by Tom Holt
‘What we need, then,’ said the King, ‘is a building.’
‘Down the tree, four spaces over, and that’s checkmate.’
The power-level in the computer wavered suddenly. The grim-faced man got up from his desk and banged on the side of the tank.
‘Any more of that,’ he said savagely, ‘and I’ll take that game off you.’
‘Sorry,’ chorused the pale glow inside the tank.
‘Well, all right, then,’ said the grim-faced man, ‘only let’s have less of it.’ He scowled and returned to his desk.
‘For two pins,’ said Prexz, ‘I’d run straight up his arm and electrocute him.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ replied Zxerp scornfully. ‘And, besides, he might have rubber soles on his shoes, and then where would you be?’
‘As I was saying,’ said Prexz through clenched teeth, ‘checkmate.’
‘Who cares?’ Zxerp stretched out his hand and knocked over his goblin to signify surrender. ‘What does that make the score?’
Prexz consulted the card. ‘That’s ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine sets and eight games to me, and four games to you.’
‘Inclusive?’
‘Exclusive,’ replied Prexz, making a mark on the card. ‘So I now need only one more game for one match point. You still have some work to do.’
‘I might as well concede, then,’ said Zxerp. He pressed his feet against the side of the tank and put his arms behind his head. ‘Then we can start again from scratch.’
‘Don’t be so damned pessimistic,’ replied Prexz. ‘A good match to win, I’ll grant you, but it’s still wide open.’
‘We should have brought draughts instead,’ yawned Zxerp. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘You’re always hungry. Is there any of that static left, or have you guzzled it all?’
‘Help yourself.’ There was a faint crackling noise and a few blue sparks. ‘That box of tricks over there fair takes it out of you,’ Zxerp went on. ‘I’ll need more than static to keep electron and neutron together if I’ve got to keep that thing going much longer.’
Prexz turned and glowered at the computer. It winked a green light at him, and started to print something out. Just then, Prexz felt a vibration in the wire running into his left ear. Zxerp could feel the same thing. He started to protest, but Prexz hissed at him to be quiet.
‘It’s coming in over the mains,’ he whispered.
‘Tastes all right,’ said Zxerp. ‘A bit salty perhaps . . .’
‘Don’t eat it, you fool, it’s a message.’
‘The old file-in-a-cake trick, huh?’
‘Something like.’ Prexz closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. ‘I think it’s the wizard.’
‘Kotkel?’ Zxerp leant forward.
‘He’s talking through the mains running into that machine we’re linked up to. Honestly, the things he thinks of.’
The two spirits lay absolutely still. ‘We’re going to try to get you out,’ they heard, ‘so be ready. But it won’t be easy. Don’t try to reply or you’ll blow the circuit. Bon appétit.’
‘Very tastefully put,’ said Zxerp, and he burped loudly.
The proprietor of the hotel gave Hildy a very strange look as she went past, and she could not blame him. After all, she had come in just under an hour ago with four strange-looking men and hired a room; and now they were all going away again. Still, it had been worth the embarrassment, for the wizard had managed to talk to the two captives via the shaver socket - how he had managed it she could not imagine - and they seemed to have received the message. The thing to do now was get away fast, just in case their message had been intercepted and traced.
The van was still where she had left it (why was she surprised by that? It was just an ordinary van parked in an ordinary street) and they all climbed in and drove off, entirely uncertain as to where they were going and why. The King was sitting in the back with the wizard and the shape-changer, and they were all deep in mystical discussion. But Arvarodd sat in the front, and he seemed to be in unusually good spirits.
‘Don’t you fret,’ he said, as they drove through Highgate. ‘We’ve been in worse fixes than this, believe you me.’
‘Such as?’ Hildy cast her mind back through the heroic legends of Scandinavia in search of some parallel, but the search was in vain. Usually, the old heroes had overcome their improbable trials with brute force or puerile trickery.
‘Offhand,’ said Arvarodd, remorselessly cheerful, ‘I can’t think. But it looks to me like a straightforward impregnable-fortress problem. Let’s not worry about it now.’
