The Left-Handed Booksellers of London

by Garth Nix

  “So what do you have?” asked Vivien.

  Susan unfolded the sheet of paper and smoothed it out on the table. Everyone peered in, except Merrihew, who was busy demolishing her third biscuit and, if she leaned, might lose the plate.

  “So you see I have John, Magnus, Edwin, Rex. But only three surnames came up more than once, and I couldn’t link them up to any particular first name or the events she was talking about. They’re Smith . . . yes, I know, completely useless; Asher or Usher; and Liston or Biston, or maybe something else -iston.”

  Merrihew made a noise. It might have been a comment, but it couldn’t make its way past a mouthful of Jaffa Cake.

  “Oh, give those biscuits over, Merry!” exclaimed Thurston in a booming aside. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Merrihew testily. She took one last biscuit, her fourth, and put the plate on the table. “But we haven’t had a visitor here for years!”

  “There’s not a lot to work with, these names,” said Vivien. “But we might be able to do more with the mundane stuff. I know Inspector Greene has already checked you out, and we have that file coming over. Again, I apologize, I know it seems intrusive—”

  “It is intrusive!”

  “Yes. I . . . we apologize. But it has to be done. As the file isn’t here yet, for my notes, if you wouldn’t mind . . . your date and place of birth? I’m presuming you have a birth certificate, but it doesn’t list your father?”

  “Yes, father unknown and May first, 1965,” replied Susan. “Why do you keep looking at each other?”

  “I’m reet sorry, lass,” replied Thurston, his Yorkshire accent growing stronger. “It’s the May Day birthday, it’s significant. The Old World comes closer to the New at certain times, and that’s one of them.”

  “May first,” said Vivien thoughtfully. “Do you know the time you were born?”

  “Dawn,” said Susan. “With the sun, Mum always said. Maybe encouraged by the name of the pub where it happened.”

  “What was that name, and where was this pub?” asked Vivien.

  “The Sunne in Splendour, in a village a couple of miles outside Glastonbury. Mum was visiting some of her musician friends who lived near there in what she says was ‘decayed grandeur,’ and I came early. She was going to the hospital but only got as far as the pub.”

  “Glastonbury,” mused Thurston. “The Vale of Avalon . . .”

  “You said before you used to come to London on your birthday,” said Merlin eagerly. “May first. Were you here, in London I mean, on May first, 1977?”

  “My twelfth birthday,” replied Susan. “Yes.”

  “Do you remember where you stayed, where you went?” asked Merlin. He held up his hand as Vivien tried to interrupt.

  “Where we always stayed, this very run-down hotel near Victoria Station. I think Mum knew the family who owned it; they gave her a good deal. It isn’t there anymore—they knocked it down and built an office block. We stopped coming here when it closed, that was three years ago. Why?”

  Merlin looked at Vivien.

  “Mother was killed on May Day 1977, less than a mile from Victoria Station. We never found out who she was getting the flowers for . . . and she was attacked by thugs whose minds had been tampered with, like the two who came to snatch Susan today. It has to be connected somehow!”

  “Coincidence!” snapped Merrihew. “There’s no evidence of anything else.”

  “It is a very slight similarity,” said Thurston. “When you’ve been on this earth as long as I have, Merlin, you’ll see many things are simply coincidence, or accidents.”

  “I want to investigate,” said Merlin with determination.

  “Not on the firm’s time,” said Merrihew.

  Thurston sighed and rubbed the bridge of his beaky nose with his gloved hand. “Merrihew governs the left-handed, but you’re entitled to follow it up in your own time. Right now, finding Miss Susan’s father is something we probably need to do sooner rather than later. Vivien, you can lead on that research. Merry, you agree?”

  “I suppose so,” said Merrihew, dabbing crumbs from her mouth with a black handkerchief. “It’s very annoying that this should come up now, when the old carp is rising in the quarry pond. But it seems this girl is a focus for something, so I suppose more information is needed in order to deal with her appropriately.”

  “You’re a very rude person,” said Susan stiffly. “I’m not ‘this girl.’ I have a name. And what does ‘deal appropriately’ mean?”

