Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt

by Earth, Air, Fire

  Paul grinned. 'Me too,' he said. Then he stopped and pulled a face. 'Idiot,' he said. 'Not you,' he added. 'Me.'

  'Pretty much academic, surely?'

  'Oh, be quiet. Sophie,' he added. "We need Sophie, or it's not going to work. Only-'

  'Only there's two of us,' his other self said. 'Which is going to freak her out no end. Still, can't be helped. Omelettes and eggs.'

  Paul sighed. 'I guess so. I suppose I'll just have to explain it all to her later.'

  Other-Paul grinned. 'Rather you than me, chum. All right, I'll stay here, you go and fetch her. Okay?'

  He found Sophie, eventually, in the photocopier room; she was running off something like a thousand copies of a big fat document, sorting, collating, stapling. He came in quietly and she didn't hear him over the whirr and clatter of the machine (which had once, of course, been the younger Mr 'Wells, but there wasn't enough space left in his mind for side issues that size). He looked at the back of her head and thought, Only you, you and no other; and then he asked himself, Why, for pity 's sake? What's so special about her, as against, say, Vicky or Demelza Horrocks or even, within certain firmly defined parameters, Mr Tanner's mum? Paul thought about that for two, maybe two and a half seconds, and realised that he didn't know, that there wasn't an answer; just as there's never any answer to those simple but incredibly difficult questions you ask when you're four years old, and the grown-up just looks at you all cross and embarrassed and says, 'Just because, that's why.' (And, of course, that's the only real, true answer to that kind of question; there are long-winded ways of saying the same thing, involving lengthy digressions and background materials and abstruse and nebulous concepts, but they're just another way of saying that same old thing.)

  Why? Because. And that's how you know it's true love. If you love someone for or because of something, it doesn't count; it's admiration, appreciation or the recognition of some resource she's got that you can exploit to your own advantage. Unless it s just Because, it can't be unconditional, instinctive, involuntary. Doesn't count. No good.

  'Sophie,' he said.

  "What?' She turned round, banged her elbow against the machine's dust cover, dropped a sheaf of pages, swore, scowled at him. 'Oh, it's you. What?'

  'Oh, nothing,' he said. 'I just wondered if you were busy right now, that's all.'

  She gave him that oh-for-crying-out-loud look he knew so well. 'Do I look busy?'

  'Yes. Fairly.'

  'Fine. No need to ask, then, was there?'

  'Sorry. Only I need your help with something. Won't take a moment.'

  'No. Look, I've got to do this stupid copying for Mr Suslowicz, then there's a bloody great pile of filing for Mr bloody Tanner, and then-'

  'Really,' he said, 'it won't take ten seconds. And you're so busy already, one more little thing's not going to make any odds, is it?'

  'Paul.'

  'Yes?'

  'No.'

  'Oh.' He took a step back, as though a real door had just been slammed in his face. 'Please?'

  She sighed. 'Can't you get someone else to help you?'

  'Not really.'

  'Why? What is it you want me to do?'

  'It's-' There's never a word around when you need one, is there? 'It's complicated. Take longer to explain it than actually do it, if you follow me. Look, it really would be very kind of you if you could just spare me two seconds.'

  'Paul.' It was a sort of combination half-scowl, half-grin. 'Did anybody ever tell you, you're really annoying when you're being pathetic?'

  He nodded. 'And really pathetic when I'm being annoying, yes. Actually,' he added, 'I think it was you.'

  'Mphm. Sounds like the sort of thing I'd say.' She frowned. 'All right, but you've got to promise you'll do the Mortensens for me, tomorrow morning. All right?'

  'Sure.' No problem at all promising that. 'All right, so that's settled, is it?'

  'What do you want, a signed contract?'

  They didn't say anything to each other on the way to the closed-file store. When they got there, he lunged past her, pulled open the door and darted in, saying, 'This way,' or something equally pointless. As he'd devoutly hoped, there he was, the other him, waiting.

  'Paul? Look, what's-?' She stopped just inside the door, for once completely speechless. The two Pauls smiled feebly at her, and Paul said, 'Hi. It's us.'

  A moment of deep silence; then, 'Paul, what the fuck-?'

  'Long story. Very long story. Think Robert Jordan and multiply by three. Meanwhile, it's very important that you see this. Here, look.'