‘What’s gotten into you?’ Hildy asked gloomily. She found the words ‘straightforward’ and ‘impregnable fortress’ hard to reconcile.
‘You worry too much,’ Arvarodd replied, to Hildy’s profound irritation. ‘That’s what comes of not having faith in the King. That’s what kings are for, so people like you and me don’t have to worry.’
Hildy, who had been brought up to vote Democrat, objected to this.
‘The King doesn’t seem to realise—’ she started to say.
‘The King realises everything,’ said Arvarodd. ‘And, even if he doesn’t, who wants to know?’ The hero of Permia yawned and folded his arms. ‘If the King says, “Charge that army over there,” and you say, “Which one?” and he says, “The one that outnumbers us twentyfold in that superb natural defensive position just under that hill with the sheep,” then you do it. And if it works you say, “What a brilliant general the King is,” and if it doesn’t you go to Valhalla. Everyone’s a winner, really.’
‘That’s what you mean by a straightforward impregnable-fortress problem?’
‘Exactly. You have two options. You can work out a subtle stratagem to trick your way in, with an equally subtle stratagem to get you out again afterwards, or you can grab an axe and smash the door down. We call that the certain-death option. On the whole, it’s easier and safer than all the fooling about, but you have to go through the motions.’
‘So you think it’ll come to that?’ Hildy asked.
‘No idea,’ Arvarodd said. ‘Not my problem.’
After more petrol - if she collected enough tokens, Hildy wondered, could she get a Challenger tank, which really would be useful in the circumstances? - they parked in a side-road on the edge of Hampstead Heath and held a council of war.
‘The situation as I see it is this,’ said the King. ‘The tower, which would be unassailable even if we were in a position to attack it, which we aren’t, is guarded night and day. Our enemy has control of the two spirits, who are essential to us if we are to have any hope of survival, let alone success. Because of the risk of detection, and because detection would mean certain defeat at this stage, we cannot make a more detailed survey of the ground, so to all intents and purposes we know absolutely nothing about the tower, how to get into it or out of it. Again, because of the risk of detection, if we are going to do anything we must do it now. I am in the market for any sensible suggestions.’
‘Why not attack?’ Brynjolf said. ‘Then we could all go to Valhalla and have a good time.’
The wizard made a noise like worn-out disc brakes, and the King nodded. ‘The wizard says,’ translated the King, ‘that the cause is not yet hopeless, that courage and wisdom together can break stone and turn steel, and that we have a duty that is not yet discharged. Also, Valhalla is looking pretty run-down these days what with nobody going there any more, the towels in the bathrooms are positively threadbare, and he’s in no hurry. He says he has this on the authority of Odin’s ravens, Hugin and Munin, who bring him tidings every morning, and they should know. Anyone else?’
Before anyone could speak, the van was filled with a shrill whistling, and Hildy realised that it was coming from her bag. At first she thought it was her personal security alarm, but that went beep-beep and, besides, she had left it in St Andrews.
‘It’s the seer-stone,’ said Brynjolf, shouting to make himself heard.<
br />
‘You mean like a sort of bleeper?’ Hildy rummaged about and found the small blue pebble. It was warm again, and the noise was definitely coming from it. With great trepidation, she put it to her eye, and saw . . .
‘Really,’ Danny said, ‘we’ll come quietly.’
The police sergeant raised himself painfully on one elbow. ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ he groaned. ‘You said that the last time.’
‘You shouldn’t have tried to handcuff him,’ Danny said. ‘He didn’t like it.’
‘I gathered that,’ said the police sergeant, spitting out a tooth. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to go and call for reinforcements.’
‘Are you refusing to accept our surrender?’ said Ohtar angrily.
‘Yes,’ said the police sergeant. ‘I wouldn’t take it as a gift.’
‘Please yourself,’ Ohtar said, fingering a large stone. ‘The last person who refused to accept my surrender made a full recovery. Eventually.’