  “I am a rude person,” agreed Merrihew.

  “Happen we’d best set someone to watch over her,” said Thurston. “Until we know what’s what.”

  “Is that really necessary?” asked Merrihew.

  “Yes,” said Merlin.

  Merrihew looked at Merlin.

  “You’re on light duties, aren’t you? I suppose you can look after . . . Susan.”

  “What? By myself?” asked Merlin. “I need at least four of us for round the clock—”

  “Everyone’s busy,” interrupted Merrihew. “You can stay at Mrs. London’s until we get this sorted out. I’ll square it with Greene.”

  “You said there was a Kexa prowling the warded perimeter at the Milner Place house last night?” asked Thurston, his voice dubious.

  Merlin nodded.

  “That might also be a coincidence,” said Merrihew dismissively. “But in any case it can’t get through the wards.”

  “Other things might,” said Merlin. “And there is the criminal angle.”

  “That is somewhat unusual,” said Thurston. “Though such things are sometimes attracted by the mere presence of any magical protections.”

  Merlin did not look convinced.

  “I’ll have whoever’s driving the cabs tonight swing past when they can,” said Merrihew, waving a dismissive hand. “That should prove more than sufficient.”

  Merlin nodded unhappily. Clearly, he thought this was not enough.

  “You think there’s going to be . . . more’s going to happen?” asked Susan.

  “Nay,” said Thurston, pouring the last dregs from the teapot into his cup.

  “No,” said Merrihew, shoving another biscuit in her mouth.

  “Yes,” said Merlin.

  Chapter Eight

  Old, old it was, and keen

  Keen as a blade

  Blade-thin and thirsty

  Thirsty for blood

  Blood for its drinking

  “THE YOUNG ONES WILL FRET,” SAID THURSTON TO SUSAN, IGNORING Merlin. “But likely as not, there’s nowt to worry about and we’ll track down your dad in due course. So off you go—”

  He stopped speaking suddenly and stiffened up, like a dog catching a scent, tilting his massive head to the side as if he were listening to someone or something that no one else present could hear.

  Susan looked at Merlin, who lifted his hand slightly, gesturing to wait.

  After ten seconds or so, Thurston sighed, straightened his head, and spoke again.

  “It seems you youngsters need to introduce Susan to Grandmother.”

  “What?” asked Merlin. “Grandmother? Now?”

  “Aye, now,” replied Thurston. “She may recognize Susan’s family, you see.”

  “Is this really something Grandmother needs to be involved in?” asked Merrihew. “It seems routine, to say the least.”

  “She thinks so,” said Thurston. “You disagree?”

  Merrihew sighed. “Which one is it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Thurston. “But she’s spoken.”

  Merrihew grimaced. “If she’s spoken, she’s spoken.”

  “How will your grandmother recognize my family?” asked Susan, but no one answered. There was a long pause before Vivien spoke, and it was to her great-uncle and great-aunt.

  “How is Grandmother?”

  “Much as ever,” said Thurston. “I would suppose.”

  Vivien looked expectantly at Merrihew.

&n
bsp; “I don’t know,” snapped Merrihew. “I haven’t visited for simply ages. Let her rest, I say.”

  “Has anyone seen her recently?” asked Merlin. “Great-Uncle Thurston?”

  “I popped down a few years ago,” said Thurston. “Or mebbe it was five or six years. There hasn’t been anything to bother herself with.”

  He heaved himself out of his chair and took the coats off The Age of Bronze, handing the cape to Merrihew and shrugging on his own trench coat.

  “It’ll be fine!” he said. “Off you go.”

  “What . . . what’s with your grand—” Susan started to expostulate.

  “I’ll explain,” interrupted Merlin. “Come on. We’ll see Grandmother and then Vivien will take us out to lunch somewhere nice.”

  “No I won’t,” said Vivien crossly. “Firstly, because I will be working on finding out who Susan’s father is, and secondly because I’m broke. Borassic. A veritable pauper. Not least because you owe me fifty pounds, Merlin. Remember?”

  Merlin looked guiltily away.

