Overtime Tom Holt

by Overtime (lit)

  'Mashed potato?'

  'Exactly,' Blondel replied, shaking his head. 'My sister has this problem with mashed potato. She gets it confused with food. Mind you, all the women in my family believe in substantial meals. You take,' he added, with a slight grimace, 'my sister Ysabel. Give her five loaves and two fishes, and you could invite both Houses of Parliament.'

  'Er...'

  'Thought not,' Blondel said. 'Don't blame you. I'm told it's worse once you've actually married them, but mercifully I'm not in a position to speak authoritatively on that point.'

  'I...'

  'Pretending to have toothache doesn't help, either,' Blondel continued, with the air of a man settling down to a cherished topic, 'because then they've got an excuse to make soup. Do you have any idea of the number of saucepans an active, able-bodied woman can use making soup? They aren't allowed to wash up, by the way, because of their fingernails. Cracks them, or something similarly absurd. On that basis, I should be walking around with half a pound of shrapnel on the ends of my arms. It's a conspiracy, that's what it is. They learn it from their mothers.'

  Guy nodded. 'In the meantime,' he asked, 'have you got any biscuits, or anything like that? Sorry to be a nuisance, but ...'

  'My dear fellow, I was forgetting.' Blondel looked round at the door behind which La Beale Isoud was, to judge by the sound effects, lacerating carrots, checked that it was firmly shut, and then jumped for one of the lamp-brackets. He caught it, swung himself up into one of the window mullions, picked something out of a crack in the stonework, and threw it down to Guy. It was a leather satchel containing three and a half rolls of chocolate digestives.

  'It's my secret supply,' he called down in a loud whisper. 'Got to keep them hidden, or she'll pound them up for cheesecake base. She makes a cheesecake that'd stop crossbow bolts. Help yourself.'

  Guy tipped some biscuits into his pockets and threw the bag back quickly. Blondel, having restored his treasure, lowered himself back down again, his jaws moving furtively.

  'It's not as if she doesn't make biscuits too,' he said, through a mouthful of crumbs. 'But they're those brick-hard ones with almonds and no chocolate. I mean, brilliant for lining a fireplace, but not much use for constructive eating. Now then, we were thinking about having a drink.'

  But before they could get to the decanters, there was a hammering at the coal-cellar door. Blondel raised both eyebrows in astonishment.

  'Expecting anybody?' he asked.

  Guy shook his head.

  'Well,' Blondel said, 'I'm not, and unless it's double glazing then someone would appear to have followed us. And we don't get many offers of double glazing in the eleventh century. Be different if this was Chartres or Saint Denis. I think I'd better see who it is.

  With a swift movement of his hand, he drew a sword down from the wall and hid it behind his back. With the other hand he undid the bolts on the door and pulled it open. Through the door came Giovanni, Iachimo and Marco.

  'I wasn't far wrong,' he said, 'at that. What on earth do you gentlemen want?' He produced the sword and smiled. 'You'd better come in,' he said. 'And take your hats off quick.'

  The Galeazzo brothers uncovered their heads immediately. Blondel grinned and put up his sword.

  'Drink, anybody?' he said. 'I hope you all like mashed potato. Now, how did you get here, and what do you want?' He poured out five glasses of mead with a flourish and handed them round.

  'We were telexed,' Marco said, and would undoubtedly have explained further had not Giovanni trodden on his foot. He had to get up and walk across the hall to do it; but Marco was trained to obey certain signals, and if one didn't use them it only confused him.

  'We were just passing,' Giovanni said, 'on our way back from the Archives; stopped off for a drink, happened to notice your name in the phone book, thought we'd drop in on the off chance you were in.' He looked about him. 'Nice place you have here,' he said. 'I wonder if you've ever considered whether you've got it adequately insured. We can offer you ...' Blondel shook his head. 'No point,' he said. 'In five days' time it gets burnt down. Not a stone left standing.'

  'Mind you,' Blondel went on, 'every four days I move it back in time. That means I get to pay reduced rates, too. Handy.'

  Giovanni looked at his brothers and shrugged. 'Anyway,' he said, 'this isn't entirely a social call.'

