Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  The old man chuckled.

  “You are right, in a way. The Candidate is actually about your age but has a lot of growing up to do.”

  “Ha! I knew it! You have found him.”

  The old man steepled his hands and gave The Pan a long, appraising stare.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, without breaking eye contact. “I think I have.”

  The Pan looked away quickly; it was good to find out he was right but he didn’t want to go any further and risk getting involved. He feared he’d given something of himself away.

  “Well if you have, he’s ...” He stopped. “Is it a he?”

  “Yes, it’s a he.”

  “Right, well, he’s not going to be around long. People who oppose Lord Vernon have a short shelf life.”

  The old man’s gold tooth flashed as he smiled again.

  “Not everyone. One person stubbornly refuses to lie down and die,” he said, giving The Pan a knowing wink.

  “You mean me?” The old man nodded. “Oh no! I didn’t oppose him, I merely got in his way once. These days, I do my best to keep out of it.”

  “Exactly, and you are highly successful. In his eyes, you are nothing, he should be able to wipe you out at a stroke, but try as he might, he can’t. It makes your existence all the greater an outrage. It rankles his pride. It’s that which fuels his hatred.” The old boy seemed almost proud of him and though wary, The Pan couldn’t help but feel pleased. “Then—although he doesn’t know—you are also a member of that other thorn in his side, the Mervinettes. He can’t catch them either and it must be down to you—that’s why you are the best man for the job.”

  For what job? The Pan ran his hands through his hair. He didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. There’d been an undercurrent all along and at some point soon the old man was going to ask him for help. He was not a joiner-in-er, never had been, and he wasn’t about to start now.

  “It all started when Lord Vernon and I had an accidental collision and I’m not sure avoidance and opposition are quite the same,” he said. “If you’re talking about opposition, I’m definitely not the man for the job. I don’t do bravery.”

  “You don’t have to be brave, all I’m talking about is doing what you do already,” said the old man. “The final artefact is safe, for now, in the only place the Grongles would never look; but if Lord Vernon finds out where it is, which I believe is highly likely, he will seize it. I cannot allow that to happen, I must ratify the Candidate and unite all the resisting factions behind him. Unless I can do that we will remain divided, the Grongles will rule forever and civilisation will come to an end. We have to get to it before Lord Vernon does and the only way we can do that is to arrange a bank heist.”

  It figured. It so figured. The Pan knew he would be asked for a favour. No. He doubted Big Merv would rob to order.

  “There are four of us and I don’t decide which jobs we do. I’m the getaway man, that’s all.”

  “Big Merv listens to you.”

  “Not in the conventional sense. He trusts my escape instincts; that’s not the same as trusting me. As for the other two—”

  “All I am asking is a small favour; that when you are planning your next robbery, you mention the job in passing.”

  The Pan thought for a moment.

  “Look, I can’t guarantee anything, but because you’re a friend of Gladys and Ada, I’ll ask. Which bank and which branch?”

  “The Grongles have no idea it’s there and it’s the last place they’d look. The unfortunate thing is, what with the Grongles being the way they are, it’s also the last place we can look—it’s in the Bank of Grongolia.”

  There was a loud spluttering noise as The Pan choked on his Calvados. The old man walked over to him and patted him on the back. By the time he had finished he was seeing stars.

  “Do you mean the Bank of Grongolia, on their home continent, in their capital city?” asked The Pan when he was finally able to speak.

  It was more than secure; non-Grongles weren’t allowed in.

  “Of course,” said the old man, “where else? I told you it was safe.”

  “No,” said The Pan flatly, “it would be suicide.”

  “If anyone can achieve this, it’s you and the Mervinettes,” said the old man.

  “No chance.” The old man showed such disappointment that The Pan felt almost hard-hearted practising what was, after all, only common sense. “Look,” he held his hands out, palms upwards in his stock ‘c’est la vie’ gesture. “I don’t mean to be difficult but you have to understand there is no way in a million years that I can commit any bank robbery without Big Merv, Frank and Harry, and there is absolutely no way in the lifetime of this entire universe that any sane being—and I like to count both myself and my colleagues as sane, here—would attempt robbery of the Bank of Grongolia. It’s—It’s—” The Pan waved one hand expansively, “only an idiot would attempt it.”

  “Exactly. So they’d never expect it,” said the old man.

  “No, you don’t understand. It wouldn’t work,” said The Pan. “Not only would we fail, we would all die. What good would that do? Anyway,” he held up the thimble, “what about this? If you can just reach into your cellar through one of these and pull out a bottle of Gladys’ Calvados, what’s to stop you reaching into the vaults of the Bank of Grongolia and doing your own dirty work?”

  “Life is never quite that straightforward, my boy,” said the old man solemnly. “Were I to try, even with a portal as powerful as that,” he gestured to the thimble in The Pan’s hand, “I could not reach everywhere I wished—many places are inaccessible even to me. The Bank of Grongolia is one of them.”

  “Well there’s a coincidence,” retorted The Pan, “the Bank of Grongolia isn’t accessible to me, either—small world isn’t it?”

  “It would be a brave and noble action.”

  “Maybe, but I told you before, I’m not brave or noble.”