  “Well, sandwiches in the lunchroom here, then,” he said. “After we see Grandmother.”

  “Very good. You carry on,” rumbled Thurston. He surprised Susan by opening a hatch in the muscular abdomen of Rodin’s bronze young man to take out a telephone handset. The tight coil of telephone cord dangled rather obscenely in front of the statue’s groin.

  “Thurston here. We’re leaving now. I’ll be back in receiving shortly; they’d better not have started unpacking without me. Have Neil bring a cab around for Merrihew. She’s off to—”

  He looked at Merrihew. She had a plastic waterproof watch pinned high on her fisherman’s vest, like a nurse. She flipped it up to read the time.

  “Straight to Paddington,” she said. “I might make it in time for the 12:47 that stops at Ledbury.”

  “Not since 1965,” replied Thurston. “Beeching cuts, remember? Earliest you’ll catch now is the 2:26 to Hereford.”

  Merrihew shrugged crossly. “I might as well go to Paddington now, anyway.”

  “Merrihew’s to Paddington,” said Thurston into the phone.

  He replaced the handset, closed the hatch, and beamed at Susan.

  “I look forward to having you all sorted out soon, Miss Arkshaw. Goodbye.”

  Susan nodded, repeating the action as Merrihew waved and followed Thurston to the stairs. There, the guardian cousin Sam had stopped writing limericks and had already slung on her ammo bag, buckled the scabbarded sword to her belt, and was holding the AK-47, her left hand now gloved, the silvery skin hidden. She preceded the two Greats down the stairs. The blackthorn stick remained behind, leaning against the wall.

  “Want a Jaffa Cake?” mumbled Merlin, his mouth full.

  “No thanks,” said Susan. She leaned forward and rested her head in her hands. “How long is this all going to last?”

  “What do you mean by ‘this’ exactly?” asked Merlin.

  “Me being guarded by you and thugs and goblins attacking me,” said Susan.

  “Well, the May Fair goblins won’t do anything,” said Merlin. “They’ve shot their bolt; I doubt they’ll have the strength to do even a nighttime May Dance for a few years.”

  “You’re not answering my question,” said Susan.

  “It’s not an easy question to answer,” said Vivien. “There are several possibilities. One is that we will quickly discover who your father is or was, and that, in turn, will lead us to working out who or what is interested in you and then we can deal with that situation. Presuming this can be handled satisfactorily, then you will be no more at risk than any other mortal who has had some chance contact with the Old World.”

  “And I suppose the other possibilities are a lot less good for me,” replied Susan, rather bitterly. She looked at Merlin. “I wish I’d never met you!”

  “If you hadn’t, you’d be dead, I think, or a prisoner at least,” said Merlin. “You chose to seek out Frank Thringley.”

  “I was about to leave when you turned up,” said Susan.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Merlin. “The only way in and out of that house was the upstairs window. I wondered why the doors had been so carefully locked and warded. I conclude that it was to keep you in. At least until Thringley handed you over to whoever or whatever he answered to.”

  “Really?” asked Susan.

  “He’s telling the truth,” said Vivien. “We can nearly always tell. A right-handed thing, you know. ‘Verum ponderet dextrum.’ The right hand weighs the truth.”

  “And like I said, you saved my life later,” said Merlin. “Clearly, we are meant to be together.”

  Vivien snorted.

  “Don’t fall in love with my brother, whatever you do,” she said. “The left-handed are not reliable in matters of the heart.”

  “Oh, come on, Vivien! You were left-handed until last year—”

  “But I’m not now, am I? What is it with you lot and Jaffa Cakes? If you’ve stopped stuffing your face we should take Susan down to see Grandmother. Better to do it now, while the sun’s shining.”

  “It isn’t down there,” said Merlin.

  “The sun affects things, even if you can’t see it, as you well know,” said Vivien. “Just as with the moon. Come on!”

  Susan planted herself more firmly in her chair, hands gripping the armrests.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where we’re going and why you are both so obviously nervous about going to see your own grandmother.”