  Blondel grinned. 'You amaze me,' he said.

  'In fact,' Giovanni went on, 'we have some very serious business to discuss. You realise that you are in breach of your contract?'

  'Oh yes?'

  Giovanni nodded gravely. 'Clauses 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 and 20.'

  'Really?' Blondel said. 'What's Clause 19 about, then?'

  'There isn't one,' Giovanni replied. 'Originally it was your right to receive a duly audited account every financial year, but it got deleted.'

  'Did it?'

  'Yes.'

  'I see.' Blondel poured himself another glass of mead, picked some beeswax out of it with his fingernail, and smiled. 'But I'm in breach of the rest of it, am I?'

  'I'm afraid so,' Giovanni said. 'However -'

  'That's very serious, isn't it?'

  'It could be,' Giovanni replied, 'potentially. That's why -'

  'If I was you,' Blondel purred, 'I'd sue.'

  Giovanni blinked. 'You would?'

  Blondel nodded vigorously. 'Too right,' he replied. 'Can't have people going about the place playing fast and loose with binding agreements, can we? No, bash on, that's what I'd do, and stand up for your rights.'

  'Um ...'

  'In fact,' Blondel said, 'there's no time like the present, is there? Now it so happens,' he said, standing up and taking down a sword and a shield from the wall, 'that this castle is within the jurisdiction' - he swung the sword in his hand to check the balance; it passed - 'of the Supreme Court of the Barony of Nesle, of which I' - he tested the point, swore, and licked his finger - 'am hereditary Chief Justiciar. Normally, there's quite a backlog of cases, but just at present I think we could fit you in. Trial by combat, naturally.'

  Giovanni swallowed hard. 'Combat,' he repeated.

  'Absolutely,' Blondel replied. 'We tried the other way, but we kept on coming back to combat. Quicker, cheaper, and above all, fairer; not to mention a damn sight less traumatic for the participants. Would you like me to lend you a shield? You seem to have come out without one.'

  'Actually,' Giovanni said, 'perhaps we ought to try a little without prejudice negotiation. I find litigation positively counter-productive sometimes, don't you?'

  'Ah yes,' Blondel replied, making his choice from a rack of double-bladed battle-axes, 'but that's because you've never had the advantage of the Nesle judicial system. No, I think a couple of bouts ought to' - he weighed two maces, picked the heavier one and put the other back - 'get this business knocked on the head - if you'll pardon the expression - in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Here, catch!' He tossed a helmet to Giovanni, who dropped it with a clang. 'Up to you,' Blondel said, putting on his own helmet and feeling the edge of his axe. 'Helmets are optional, and I can understand your feeling nervous, what with Mr Goodlet being in the same room. Shall we make it best of three, do you think? Or would you prefer sudden death?'

  Giovanni made a small, whimpering noise and looked round at his brothers for support. They weren't there. They were right behind him, hiding.

  'Alternatively,' Blondel said, removing his helmet and putting down his axe on a handy coffee table, 'we could forget all about the contract. I mean, we all trust 'each other, don't we? Nod if you agree.'

  The Galeazzo brothers nodded in perfect unison, like a miniature Cerberus in the back window of a Vauxhall Cavalier.

  'Glad you think so, too,' said Blondel. 'You wouldn't happen to have it with you, by any chance?'

  Marco put his feet carefully out of Giovanni's way and said 'Yes.' He went on to explain that it was in Giovanni's briefcase, inside an envelope marked Tax Returns 1232/3, and would
have enlarged on the theme had not his brothers put a helmet on his head, the wrong way round, so that the neck-guard obstructed his mouth. By then, however, the contract was on the fire.

  'Now then,' Blondel said, 'I think it's time for some food.'

  Giovanni was looking at the contract curling up on the fire. It was possible that he might have felt similar sensations of loss and sadness for the death of his grandmother; but the theory would be hard to prove, given that he'd sold her to Barbary slavers hundreds of years earlier, and since then they'd lost touch. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

  'Right,' he said. 'Well, I think we've now established a forum for negotiations leading to a new contract ...'

  Blondel turned round slowly and looked at him. 'You think so,' he said.

