by Susan Price
“Ah,” Gareth said, and wondered if the fat barmaid could be a rival for promotion. Surely not.
Outside the alehouse several Elf-Carts were at rest and waiting. They were of many bright colors—the colors of Elf-Land were brilliant, even garish, and sometimes hurt the eyes. Per led Ingram past them all to the gleaming black cart that was Windsor’s. As they stood beside it, waiting for the others, he drew his fingers along its smooth, glassy surface. Dimly, as though in a black mirror, they could see themselves reflected in the cart’s side.
“I like red carten,” Ingram said, pointing to a scarlet cart on the other side of the pound.
“‘Car,’” Per corrected him. “They call them ‘cars.’”
The car gave a shrill electronic squeal as Windsor came nearer—it had picked up the signal from the coder in one of his pockets, identified him as its owner, turned off its alarm, and unlocked its doors. Both Windsor and Gareth smiled to see the two Sterkarms jump at the noise.
But then Per opened the driver’s door and got into the driver’s seat. Ingram laughed aloud, looking from his cousin to the approaching Elves, thrilled by his cousin’s daring but a little apprehensive at what the powerful Elf-Windsor might do.
Gareth looked to see how Windsor was taking it too, and was surprised to see Windsor watching the Sterkarms with a strange expression that was almost tender.
“He’s quick to learn,” Windsor said. “Smarter than a Labrador. You could teach him all sorts of tricks.” Windsor was remembering how Per’s feet had crumpled the hood of another, similar Merc, and how the lance point had come through the windshield, crazing it, shattering it. That hadn’t been this Per, of course. Except that it had.
Per, in the driver’s seat, had his hands on the wheel. He pressed the pedals with his feet and pulled at the gear lever, knowing that they had something to do with making the cart go.
Windsor, stooping to look into the car, said, “Okay, okay.”
Per, instead of getting out of the car, simply moved over into the passenger seat, thereby ensuring that he sat in the front, next to the driver. Windsor got behind the wheel, and Gareth, opening the back door, ushered Ingram inside before climbing in after him.
Per had already fastened his seat belt—snapping the belt together seemed to have something to do with the magic that made the car go—and was looking eagerly toward the ignition, wanting the ride to begin. In the back, Gareth had to help Ingram fasten his belt. It was the boy’s first visit to Elf-Land—he’d been brought along only because Per had asked for him to come.
Windsor didn’t fasten his own belt. Instead, he turned and said to Gareth, “We’ll give them the gewgaws now, I think. Will you do the honors?” When Gareth looked blank, he said, “The boot?”
Gareth climbed out of the car again, resentfully. It had begun to rain slightly. He opened the boot and took out the two shopping bags, handing them to Windsor through his now opened door.
As Gareth climbed back inside, Windsor handed the bags to Per and Ingram. They were much struck by the material the bags were made of, their smoothness, bright colors, and perfect lettering. The rustling, crinkling noise they made was appreciated too. After a few moments Windsor lost patience, took the bags back, and gave the Sterkarms the velvet boxes from inside. “Open them.”
Two watches were found inside: large, chunky, shiny gold things. Per immediately slipped his on over his wrist, showing Ingram how to do it and pointing out the watches that Windsor and Gareth were wearing.
“Gareth will teach you how to use them, eh, Gareth?” Windsor said.
“Oh—aye.” Gareth translated what Windsor had said, and promised to teach them how to tell time. A perfect waste of his time, he thought, since the Sterkarms had absolutely no use for watches. They got up at first light and went to bed when it was dark. In between, they herded cattle, robbed one another, and fought. What did it matter to them if it was eleven in the morning or three in the afternoon? Still, he supposed, there was nothing else for him to do once he was back 16th side.
“Toosand takh!” Ingram said. A thousand thanks.
“There are packs of aspirin in there too,” Windsor said. “Enough to keep you going for a while.”