  The other Paul drew the sword out of its scabbard, knelt down and laid it carefully on the ground. She looked at it and said, 'Paul, what the hell's that got to do with-?'

  And stopped.

  'Oh,' she said.

  Other-Paul stood up and got out of the way quickly as Sophie crouched down and looked at the sword. Her hair, falling forward from behind her ear, brushed the gleaming brown-with-silver-swirls blade. She looked up.

  'I don't understand,' she said. 'It's like I know this. Like-' She pulled a face, angry and frightened and confused. 'Like it's,

  I don't know, family or something. Paul, what the hell's going on?'

  He knelt down beside her. 'I don't really know,' he said. 'Not all of it. But apparently this is some kind of magic sword, and the way it works is, it's in two parts. There's the actual sharp metal thing, and then there's a human that sort of goes with it. Its other half. And-' He stopped, taking on board a small but vital moment of understanding that had eluded him till now. 'The thing is,' he went on, 'neither of them works without the other. No, that's not it. Neither of them is right without the other. What I mean is, you can't use the sword unless you've got the girl too. And-' He looked away for a moment. 'And vice versa,' he added. 'And I've actually had this stupid thing for months now, it was under the sofa, Ricky gave it to me, but I hadn't actually figured out the rest of it. You see, all this time I'd got the idea that the other half of this sword was - well, someone else. But now I've finally got it straight in my mind, that part of it anyway. It was you, all along, and I was too stupid to realise.'

  Pause. 'Me?'

  Paul dipped his head slowly. 'That's right. You're this thing's other half. So...'

  'Vice versa?'

  He nodded again. 'I think it sort of explains a lot of stuff. About, you know, us. Only it wasn't us, it was stupid bloody magic, getting in the way and screwing us around, as usual. And-'

  'So who's he, then?'

  The other Paul might have muttered 'The cat's mother' under his breath, or not; he wasn't helping matters, and Paul ignored him. 'That's a different story - well, part of the same story but way, way off at right angles. The thing is, unless I fight a duel to the death with Ricky 'Wurmtoter - not here, somewhere else, which reminds me, we need a goblin called Colin - unless we have this stupid duel, the whole of history for the last thousand odd years is going to get really screwed up, and it's all Van Spee's fault but I'm the only one who can sort it out. Actually, it's a real bugger. That's why I need you to help me.'

  Sophie scowled at him. 'You said it'd only take two seconds.'

  'I exaggerated. But I will still do the Mortensens for you.'

  'After you've saved the world, you mean?'

  Paul nodded. 'Sure,' he said. 'Assuming there's a world left tomorrow, no problem.'

  She thought for a moment or so. 'I'd still like to know exactly what you meant by vice versa.'

  'Look-'

  'And anyway,' she went on, 'you and me breaking up, it wasn't about magic. 'Well, not all, anyway. Partly it was because you're shallow and emotionally retarded and completely self-centred and inconsiderate and-' She stopped.

  'Yes? Go on.'

  'Actually.' A deep, thoughtful frown on Sophie's face. 'Yes, you're all that stuff, but that wasn't it. I mean, that's the kind of thing you have endless rows and tears and yelling over, but it's not why we split up. I don't know why we split up, do you?'

&nbs
p; Paul smiled. 'Because.'

  'What?'

  'Because of Countess Judy,' he said. 'It really was just because of her, doing horrible things to your mind. And also this sword stuff too, that was something to do with it. But whatever it was, it was just all magic crap, all JWW and work and nothing to do with us. That's why-'

  Sophie raised a hand. Miss Hook used to do something just like that, Paul remembered, when she wanted to shut the class up. 'Forget it,' she said. 'We'll talk about it later. A lot. For now, though, what're you actually going to do with that - thing?'

  'Like I said,' Paul replied. 'I've got to fight Ricky Wurmtoter.'

  'But you can't do that. He'll murder you. You don't know spit about swordfighting and stuff.'

  Paul shook his head. 'Not important,' he said. 'The sword sees to all that sort of thing, I've just got to, like, be there. And you too, of course. And... shit,' he added. 'There's something I've forgotten.'

  Sophie rolled her eyes. 'Paul,' she said.

  'No, it's all right, really.' He turned to his other self. 'Vicky,' he said.

  'What about her?'

  'We'll need her too, or it won't work. Look, can you go and find her and bring her here?'