  'Absolutely,' Giovanni replied. 'I mean,' he added, and his will to profit battled briefly with his instincts of self-preservation; the will to profit won. 'Perhaps a little fine-tuning of some of the clauses might be called for, what with the passage of time and changes in circumstances; but what the hell, Blondel, you're still an artist, and artists need agents. Now then...'

  'Just for that,' Blondel said, 'you get a double helping of mashed potato.'

  Giovanni looked wounded. 'You disappoint me,' he said. 'I think we can do business together. After all,' he said, 'you'd be interested in finding the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes, now wouldn't you?'

  Blondel gave him a long look. 'You're bluffing,' he said.

  'Maybe.'

  'You don't know where the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes is, any more than I do.'

  Giovanni smiled. 'True,' he said. 'But I know where they bank.'

  There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Guy eating a few stale peanuts he'd found in a deserted finger-bowl. Finally Blondel stood up and walked about the room for a while.

  'Where they bank...' he said.

  'Absolutely,' Giovanni said. 'After all, it's a fundamental rule of nature. Everybody banks somewhere.'

  'Oh yes?' Blondel replied. 'What about ...' He tailed off.

  'What about?' Giovanni repeated.

  Blondel suddenly grinned. 'I was trying to think of an example,' he said, 'and I couldn't. All right, then, tell me how you know where the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes banks.'

  Giovanni shook his head. 'I wasn't born yesterday,' he said. 'We've got to have a contract first.'

  Blondel sighed. 'Have it your own way, then. Even when I've found out where their bank is, how does that help me find them?'

  'That's up to you,' Giovanni replied. 'You're a very resourceful man. Now then, we were discussing terms.'

  'Were we?'

  'Yes.'

  'Oh,' Blondel shrugged. 'Go on, then.'

  'Just one gig,' Giovanni said. 'One very big concert. We'll network it, naturally; every country, every century, every dimension.

  Blondel frowned. 'How?' he said.

  'Simple.' Giovanni spread his hands in a gesture of extreme simplicity. 'We'll do it in every country, in every century, simultaneously.'

  'Hang on,' Blondel said. 'Nobody's ever done that before.'

  Giovanni's smile widened until it came close to being a geographical feature. 'They soon will have,' he replied. 'Just one gig, Blondel. How about it?'

  As he spoke the kitchen door opened, and Isoud trotted angrily out, plonked down a huge dish of mashed potato on the table, and trotted back again. The door slammed behind her.

  'All right,' Blondel said. He looked at the mashed potato and shuddered. 'Just this once.'

  *

  FAX

  From: Galeazzo, Galeazzo and Galeazzo, Beaumont Street,

  Londinium

  To: The Chastel des Larmes Chaudes

  Your reference: AC

  Message follows

  'If it's one of those junk faxes,' Mountjoy's secretary said, 'I'll get him to write to the company. I've got enough to do without running up and down stairs delivering mailshots.'

  Congratulations! the message continued. You have been selected as this month's lucky winner in the Galeazzo Brothers Financial Services Draw. This month's fabulous prize is two tickets for the greatest ever Blondel concert.

  'Thought so,' said Mountjoy's secretary, and she went to pull the paper out of the machine. An arm stopped her.

  'Leave it,' said a voice harshly behind her. 'I want to see what it says.'

  'Yes, sir,' squeaked the secretary. She retreated.

  All you have to do to receive your fabulous prize, went on the message, slowly ballooning out of the printer, is to invest ST50,000 or more in a Galeazzo Brothers Managed Fund of your choice before the end of the month; but hurry! If you don't claim your fabulous prize within the specified time, then Galeazzo Brothers Financial Services reserve the right to offer your fabulous prize to another lucky winner. All enquiries about Galeazzo Brothers Managed Funds should be addressed to ...

  And then the paper got wedged and the toner ran out and the rollers jammed and the printer got stuck, and a few moments later the whole thing seized up and started beeping hysterically. An arm reached out and tweaked the paper free. Someone opened a door for the distinguished visitor, and he left. Gradually, life in Reception returned to normal.

  'Who was that?' Mountjoy's secretary asked. Everybody looked at her.

  'Funny,' said the office junior. 'Dead comical.'