The police sergeant looked round at his battered and bleeding constables, and at the eight grim-faced salmon-poachers standing over them. It seemed that he had very little choice.
‘If you’re sure,’ he said.
‘We’re sure,’ said Ohtar impatiently. ‘We’ve got orders not to get into any trouble.’
‘It’s the others,’ Hildy said. ‘They’ve gotten into trouble.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
It is 520 miles from London to Bettyhill as the crow flies, but if the crow in question is a fully trained shape-changer in a hurry the journey takes just over two and a half hours.
Brynjolf perched on the window-sill of the police station and preened his ruffled feathers. Apart from turbulence over Derby and a nasty moment with a buzzard passing over Dornoch it had been an uneventful flight, and he knew that the tricky part of his mission still lay ahead of him. Cautiously he peered in through the window, and listened.
‘No, I don’t know who they are,’ the man in blue was saying, ‘but they beat the hell out of us. Maybe you should send up some water-cannon or something.’
The reply to this request was clearly not the one the man in blue was expecting, for he said, ‘Oh, very funny,’ and slammed the phone down. Brynjolf hopped away from the window-sill, spread his wings and floated away to consider what to do next.
Very tricky, he said to himself, and to assist thought he started to sharpen his beak on a flat stone. Shape-transformation is, however, only skin-deep, and he gave it up quickly. Getting the heroes out would be no problem in itself; it was one that they could handle easily by themselves. But getting them out inconspicuously, so as not to cause any further disturbance, would be difficult. He went through his mental library of relevant heroic precedent - heroes rescued by sudden storms, conveniently passing dragons, or divine intervention - but something told him that such effects might be counter-productive. The obvious alternative was the false-messenger routine, but that required a fair amount of local knowledge to be successful. He had no idea who the men in blue took their orders from, what they looked like or what identification would be needed. He had almost decided to turn himself into the key of the cell door and have done with it when he thought of what should have been the obvious solution: the duplex confusion routine or Three-Troll Trick.
First he turned himself into a fly and crawled into the building through a keyhole in the back door. Once inside, he buzzed tentatively round until he had located the cell where the prisoners were being held. It was a small cell and they all looked profoundly uncomfortable. Then he made a second trip and counted up the number of men in blue. There were only three of them; just the right number.
The Three-Troll Trick, so called because trolls fall for it every time, is essentially very simple. The shape-changer simply waits until only one of the gaolers is supervising the prisoners; then he turns himself into an exact facsimile of one of the other gaolers and, claiming to have received instructions from a higher authority, releases the prisoners, who get away as best they can. He then disappears, and leaves the other gaolers to discover the error and beat the pulp out of the one they believe has betrayed their trust. In a more robust age, the presumed traitor would not survive to clarify the misunderstanding; even if things had changed drastically over the years, Brynjolf reckoned, the mistake would still be put down to administrative confusion and quietly covered up. He set to work, and as usual the system worked flawlessly. The real gaoler lent him his key to the cell, the door swung open, and the heroes, looking rather sullen, trooped out.
What Brynjolf had overlooked was the fact that nearly three hours’ confinement in a cramped cell, with Angantyr keeping up a constant stream of funny remarks, had not improved Bothvar Bjarki’s temper, which was at the best of times chronically in need of all the improvement it could get. Also, Brynjolf had inadvertently chosen to impersonate the policeman who had been foolish enough to aim a blow at Bothvar’s head just before the fight started. So when Brynjolf, acting out his part to the full, shoved Bothvar Bjarki in the back and said, ‘Move it, you,’ in his best gaoler’s snarl it was inevitable that Bothvar should wheel round and thump him very hard on the chin. It was also inevitable that Brynjolf, who had never really liked Bothvar because of his habit of paring his toenails with an axe-blade when everyone else was eating, should forget that he was playing a part, revert to his own shape, and return the blow with interest. The fact that he rematerialised with three extra arms was pure reflex.
