Grailblazers Tom Holt

by Grailblazers (lit)

  Happening to fall into conversation with the castellan, Sir Prime discovered that the castle, which was large and rather a nuisance to keep up, was supposed to be the repository of the Holy Grail, left there hundreds of years previously by Joseph of Arimathea as security for a substantial Snakes and Ladders debt. The only problem was that, what with the castle being so big and so many of its rooms having to be shut up for most of the year, nobody could remember where the dratted thing had last been seen. Naturally, periodic attempts were made to find it; but since these searches tended to reveal nothing more cheerful than further outbreaks of dry rot and death-watch beetle, they were usually abandoned at an early stage. What was needed, the castellan continued, was a fearless young hero who wasn't easily cowed by the sight of huge patches of purple fungus growing out of the walls, who would make a thorough search of the place, find the Grail and thus provide the damosel with a nice capital sum with which to finance her dream of turning the old place into either an eventide home or a sports complex.

  Sir Prime's imagination was fired by this entrancing tale, and he pressed the castellan for further details. She obligingly produced a complete set of plans and elevations, builders' estimates, grants of outline planning permission, detailed budgets, profit-and-loss projections prepared by her accountants, and a joint-venture agreement by which, for the investment of a paltry seventy thousand marks, the knight would be entitled to a forty-per-cent share in the equity, together with interest on capital and fifty per cent of net profits. Delighted, Sir Prime produced his cheque book, wrote out a draft for seventy thousand marks, signed the contract and at once fell into a deep slumber.

  When he awoke, he found himself lying on the cold fells. All trace of the castle, the castellan and his signed part of the contract had vanished. Furthermore, he seemed to have misplaced his gold crucifix and a number of other trifles of personal adornment.

  As he rode homewards, he encountered an ancient hermit, to whom he related his strange and terrifying adventure. The hermit, controlling his laughter by stuffing the sleeve of his robe into his mouth, mumbled that Sir Prime would have appeared to have had the ill fortune to wander into the fabulous castle of Lyonesse. If that was the case, then the damosel was none other than La Beale Dame de Lyonesse, and the knight should count himself lucky to have got away with just being ripped off for seventy grand. Some poor fools, he explained, had fared far worse than that. Really stupid knights, for example, had been known to buy two weeks in July and August at Lyonesse for the rest of time; fortunately really classic suckers like that were as rare as virgins in a . . .

  Predictably, Sir Turquine was the first to break the silence.

  `What,' he asked, `does it say?'

  `Um,' Boamund replied.

  `It says Um, does it?' replied Turquine. `Gosh, how helpful.'

  Boamund stared at the paper in his hands, oblivious even to Turquine. At last he cleared his throat and spoke, albeit in a rather high voice.

  `I think it's probably a riddle of some sort,' he said. `You know, like My first is in-'

  `What,' said a voice from the back, `does it say?'

  Blushing fit to shame Aurora, Boamund replied, `It's a . . . I don't know. It's like a sort of list. Or a recipe.' He thought for a moment. `Or a receipt, maybe.' He scratched his head.

  Turquine grinned. `Give it here,' he demanded, and Boamund made no effort to resist when he grabbed at the paper. It was almost as if he wanted someone else to have the job of reading the thing out.

  `Now,' said Turquine, `what have we . . .? Good Lord.'

  Various knights urged him to get on with it. He bit his lip, and then read out:

  'LE SANC GREAL: INSTRUCTIONS The Apron of Invincibility The Personal Organiser of Wisdom The Socks of Inevitability

  The first may be found where children are carried in

  pockets, and came with the first First Fleet.

  The second may be found in the safe haven where time

  is money, where money goes but never returns, and in the great office under and beyond the sea.

  The third, God's gift to the Grail Knights, may be found

  where one evening can last forever, in the domain of the best-loved psychopath under the arch of the sky, in the kingdom of the flying deer.

  Armed with these, let the Grail Knight reclaim what is his, release Albion from her yellow fetters, and enjoy his tea

  without fear of the washing-up.'

  At the back somebody coughed. At moments like this, somebody always does. `I think young Snotty is right,' said Turquine at last. `It's some sort of riddle.'