  'Straight up,' she replied. 'Who was it? I've never seen him before.'

  'That,' said the post boy, 'was Mr A.'

  'Who's -'

  'So next time,' the post boy went on, 'if I was you, I'd mind your manners, right? It doesn't do to get on the wrong side of Mr A.' The post boy frowned. 'So to speak,' he added.

  'I still don't know...'

  But everyone was wandering off; some to make coffee, others to file memoranda, others to stand around waiting for the man to come and fix the photocopier. Mountjoy's secretary was just scratching her head, wondering if she'd missed something somewhere, when the phone rang. She hurried back to her place, sat down and put on the headphones.

  'Chastel des Larmes Chaudes, can I help you?' she warbled.

  'I want to speak to the proprietor,' said the voice at the other end. A nice voice, Mountjoy's secretary thought; not the sort to bite your head off.

  'Thank you,' she replied. 'Who shall I say is calling, please?'

  'My name's de Nesle,' the voice said. 'Jean de Nesle. I think he'll take my call.'

  The atmosphere at a Blondel concert is not easy to describe. When the concert in question has been billed as the Very Last Ever Farewell Charity Concert, the atmosphere is heightened to such an extent that barometers are brought into the auditorium entirely at their owners' risk.

  For the occasion the Galeazzo Brothers had built - over the course of centuries, naturally, and entirely funded by retrospective borrowing (which meant that the bank ended up paying them interest) - the biggest, grandest, most garish neo-Gothic auditorium ever. Every inch of the surface area of the huge massed banks of speakers was carved with intricate scroll-and-acanthus work, and the leads entered them through the mouths of grinning gargoyles. The stage itself was supported on slender pinnacles of stone at a dizzying height above the ground, and was roofed over with a breathtaking canopy of stained glass, providing an unrivalled light show without the expense of electric power.

  Up in his dressing room, Blondel wasn't feeling the slightest bit nervous. As far as he was concerned, he was going to sing. He quite liked singing, although he found it got a bit tiresome if you did it day in, day out, and since he'd written all the songs himself he wasn't worried about forgetting the words. Even if he did, he could make up some more. They'd like that, probably.

  'I do wish you'd stop walking up and down like that,' he said to Giovanni, who had worn a little freeway in the pile of the carpet. 'You know I like to get forty winks before I go on, and you're keeping me awake.'

  Giovanni spat out a mouthful of fingernail and scowled at him. 'The biggest gig in the history o
f the world,' he snarled. 'If they suddenly ask for their money back, it'll wipe out the financial structures of the entire civilised world. For God's sake, most of the money we've been paid for seats hasn't even been made yet. I've got a right to be nervous.'

  Blondel shrugged. 'Fair enough,' he said, 'if it makes you feel any better, by all means be nervous. But it'd be awfully sweet of you if you'd just go and do it somewhere else.'

  Giovanni shook his head furiously, until it became a blur of movement. 'Oh no,' he said. 'I'm not letting you out of my sight till this is all safely over. Not after Wurtemburg.'

  'Come on, Giovanni,' Blondel sighed. 'Not Wurtemburg again.'

  Giovanni ignored him. 'A sell-out,' he said. 'Not a seat to be had for any money. Crown Prince of Denmark sitting in the front row, eating popcorn. And you take it into your head to slope off and sing under some castle instead, just because -'

  'It was seeing the Crown Prince put it into my head, actually,' Blondel commented. 'I thought, Elsinore, haven't been there for ages, worth a try. A complete washout, actually. I nearly got spitted by a nervous guard with a halberd, but that was all.'

  Giovanni growled at him. 'That was not bloody well all,' he snapped. 'I had to pay out ninety million groschen in returned admittance. The Crown Prince nearly did his nut. Tried to stab me through the safety curtain. And that's why I'm not letting you set foot outside this room until ...'

  Blondel shrugged. 'All right,' he said amicably, 'entirely up to you. I just thought you might be more comfortable sitting down. Have an aspirin or something.'

  'I don't want an aspirin,' Giovanni replied. 'For two pins I'd take a short cut through a couple of hours and only come back when it's all over. Only then I wouldn't be able to keep an eye on you ...