  'What did your last slave die of?' the other Paul grumbled, and left the room.

  That made a difference. The presence of a third party, even though it had been the second party in duplicate, had made things a bit tense, but also easier, in a way, because they couldn't really discuss - well, personal stuff- in front of someone else. Now they could talk, and they had nothing to do for five minutes or so. No reason not to. Bloody hell, Paul thought, and cleared his throat.

  'Sophie,' he said.

  "Well?'

  Christ. 'I don't know how to put this,' Paul said with transparent sincerity, 'but I think - well, I think we ought to give it another go. If you'd like to, I mean.'

  She looked at him. 'Not really,' she said.

  'Oh.'

  Bugger, he thought. It was one of those horrible relationship moments where it was your fault for not being a telepath and knowing exactly what she was thinking so you could say the right thing. He could see Sophie waiting, with imperfectly disguised impatience; she wasn't actually tapping her foot or looking pointedly at her watch, but absolutely the next best thing. And he couldn't think of anything to say to Not really. Which was odd, because twice now, or was it three times - he'd lost count - he'd faced down death and made it go away just by refusing to accept the unacceptable. The difference was, of course, that he couldn't give a shit about death's feelings.

  'Not really,' she repeated, 'because if we did we'd be right back where we started and it wouldn't be right for either of us because I can't ever be me so long as you're afraid to be you, and it'd all just get fraught and horrible again and I wouldn't be able to breathe, and anyway you're just about to trot off and get yourself killed by Ricky bloody 'Wurmtoter, so where the hell would be the bloody point?' Whereupon (and this was rather worse than facing Mr Dao against a backdrop of nothing whatsoever) Sophie started to sniffle, and a tear leaked out of the corner of her eye, like oil from a knackered gasket, and of course that was all his fault too -'No, I'm not,' he said. 'Yes, you are.'

  Great, Paul thought, panto time. 'No, I'm not,' he said briskly. 'That's what he's for.'

  Sophie cut off the snuffles abruptly in mid-sniff. 'What?'

  'Him,' Paul said. 'The other me. I'm not going to fight Ricky. He is.'

  'But that's-'

  'Yes,' Paul said savagely. 'I know. But someone's got to do it, and I'm sick to the teeth of dying. I figure it's some other bugger's turn. Besides, he's dead already, so it's not like it'll put him out or anything.'

  'Paul.' Her I'm-warning-you voice. He ignored it.

  'I was in Benny Shumway's office,' he said. 'It was a strange morning. I'd died, you see. None of this has happened yet, by the way,' he added helpfully, 'and it's not going to, either, if I have anything to do with it, but I'm drifting off-topic. Where was I? Sorry, yes. What should happen, you see, is this: tonight, I go along to Mr Tanner's mum's christening party-'

  'Is that tonight? Hell, I'd forgotten all about it.

  'Tonight,' Paul repeated. 'And I've said I'll be the godfather, right? What I don't know is, the role of godfather in a goblin christening is, um, sacrificial. They killed me. Bloody goblins jumped out of a cake and stabbed me to death.'

  Sophie was staring at him. Probably she was just shell-shocked by his reckless disregard for tenses, but at least he had her attention. 'Anyway,' Paul went on, 'I died, and you remember me telling you about Mr Dao, from the Bank? 'Well, he was there. And I won't bore you with the details, but I sort of escaped, and I ran like hell, and I reached the connecting door in Benny's office just as he was shutting it behind him. I stood there banging on it and yelling, but of course nobody answered. And then I figured out another way of escaping, so that was all right; but a couple of days later, when I'd come back to life -sorry, am I going too fast for you or something?'

  'No, no,' Sophie said, in a quiet, stunned voice. 'Go on.'

  'Like I said,' Paul continued, 'it was being a really weird morning, but what the hell. Anyway, I had to go into Benny's office to get something, Benny wasn't in; and then I heard this terrible banging and shrieking coming through the connecting door. 'Well, naturally, I got out of there as fast as I could; but afterwards I got to thinking, and I realised. It wasn't some hideous undead fiend trying to get through from the other side that was making all that racket. It had to have been me.'

