammed truck,’ he said, ‘but be careful.’

  I did as he requested and we edged slowly across the bridge.

  ‘Before you ask,’ I said, ‘nothing happened between me and Aurora. She’s just causing trouble.’

  ‘Whether you did or didn’t,’ he said, ‘it’d still be a good idea to stay out of Toccata’s hair until this afternoon. She’s pretty grouchy in the first hour after coming on shift. We’ll take the road west out of town; the Frances Hoggan hasn’t checked in for the past three weeks, so we need to take a look.’

  The Frances Hoggan, I learned, was the sole Dormitorium in a village to the west of here, and as we headed over, the Sno-Trac making easy work of the deep snow, Fodder explained procedure: all Dormitoria were required to call the Consulate on a designated day.

  ‘The Hoggan hasn’t checked in for the past three Wednesdays,’ he said, ‘so Winter Best Practice demands that we have a look.’

  I followed Fodder’s directions while he described points of interest, of which there were many but all covered in snow, so it was mainly an exercise in imagining what was beneath the large drifts.

  The day was quite beautiful, and the trip out to the Hoggan a break from Birgitta and the dream, both of which were dominating my thoughts. Fodder tired of being a tour guide after a half-hour or so and we fell to chatting about the Summer, of which my memory was as fresh as his was hazy. I told him about the warmth, and the breeze, and the harvest, and the freshness of the food. He said that this was the bit he missed the most.

  ‘I haven’t seen a banana for over six years,’ he said almost dreamily, ‘and I’d give my left foot for a fresh pineapple.’

  No one who got cold and dirty in the Winter was ever truly welcome in the Summer. The citizenry didn’t know or care what the Consuls did during the cold to keep them safe, they just wanted to wake alive in the Spring, same as always. For many people, the Winter didn’t really exist except in an abstract sort of way, and by consequence, neither did we.

  ‘You and Jonesy serve together?’ I asked, recalling that she’d said that she and he ‘went back a ways’.

  ‘Camp Firebrand,’ said Fodder, ‘second Ottoman campaign.’

  ‘I heard it was seriously hot out there.’

  ‘Our real enemy was adequate hydration. We lost more soldiers to desiccation than to enemy action. Bodies out in the sun reduced to less than one per cent moisture in forty-eight hours. You could snap off a Souther’s ear and grind it to dust in your fingers. Jonesy’s lost more comrades than you and I have had hot dinners. It’s what makes her a good Consul, especially out here – not afraid to die, and may even welcome it.’

  I slowed down as we entered the village, although to the untrained eye it was simply a series of large, snow-covered lumps. Unlike Talgarth, Llangorse was a ‘sleeper’ town where no one ventured out, and the only overwinterers were the porters.

  ‘Go through the town and you’ll see the Hoggan. It’s on the lake.’

  I followed Fodder’s directions and we were soon within sight of a circular tower sitting upon a small island within the smooth unbroken white of the frozen water. From the outside little looked remiss. The doorway was snowed in, and the thermal exhaust ports that ran in a ring beneath the top floor were clear of ice and snow, so from here all looked okay. I mentioned this to Fodder but he simply nodded.

  ‘Pull over anywhere in the car park, then shut down.’

  I did as he asked, and he grabbed the holdall on the way out. I followed him and we walked to the front of the Sno-Trac, the sun warming our faces. There was now a slight breeze, but little else to suggest the impending storm.

  ‘Give me your Bambi, Wonk.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you trust me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then give me your Bambi.’

  I handed it over, not understanding, but then saw the movement of someone in the spinney. There was another person to the right of us, then a third by one of the snow-covered cars. They were dressed in the much-mended patchwork clothes typical of womads, scavengers or cold-hermits – but they weren’t any of these: they were Villains.

  And not any Villains. This was the family of the Earl of Farnesworth.

  The Farnesworths

  * * *

  ‘… Pulse weapons come in many sizes. From the Plinker used to stun rats and squirrels to the hand-held Bambis and Bumpers, the two-handed Thumper, Stubby, Cowpuncher and Big Bopper, then up to the shoulder-mounted Schtumperschreck. Various-sized Airwitzers are chassis-based, the TerraNewton Highrollers mounted on railway flatbeds …’

  – Handbook of Winterology, 1st edition, Hodder & Stoughton

  ‘What the—?’ I asked, and Fodder looked down at me with his empty dark eyes. My heart fell. There were no issues at the Frances Hoggan. We were out here for one reason and one reason only: to make amends for the loss of Lucky Ned Farnesworth and to try to broker a peace. And there was one big bargaining chip in all of this: me.

  ‘You shouldn’t have told Lloyd,’ said Fodder as the Villains approached. ‘News like that travels across the Sector like wildfire.’

  ‘Frightfully sporting of you to drop by,’ said the eldest of the Villains, a middle-aged woman with a wind-blown complexion who wore a faded twinset and pearls on the outside of her parka, ‘although I have to confess I thought you’d pass up on the invitation.’

  ‘And miss the finest cakes Mid-Wales has to offer?’ replied Fodder in perfect English. ‘Not a chance.’

  There were eight of them, and they formed a wary half-circle about fifteen feet away. Half were armed with Thumpers, the other half with the short stabbing spear favoured by those who wish to leave no barometric fingerprint. Two were carrying cumbersome knapsacks, and one seemed to have some furniture on his back, secured by what looked like silk curtain-ties. The son we had seen the day before was there, his eyes badly bloodshot. They all looked in far worse health than the Winter alone might suggest. Fodder was taller by at least a foot, and more powerfully built than all of them put together.

  ‘His Lordship and his son broke the truce, ma’am,’ said Fodder, ‘and we retaliated in self-defence.’

  ‘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 – definite
ly 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.’