  Bedevere closed his mouth with an effort, blinked and said, `That bit about the safe haven. Rings a bell, don't you know.'

  Five knights looked at him and he swallowed.

  `Well,' he went on, `reminds me of something I read once. Or perhaps I heard it on something. It's on the tip of my. . .'

  `It's a tricky one, isn't it?' Lamorak ventured. `Maybe there's someone we could ask, you know, a hermit or something. Anybody know a good hermit?'

  `Read it again.'

  Turquine obliged and this time there was a hail of suggestions, all made simultaneously. Eventually, Boamund restored order by hammering on the table with the mace.

  `Gentlemen,' he said, stretching a point, `we obviously can't decipher this. It's not our job. The cardinal rule is, knights don't think. So the next step is to find someone who can make sense of it all. Now then, in the old days, you'd ask a hermit, or an anchorite, or else you'd be riding along through the woods one morning, minding your own business, looking for a stray falcon maybe, and there'd be this old crone sitting beside the road. "Prithee master," she'd say, "carry me across yon river to my cottage." And you'd say...'

  Somebody at the back urged him to get to the point. He pulled himself together.

  `Anyway,' he continued, `the point I'm trying to make is, that's what we'd have done then, but that was then and this is now. Right?'

  Five heads nodded cautiously. This was either wisdom or the bleeding obvious, the problem is always to tell the two apart.

  `So,' said Boamund, `you lot know all about now. Who do you go to nowadays when you've got something you don't understand that needs explaining?'

  `Yes?' said Miss Cartwright, briskly. `Can I help you?' She smiled that toothpaste smile of hers, which any of the seasoned timewasters of Ventcaster would recognise as an invitation not to try her too high this morning. `Something about a form you'd like me to explain to you?'

  `That's right,' said Boamund, blushing slightly. Apart from the girl in the service station, who was clearly a person of no status, feudally speaking, and so didn't count, this was the first woman he'd spoken to in fifteen hundred years. `Actually,' he said, `before we get down to that part of it, there's just one thing . . .?'

  It's one of them, Miss Cartwright's inner voice said to her, I can feel it in my water. `Yes?' she said.

  `Um,' Boamund replied. `Only, do you have to be a citizen to get advice, or . . .?' He bit his lip, obviously embarrassed. `You see, I'm not sure I qualify, because if a citizen's the same thing as what we call a burgher or a burgoys de roy, I'm not really one, being more your sort of knightly...'

  One of the maxims that had always guided Miss Cartwright in her job was that the good adviser always answers the correct question, which may not necessarily have been the question the enquirer originally asked. Focusing on the word `citizen', therefore, she reassured Boamund that the services of the Bureau were available to all, regardless of race, creed, nationality or colour, and it followed that you didn't have to be a British subject to use it.

  `Ah,' said Boamund after a while, `I think that's all right, then. Mind you,' he went on, `I don't think I am a, what you said, British subject, because I'm not British, I'm Albionese, and as for the other part I don't really think I'm a subject, more a sort of-'

  `What exactly was your enquiry?' asked Miss Cartwright. `Something to do with a form, was it?'

  Boamun
d said, `that's right.'

  Miss Cartwright looked at him. Sometimes you just have to guess. `Housing Benefit?' she asked, basing the assumption on the leather jacket. `Income Support?'

  `What's Income Support?'

  Now, said Miss Cartwright to herself, we're getting somewhere. She explained. She was used to explaining, and she did it quickly, clearly and concisely. When she had finished, there was no doubt that Boamund understood; but his reaction was - well, odd. it was as if he was surprised. Shocked even.

  `Really?' he said at last.

  `Yes,' said Miss Cartwright, breathing through her nose. `Do you wish to claim Income Support, Mr . . .?'

  Boamund's eyes showed that he was sorely tempted, but that his mother or someone like that had warned him about accepting money from strange woman. He shook his head. `It's this paper we've got,' he said. `We'd like someone to-'

  `A summons, maybe? A writ?'