  She was looking at him again. 'OK,' she said. 'Let's say for argument's sake-'

  'And then the next time,' Paul went on, 'the next time I died and there was Mr Dao waiting for me, he tried to take me away but I didn't want to go, and guess what, it turned out that he couldn't. He couldn't, because he didn't have any jurisdiction over me, that's what he said. But that didn't make any sense, because I'm not immortal or anything; unless, of course, what he meant was, I can't die because I'm dead already. He couldn't take me away again, because he'd already got me. And that,' Paul concluded, 'was what made me think of whatever it was on the other side of the door in Benny's room: it had to be another me, the one who's already dead. And of course, all the fuck-ups can't be sorted out till Ricky and I have our duel, and obviously I'm not going to survive it; but it won't matter a toss, because it won't be me he slashes to bits, it'll be the other me, the dead one-' He paused. 'You see what I'm getting at, don't you?'

  'No.'

  But it didn't matter, because the door opened and the other Paul came back, and Vicky was with him. She took a couple of steps into the room, saw Sophie and the sword, which was lying on the floor, and screamed. Then, very quickly indeed, Vicky punched the other Paul in the mouth and tried to get to the door. Much to the real Paul's surprise, the other Paul was too quick for her; he grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her back, as though she was an overexcited dog on a lead. For a moment Vicky looked as though she was going to make a serious fight of it; but then she just drooped, and flopped back against the wall.

  'That's not fair,' she said. 'You're pathetic, all - all three of you.'

  Paul stepped forward, trying to be reassuring. 'It's all right,' he told her, 'it's not like that. Really. What we're going to do is, we're going to find Ricky now-'

  'Just a minute,' Sophie interrupted, and there was something in her voice that suggested breaking strain. "What did she mean, all three-?'

  'You,' Paul said, 'and the sword, and me. That's right, isn't it?'

  Vicky gave him a nasty look, and nodded. 'You're all right,' she said to Sophie. 'You've got your other half, so if we fight now, you'll win and it'll all be over. But it'd be cheating, and...'

  'Oh, for pity's sake,' Paul protested. 'Why doesn't anybody ever listen?' Sophie and Vicky turned and both of them scowled at him instead of at each other. 'Sophie,' he said, 'it's like this. In this duel I've got to have with Ricky, both of us, him and me, we've got to have these stupid
magic swords, right? I've got one of them, and you're the other half of it. Ricky's got the other, and-'

  'And the other half of Tyrving is me,' Vicky interrupted. 'And Ricky thought he could break the spell by marrying me - No, let's not beat about the bush. First, he got that bitch Countess Judy to wipe out my memory so I wouldn't know who and what I am. Then he married me. Thank God Frank Laertides found out about it and made Countess Judy put it right.'

  'Anyway,' Paul said firmly. 'Vicky thinks we've tricked her here without her other half, the other magic sword, so we can cheat by killing her. That's what she thinks,' he added, 'because she may be a supernatural being of exceptional power and able to transcend the elements at will, but she's got the common sense of a small beetle.'

  'Hey,' Vicky protested, but it didn't do her any good; and Sophie, in spite of herself, giggled.

  'What we're actually going to do,' Paul went on, 'is cross over into Custardspace, which is where Ricky's hiding right now-'

  'Into where?' Sophie demanded.

  'And we're going to have the duel, and that'll be that.' Paul turned to Vicky. 'All right?' he said. "Will that do, as far as you're concerned?'

  Vicky looked a bit doubtful, but nodded. 'Fine by me,' she said. 'Of course, if you could spare an extra ten minutes or so, first we could grab hold of him and hold him down and smash his face in with a baseball bat and then have the duel, but I can see you're not keen on that idea. Pity.'

  'Yes,' Paul said, 'it is, but I don't want to risk screwing things up. I mean, what if we broke his arm or sprained his thumb or something, and he couldn't fight in the duel? Then everything'd be all to cock again, and all the chequebooks'd have English on one side and French on the other. No, you'll just have to be magnanimous and forgive him. Right?'

  'I'll forgive him,' Vicky said pleasantly, 'provided you promise faithfully to chop his arms and legs off in the duel and make him eat them with a salsa dip. Well,' she added, 'his legs and his left arm. He'll be needing the other one to kill you with.'

  'Or,' Paul replied after a brief, fraught pause, 'you can carry on hating him to bits, I don't care. I mean, I'd like it if everybody was friends and we all laid aside our differences and tried to get along, but it's no big deal. And I suppose if we're all going to be fighting to the death-'