Gareth translated. Per and Ingram were impressed and excited to see how many boxes of “wee white pills” they were getting. Windsor had supplied the very cheapest and nastiest-tasting aspirin, but it didn’t matter. The Sterkarms had nothing to match it for painkilling properties.
“And a couple of rather special T-shirts,” Windsor said, and taking one from the bag, he spread it out. Both Per and Ingram exclaimed. The T-shirts were of cheap black cotton. On the chest, in red, was an upraised arm—a left arm—holding a dagger. The arm and dagger were enclosed within the red outline of a shield. It was the Sterkarms’ badge, their name in picture form—“strong arm.”
Per and Ingram were thrilled. Per undid his seat belt, shrugged off his jacket, dragged off the white T-shirt he was wearing, and put on the new one. Ingram quickly followed suit.
Windsor laughed as he fastened his belt. He pressed the starter button, and the car began to purr. He said, “Kvenna, eh? Stoor kvenna?”
Per wasn’t listening, too interested in his gifts and the steering of the car out of the parking lot. Even when Windsor repeated himself, he was puzzled. “Woman, eh?” Windsor had said. “Big woman?” But despite being a powerful Elf-Man, Windsor spoke terrible English, and you had to make allowances. Looking over the back of his seat at Ingram, Per said, “He means Elf-May in alehouse.”
“Hoon var smookt!” Ingram said.
Gareth translated for Windsor. “She was beautiful.”
Gareth spoke unenthusiastically, but Ingram’s tone had been very different. Windsor laughed. “You like her, eh?”
Gareth repeated the question in the Sterkarms’ dialect, and Per and Ingram answered together, “Ya!” and laughed.
“Big way!” Per added, trying out some of the Elvish he’d picked up.
Windsor turned the large car onto the main road and picked up speed. The Sterkarms were distracted by the scenery flying past, by the car’s faint vibration, like the breathing and heartbeat of a living thing. Ingram, especially, was as scared as he was excited.
“Ask them if they’d like her,” Windsor said.
“I’ve already asked them that.”
Irritated and contemptuous, Windsor said, “No. Ask them if they’d like to screw her.”
Gareth was silent for a moment. He wanted to ask, What? Am I a pimp now? But he knew that Windsor would only order him to do his job. “I’m not sure how to ask that.”
“I thought you were a translator? Ask them!”
It took a few seconds to get their attention away from the car and its speed, but then Gareth said, “Woman in alehouse—er—” He felt his face reddening and was furious with himself. “Would you—er. Like to lie with her?”
They stared at him. Had they understood? Blushing even more, Gareth put one hand in the crook of his elbow and jerked his arm upward in an unmistakable gesture.
Per laughed. “Ya!” Ingram just laughed.
2
21st Side: Taking the Position
Sunlight streamed through the large windows into the room, shining on the polished wood of desk and floor, glinting in the mirrors. The warmth strengthened the scent of the roses in a bowl on a side table and made their petals fall.
Andrea sat on the couch under the window, feet neatly together, hands folded in her lap, waiting, as she’d been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes. In front of her was a low table holding a spread of glossy magazines. On the other side of the room, at her work station, sat Windsor’s plump, pleasant, middle-aged secretary.
Sighing, Andrea turned her head and looked out at the wide lawns and mature trees of the grounds. She knew them well, having worked here, at Dilsmead Hall, before—in
the days when she’d commuted five hundred years in the Time Tube, as other people commute five miles on the tube.
This is a mistake, she thought. I know it’s a mistake. Worse—if I take this position, it’ll be a disaster, because it has to be a setup. Windsor must already have decided to give her the job, or why would he have gone to the trouble to find out where she was working and come visiting? Windsor wouldn’t have dropped in on her for old time’s sake. So it was a scam. Beware, beware!
Just get up, she told herself. Walk out. Go home. Get a life.
She remained on the couch.
Catching her eye, the secretary smiled and said, “I’m sure Mr. Windsor won’t be much longer.” A buzzer sounded, and with another smile she said, “There you are! You can go in now.”