  Boamund nodded. He knew all about summonses and writs. Summonses and writs were the only way things got done in Albion. If, for example, King Arthur wanted the windows cleaned, he issued a summons by the Herald of Arms challenging all the window-cleaners of Albion to meet under the town cross at Caerleon on midsummer day and elect a champion. Or if he wanted an extra pint of gold top instead of silver top, he'd leave a writ for the milk-knight.

  `Probably,' he said. `Have a look and see what you think.'

  From the inside pocket of his jacket he produced a thick parchment with what looked like a seal hanging off it. Miss Cartwright stared at it as if it were alive.

  `Um,' she said, and opened it.

  Some time later, she put it down and looked Boamund in the eye. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but there was something about this lunatic that gave her the horrible, creeping feeling that he was for real. You couldn't pretend to

  be as weird as that and still be convincing; it would be like trying to pretend you were dead.

  In circumstances like these, there is a well-established procedure. One finds the most junior member of staff and leaves him to get on with it. Miss Cartwright rose, smiled, asked Boamund if he'd mind waiting, and walked hurriedly into the inner office.

  `George,' she said, `be a love and see to that man in the leather jacket for me.'

  Oddly enough, George was grinning from ear to ear. `Sure,' he said. `Thanks.'

  As he jumped down from his chair and scampered across to the door, Miss Cartwright scratched her head and wondered. It was all very well, she said to herself, making a conscious effort to recruit handicapped and disabled people, but she still couldn't get used to working with someone who was only three foot four. You were always worried about, well, treading on him.

  Boamund was just starting to wonder what was going on when he caught sight of a dwarf coming out of the back office. He smiled. It had been the right place to come to after all.

  `Hello,' said the dwarf, `You're a knight, aren't you?'

  `Yes,' said Boamund.

  `It's not hard to tell,' replied the dwarf, `if you know what to look for. My name is Harelip, but you'd better call me George while there are people about. People can be very funny about names, Mr...'

  'Boamund,' said Boamund. `Look, we've got this document thing and we can't understand it.'

  `By we,' said George, `you mean . . .?I

  'Me and my Order,' Boamund said, `Knights of the Holy Grail.'

  George raised an eyebrow. `You don't say?' he said. `My great-uncle-to-the-power-of-thirty-seven was dwarf to a Sir Pertelope who was a Grail Knight.'

  `Still going strong,' Boamund assured him. `Fancy that.'

  `It's a small world,' George agreed. `Well,' he added, looking down at the gap between himself and the floor, `not as far as I'm concerned, obviously, but you know what I'm driving at. Can I see the document?'

  Boamund nodded and handed it over. George read it carefully, occasionally making notes on his scratch-pad. Finally he handed it back and smiled.

  `Fine,' he said. `Congratulations. So what's the problem?'

  Boamund blinked a couple of times. `Well, what does it mean, for a start?' he said.

  `Oh, I see,' said George, `I was forgetting, yes. I can see that to a knight it might present problems.'

  'So?'

  `So,' said George, `basically, it's a list of three things which you and your knights have got to find before you can hope to recover the Grail. They are an apron, a personal organiser like a sort of notebook - and a pair of socks. They're hidden in remote and inaccessible places. Okay so far?'

  Boamund nodded. He had the glorious feeling that at last things were getting back to normal.

  `There are cryptic clues as to where these things are to be found,' George went on, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist. `Now I'm not really allowed to help you too much . . .'

  `Why not?'

  `King's Regulations,' explained the dwarf. `However, I can drop hints.'

  `Such as?'

  `Such as...' replied the dwarf, and he went on to drop several very large hints. In fact, compared to the dwarf

  *Dwarves are, of course, naturally gifted at solving riddles, explaining conundrums, cracking codes and doing crossword puzzles. Partly, this is because they are, by their very nature, fey and uncanny creatures, much more at home inside the Glass Mountain than outside. The other reason is that, being too short to reach the pool table and too weak to be able to throw a dart, there's nothing else for them to do in the pub on their night off.

  Harelip's hints, the Speaking Clock is a paragon of obscurity.

  `I see,' said Boamund. `Right. Thanks.'

  `Don't mention it,' said the dwarf. `A pleasure. Remember me to Sir Pertelope. Tell him he owes my great-uncle-to-thepower-of-thirty-seven three farthings.'