Brynjolf realised in a moment what he had done, but by then it was too late. The other two men in blue had come rushing up when they heard the commotion, and they were standing open-mouthed and staring.
‘That,’ Bothvar said as he picked himself up from the ground, ‘is what comes of trying to be clever.’
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Brynjolf replied. The three policemen, guessing who he meant to deal with first, made a run for the door, but the massive bulk of Starkad Storvirksson was in the way. After a one-sided scuffle, the policemen landed in a heap on the ground, and Starkad, remembering his manners, shut the door.
‘Here,’ said a voice from the back of the room, ‘let me deal with this.’
Brynjolf turned and looked for the source. ‘Is he one of them?’ he asked, pointing to Danny Bennett.
‘No,’ said Ohtar, ‘he’s that sorcerer from the van, when you turned into an eagle.’
‘Him,’ Brynjolf exclaimed. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘We found him on the fells,’ said Angantyr, putting a tree-like arm round his new friend’s shoulders. ‘Strange bloke. Eats a lot, very fond of seagull. But he’s on our side now. You’ll sort it all out for us, won’t you?’ And he slapped Danny warmly on the back, nearly breaking his spine.
Danny stepped forward and bent over the policemen.
‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘there’s been a slight misunderstanding. ’
‘You don’t say,’ said the sergeant.
‘You see,’ Danny continued, ‘my - my friends here weren’t poaching salmon. Like me, I’m sure they’re firmly opposed to bloodsports of every sort.’ The sergeant laughed faintly, but Danny ignored him. ‘In fact they’re part of a team investigating a massive conspiracy to undermine democracy. Really, we need your help.’
The sergeant was curiously unmoved by this appeal. He groaned and rolled over on to his face. Danny sighed; he was used to this obstructive attitude from policemen.
‘If it’s all right by you,’ he said, ‘I’ll just go through and use your phone.’ He stepped over them and left the room.
‘Is that all sorted out, then?’ said Angantyr. ‘No hard feelings?’ One of the policemen raised his head and nodded. ‘Good,’ said Angantyr. ‘We’ll just tie you up and then we’ll get out from under your feet.’
Meanwhile, Danny had got through to his boss in London.
‘What the hell are you doing up there?’ said his boss. ‘I’ve just had a very strange call from a film crew who claim to have been beaten up by lunatics and
stranded on a deserted hillside. They also said you’d wandered off and died of exposure. I think they’re claiming compensation for bereavement because of it.’
‘Listen,’ Danny said, ‘I haven’t much time.’
‘Oh, no,’ said his boss. ‘You’re not being followed by the Wet Fish Board again, are you? I thought we’d been through all that.’
‘It’s not the Wet Fish Board, it’s—’ Danny checked himself. The important thing was to stay calm. ‘I’m on to something really big this time.’
‘Whatever you’re on,’ said his boss, ‘it can’t be legal.’
‘This story’s got everything,’ Danny continued. ‘Multinationals, nuclear power, spiritualism, ley lines, the lot.’
‘Animals?’
Danny thought of the eagle that had wrecked his van. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there’s a definite wildlife angle. Also ecology and police brutality.’
The boss was silent for a moment. ‘This has nothing at all to do with milk?’
‘This is bigger than milk,’ Danny said. ‘This is global.’
Something told Danny that his lord and master wasn’t convinced. Desperately, he played his ace.
‘You don’t want to miss out on this one,’ he said. ‘Like when you didn’t run the thing about that little girl’s pet hamster getting lost inside Porton Down, and the opposition got it. Got her own series in the end, didn’t she?’
‘All right,’ said Danny’s boss. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘What took you so long?’
The crow flopped wearily off the roof of the van, and perched on the King’s wrist.
‘Lost my way, didn’t I?’ it muttered, folding its rain-drenched wings. ‘My own silly fault. Next time I go as a pigeon.’ The crow disappeared and was replaced by an exhausted shape-changer.
‘Well?’ said the King, offering him the enchanted lager-can. Brynjolf swallowed a couple of mouthfuls and wiped his mouth with the end of his beard.