Oh, thank you so much, Andrea thought as she stood. I am now graciously allowed to enter Windsor’s presence. She crossed to the door of the inner office, thinking, I should march in there, tell him where he can stick his job and his head, and walk out.
She teetered on the edge of doing it.
She did refuse to knock before opening the door. Grasping the door’s brass handle, she firmly turned it and strode in.
“Andrea!” Windsor said, rising from behind his desk and coming to meet her, as if her appearance was a complete surprise and he hadn’t deliberately been keeping her waiting. She noticed that he still had the big, framed photo on his wall—the one of the Sterkarm tower against a stormy sky. As if he owned the tower—as if it was his country home. “Let’s use my cozy corner,” he said, ushering her to one side of the room.
The “cozy corner” had a couch and three easy chairs arranged around a low, smoked-glass coffee table. Whenever she’d spoken with Windsor in his office before, she’d had to take one of the low chairs directly in front of his big desk, where she’d felt—as she’d been meant to feel—exposed and clumsy. Obviously, today she was to be charmed. She refused to be charmed.
“Beryl will bring us some coffee and biscuits soon. Or cake? Would you prefer cake? Or both?” Windsor gave his supposedly charming smile, which Andrea would have called a smirk. Even when he tried to be charming, he couldn’t resist a jibe.
“Just coffee, thank you.”
“Sure? We don’t want you fainting on the train home.”
Andrea looked at him, at his thick, dark, oiled hair; at his fleshy face, above all at his smirk; and the detestation she felt for him rose up in her so strongly that it was difficult to keep her face from showing it, and perhaps she didn’t entirely succeed. She remembered all the good reasons she had for detesting him, and thought: Why am I meekly going along with this? “Cut the crap,” she said. “What’s this about?”
“Andrea! That’s not like you!”
“When you came into the pub that day—was that Per with you? Was it?” It was the question she’d traveled two hundred miles or more to ask, and she saw a flicker—just a flicker—of consternation in Windsor’s face. The conversation wasn’t going the way he’d planned. Good.
The door opened and Beryl came in, carrying their coffee and cookies on a tray. The few seconds she was in the room, asking if everything was all right and if there was anything they needed, gave Windsor time to collect himself.
“So how have you been?” he asked, pouring coffee as the door closed behind Beryl. “I haven’t been too well myself. I’m still not one hundred percent—probably overdoing it, but once a workaholic, always a workaholic.”
Andrea set her teeth and refused to say the polite, solicitous things her upbringing prompted her to say.
“They grew me a new piece of gut, you know—amazing work. I had an incredibly good team of surgeons, and tiptop aftercare. One of the best hospitals in the country. Shockingly expensive, but worth every penny and more. Still, it’s not something you shrug off, a lance in the guts.”
“Was it Per?”
Windsor smirked. “You mean, who stuck the lance in my gut?”
“You know what I mean.”
“My, Andrea, you’ve become very prickly.” He leaned back in his chair, smiling, and crossed his legs. His trouser leg hitched up a little, but only enough to show a black sock, damn him. “In answer to your question, I can only say, yes—and no.”
“And does that mean anything?”
“Working as a barmaid is obviously very bad for the temper. I mean yes, it was Per, but not Per as you know him.”
Andrea stood. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going.”
“Back to working in a pub?”
“The great advantage of working in a pub,” Andrea said, looking down at him, “is that every day I meet a far better class of person than you.”
Windsor raised his thick, dark brows. “Oh dear. Andrea, sit down. Please, sit down. I’ll explain. The Tube is up and running again.”
“I guessed that much,” Andrea said, still standing. “Why? It was supposed to be economically unviable. It was closed down.”
“Just because something’s closed down, Andrea, it doesn’t mean that it has to stay closed down.”
“It was closed because the Sterkarms slapped your greedy snouts away from the trough. So why is it suddenly open again?”