  “The where is the easy part,” said Merlin. “Downstairs. I suppose you might say the sub-subbasement. Below the air raid shelter from the war. There’s a Roman temple, a mithraeum . . . Grandmother . . . Well, let’s see how to put it—”

  “She’s not simply our grandmother, as such. She’s, uh, all our grandmothers. They’re sort of spiritual remnants that inhabit the place,” interrupted Vivien. “They go back a very long way, and you can never be quite sure which particular . . . er . . . grandmother you’ll get. She changes.”

  “So they’re ghosts?” asked Susan.

  “We don’t use the term; they’re what we call Shades, mythic relicts of strongly magical once-living entities—”

  “Ghosts,” repeated Susan firmly. “Are they dangerous?”

  “Yes,” said Merlin as Vivien said, “No.”

  “And no,” continued Merlin. “It depends.”

  “Grandmother is only dangerous if she forgets we’re related, or one of the dogs decides they don’t like your smell.”

  “Dogs! What dogs?”

  “Well, there’s always been a tradition of the elder women of the St. Jacques clan keeping dogs, and so there are Shades of their dogs as well as themselves.”

  “What happens if they do forget you’re related or the dogs don’t like how you smell?” asked Susan.

  “We run away, of course. The trick is to stay near the gate. And wear sensible shoes. You’re okay on that point.”

  “But I’m not related to begin with,” said Susan.

  “Yes, but you’ll be with me,” said Merlin. “I’ll hold your hand. Like in the fair.”

  “I hope not,” said Susan. “My shoulder still hurts from being dragged all over the place.”

  “Actually, you know what?!” exclaimed Vivien. “We can put Grandmother in a good mood straight away. Whichever one she is.”

  “How?” asked Merlin. “Do they ever have good moods? I’ve only met her once and she was cranky as anything. Besides, how would you know?”

  “I’ve been down three times and, unlike you, I study. She . . . all her incarnations . . . like gifts. You give her your glass rose, Susan,” said Vivien. “Goblin work, from the May Fair. She can probably even touch it. She’ll love you then.”

  “I was going to keep it,” said Susan.

  “It won’t last past sunset anyway,” said Vivien. “It’s goblin work. Made under the sun, it’ll disappear at dusk.”

  “Oh,” replied Susan. She shru
gged and got up. “All right. I didn’t realize. Typical. Your grandmother . . . grandmothers . . . might as well have it.”

  “If only we had a goblin bone as well,” muttered Merlin. “For the dog. I hope it’s not that horrendous wolfhound, Nebrophonus. Or are they all like that?”

  “Shut up, Merlin,” said Vivien. She smiled at Susan. “It’ll be fine. Come on.”

  Susan took one last look around before they started down the stairs. She still couldn’t figure out how they were so much higher than the other buildings, but apart from that, everything looked perfectly normal. The steady flow of traffic on Park Lane, people wandering around Hyde Park, the contrails of jets headed to Heathrow in the sky above.

  On the way down the narrow stair to the building proper, Merlin went ahead and Vivien behind.

  “Is your life always like this?” Susan asked, while Merlin opened the lower door. “I mean, are there constant problems with Sippers and Shucks and goblins and all that?”

  “Oh no!” laughed Vivien. “Gods! That would be unbearable. No, the Old World is mostly dormant these days; we’ve been in a very quiet period since the early sixties. Every now and then something happens to stir things up, everyone has to rush about doing stuff, and then it’s quiet again and we can get on with our everyday work. Very peaceable. Like the rest of today will be, I hope.”

  “So what do you do when you’re not . . . um . . . involved with the weird shit, as Inspector Greene calls it?”

  “Me? I work at the Old Bookshop three days a week,” replied Vivien as they filed out and spread into a line to go down the main stairs together. “And I’m halfway through my second degree, at London Business School.”

  “You’re studying business?” asked Susan doubtfully.

  “I’m doing a new thing,” replied Vivien. “Called a Master’s in Business Administration, part-time.”

  “Plutocrat,” said Merlin, semi-affectionally.

  “What about you?” Susan asked Merlin. “You seem to do more ‘rushing about.’”