  `How is your great-uncle-to-the-power-of-thirty-seven?'

  `Dead.'

  `I'm sorry to hear that.'

  `These things happen,' replied the dwarf. `Anyway, never mind. Could you just sign here?'

  From his inside pocket he produced an official-looking form.

  `What's that?' Boamund asked.

  `My discharge,' the dwarf replied happily. `You see, my family's been indentured to the Grail Knights for generations. We're obliged to do so many hours of service before the indenture is up. My great-uncle-to-the-power-of-thirty-seven had done all his time except for ten minutes when King Arthur abdicated and the Orders of Chivalry came to an end. We've been . . .' The dwarf shuddered slightly. `. . . hanging about ever since, waiting for an opportunity to get all square. And now, thanks to you, we can call it a day and retire. Lucky you came along, really.'

  `Very,' Boamund agreed, signing the form with a big X.

  `Or rather,' George said, `Destiny. Yours and mine. Ciao. Good hunting.'

  He folded the form, reclaimed his pen (which Boamund had absent-mindedly put in his pocket), bowed thrice to the Four Quarters and jumped off his chair. In the middle of the room, where just a moment ago there had been a display of Family Credit leaflets, the Glass Mountain appeared, blue and sparkling. A door slid open and the dwarf stepped in, waving.

  `Fancy that,' Boamund said, and smiled. The way he saw it, the world he was in now was a huge, muddled heap of inexplicable things with just the occasional glimpse of normality showing through. Still, it was nice to know it was still there really; important things, like Destiny and the Unseen. He was, deep down, a rational man and it would take a damn sight more than the odd microwave oven and radio alarm clock to get him really worried.

  He picked up the Instructions, smiled at a bucket-mouthed, gibbering Miss Cartwright, and left.

  `Right,' said Boamund.

  Leadership is a volatile, almost chimerical quality. The same aspects of a man's character that tend to make him a natural leader of men usually also conspire to make him an unmitigated pain. Comes, for example, who overthrew the fabulously powerful empire of Mexico with four hundred and fifty men, fifteen horses and four cannons, was an inspirational general, but that
didn't prevent his devoted followers from wincing in anticipation every time he rubbed his hands together, smiled broadly, and said, `All right, lads, this is going to be easier than it looks.' In Boamund's case, all his undoubted drive and energy couldn't make up for the fact that he prefaced virtually every statement he made by hitting the palm of one hand with the knuckles of the other and saying, `Right.' That, in the eyes of many of his men, was calculated to raise their morale to lynching-point.

  `The plan,' Boamund went on, `is this. We split up into three parties of two, we find these three bits of tackle, we bring them back, we find the Grail. Easy as that. Any questions?'

  `Yes,' said Lamorak. `Who's having the van?'

  `Which van?' interrupted Pertelope. `We've got two now, remember?'

  `No we haven't, you clown,' shouted Turquine. `I keep telling you-'

  `Shut up, you, you're dishonoured.'

  `Don't you tell me...'

  Boamund frowned. `Quiet!' he shouted, and banged the top of the orange box which had been brought in to replace the table. `If you'd been listening,' he went on, `it'd have sunk in that it's really academic who gets the van, since we're all of us going thousands of miles beyond the shores of Albion. The van is neither here nor-'

  `All right,' Lamorak replied, `except it's my turn, 1 haven't been dishonoured, so I think it's only fair...'

  Boamund sighed. `Nobody's getting the van,' he said. `All right?'

  There was a ripple of murmuring, the general sense of which was that so long as nobody had it, that would have to do. Boamund banged the orange box again.

  `Now then,' he said, `the next thing to do,' and he turned up the radiance of his smile to full volume, masking the disquiet in his heart, `is to decide who's going to go with who. Shut up!' he added, pre-emptively.

  The knights stared at him.

  `The pairings I've got in mind,' he said, `are: Lamorak and Pertelope; Turquine and Bedevere; me and Galahaut. Any objections?'

  He braced himself for the inevitable squall of discontent. It would, he reckoned, be school all over again. I'm not playing with him. We don't want him on our team. Wait for it . . .