Windsor didn’t like being spoken to like that, but he hardly showed it—which made Andrea even more suspicious. “Please sit down again, Andrea. It was that crowd of unimaginative penny stackers in Accounts who got it closed, with their usual shortsightedness. It stayed closed for just as long as it took the company to digest Accounts’ figures and realize how many billions they’d have thrown away on research and development if it stayed closed, with about as much chance of getting any of it back as a paraplegic has of playing for Manchester United.” He smiled, congratulating himself on being daring enough to say things like that. “So the Board gritted its collective teeth and decided to push on until there is a return. This is real business, you see, Andrea—Big Business. It’s not managing your building-society account—or the books at the Rose and Crown. Besides, what’s a few billion against loss of face? And properly considered, our problems last time were more a failure of security than anything. I said so, in my report.”
Andrea blinked and thought through her memory of events. She had the impression that, all along, Windsor had consistently underestimated the Sterkarms’ treachery, intelligence, and ferocity. Despite being warned many times. “It was a failure of security?”
“Bryce. You remember Bryce?”
Andrea did. She’d liked the man. Ex-army and Head of Security at Dilsmead Hall. He’d been killed. By the Sterkarms. Skewered by a lance, actually, and then beheaded, on the neat gravel path that ran behind the building. “So you’re blaming it all on Bryce,” she said. “Because he isn’t here to say otherwise.”
“That’s very cynical, Andrea.”
“It’s very true, you mean? Bryce did a good job, as far as he was allowed to. And he was still trying to do a good job when—”
“I’m not deaf, Andrea. Don’t shout at me.”
“I’m not shouting. Bryce was killed. And not just Bryce. I’ve been wondering ever since—just how the hell did you cover that up?”
Windsor sighed. “We paid compensation, of course. What’s the big deal? Thousands of people are killed every day in car crashes—who ever worries about that? Bryce was killed in an industrial accident. Shit happens. Everybody who works for us signs waiver forms. You did yourself.”
“But he was beheaded,” Andrea said. “Didn’t his family ask questions?”
“What if they did? It only needs a soap-opera wedding, a Hollywood couple getting divorced, a politician caught with his pants down—and then who cares about some drone being beheaded north of Watford? Get real, Andrea.”
She sat quietly for a few moments. Discussing ethics with Windsor was a waste of time and breath. “It was Per in the pub. I knew it was. But he was wearing j
eans.”
“Did you expect me to take him into a pub without his jeans?”
Andrea grimaced impatiently and didn’t bother to answer. “He didn’t know me.”
“No,” Windsor agreed. “He wouldn’t.”
“You’ve taken the Tube further back in time,” she said. “To before we arrived the last time.”
“Very good! But you don’t quite win the weekend break and luxury hamper.”
“What then? How could Per not recognize me?”
“The dimensions,” Windsor said. “Did you ever master the theory? Sixteenth side isn’t our past. It’s the past of another dimension.”
Andrea sat down, the better to think. Her brows came together as she fought to concentrate. Something tickled at the back of her mind, some connection, but she was too distracted to see what it meant. Abstractedly, she picked up a cookie and bit it, and as the chocolate melted in her mouth, the connections snapped together. “You’ve gone into yet another dimension!” she said. “It was Per—but from another dimension—a dimension where we’ve never been. Per—but a Per I’ve never met.”
Windsor smirked. “Now you get the cigar.”
Andrea remembered how Per—this unknown Per—had stared at her in the pub, admiring her. “But it’s close—this dimension? It’s close to the one we did go into?”
“There’s no essential difference. Except on our side. We’ve tried hard to be pally with the Sterkarms this time, not to upset them. Give them what they want. Aspirins. Jeans. It seems to be working.”
Andrea was only half listening. A snatch of words and melody ran through her head—one of the many, many songs she’d learned when she’d lived with the Sterkarms.
Oh, see you my tall love, with his cheeks like roses?
Screw the job, she thought. Who cared about the job? What mattered was that she was being given a chance to meet Per again for the first time.