  The old man fixed him with another penetrating stare.

  “I believe you are,” he said quietly.

  The Pan shook his head. He felt awkward and embarrassed and he knew he was blushing.

  “You have me all wrong,” he said sadly.

  “Yet in time, I am confident you will prove me right,” said the old man. “You don’t have to commit yourself to anything at this stage. I’m merely asking you to speak to Big Merv and persuade him to talk to me.”

  Despite his disbelief The Pan couldn’t help smiling. The old boy was certainly persistent.

  “You’re barking mad aren’t you? Or is it simply that you don’t know Big Merv? He’s a Swamp Thing and as if that isn’t enough, he’s orange instead of green; can you imagine the size of the chip on his shoulder? If you thought the average Swamp Thing was sensitive about his appearance, try meeting Big Merv! He makes Denarghi and his Resistance cronies look laid back—he makes Grongles look shy and retiring.”

  “They are brave and honourable creatures, though.”

  “There you go again always expecting the best in people,” The Pan sighed. “You realise he’ll never agree to it don’t you? He’ll probably kill me for even suggesting something this dumb.”

  “Killing you would be a dreadful waste of his prize asset,” said the old man. “Would you rather I hired somebody else to work with you—the Resistance, for instance? You seem to know all about them and I’m sure Denarghi would be happy to assist us. I expect I could arrange for them to liaise with you, direct, if I gave them your address.”

  Unbelievable. The unspeakable, low-down, cheek!

  “Are you blackmailing me?” asked The Pan. The old man said nothing.

  The conversation had taken an unreal turn in the last few minutes and he was finding it difficult to appreciate what was being said. It was as if he was watching it happen to somebody else. Part of him, the sensible bit, was telling him he should be angry with the old man but another more reckless aspect of his personality was thinking what the heck,
everyone has to die sometime, right? He was tired of running away, perhaps it was time he got himself shot and put an end to it. Anyway, there was no such thing as a one hundred per cent probability. The Pan knew that the Mervinettes were the only ones who could do this job. In theory, if they agreed, they could ask the old man for a lot of money. It meant he could, possibly, ask for an introduction fee on top. Somewhere, in some version of space and time, the robbery had to succeed. If it did, and The Pan was right, the Mervinettes would all be rich beyond their wildest dreams. He would be able to buy himself a new identity and live a normal life. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea to gamble everything on one world-beating heist.

  “You are blackmailing me, aren’t you?” he said again, just to check.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I knew it. I don’t suppose I get a chance to say no, do I?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t afford to give you that option.”

  The Pan nodded.

  “How could I tell you were going to say something like that?” It was amazing what a levelling effect a police state had on the most upright of citizens. He was supposed to be the criminal here, so it was surprising to have the moral high ground over an old boy who was clearly a senior holy man.

  “You’re a Nimmist and I’d stake my life you’re a lot higher up the tree than priest—yet you’re blackmailing me into certain death,” he said. “Isn’t that a little unethical?”

  “Yes it is, but in the light of what’s at stake, I think I can bend the rules. If you do this thing, the entire civilised world will thank you. If you turn your back on us now, within two years there may not be any civilisation left. Grongolian world domination—is that what you want?”

  “Er, isn’t that what we already have?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Seriously. Why me? What have I done to deserve this?”

  “You are ... important.”

  The Pan stared at him. There was more to this than his visitor was letting on, that much was obvious.

  “Important,” he repeated, “don’t think flattery will change my mind.” It might, of course, but he didn’t want to show it. “Why am I important?”

  “You’ll know soon enough—here’s a clue though, it’s to do with your refusal to give up and be captured. They can’t catch you unless you let them,” said the old man.

  “No. They can catch me. They haven’t succeeded yet, that’s all. Anyway, if I’m so important wouldn’t you be wiser to keep me alive?”

  “If you are the man I think you are, you’ll keep yourself alive,” said the old man. The Pan sighed, the poor old boy had clearly lost his grip on reality.

  “I’m not indestructible you know,” he leaned forward on his chair. “Look. There’s something you need to understand about me and it’s this: I’m a coward. Brave people get clobbered because they go sticking their necks out, looking for trouble. I’m not lucky or alive because I’m brave and clever, I’m alive because I’m too scared to end up dead.” How could he explain this in a way that would make the old man understand? “Do you not see the difference? When trouble comes, I run the other way. I’m not here because I stand and fight, I’m here because I run.”

  “And when there’s nowhere left to run to?” asked the old man.

  “There’s always somewhere,” said The Pan with far more conviction than he felt.

  “No-one can run forever. Not even you. One day, soon, you will have no choice but to stand and fight your corner.”

  “Oh no! Absolutely not. I don’t do fisticuffs.”

  “I’m not talking about physical violence. I’m talking about being who you are, sticking up for yourself, for once, and for what you believe in.”

  “Again, I think you are confusing me with a man of courage and principle. Don’t let my suave exterior fool you,” said The Pan.

  “You don’t fool me for a minute, my boy and be advised, your ‘exterior’ is far from suave.”

  The Pan laughed, bitterly.

  “I am aware of that. I was being sarcastic.”

  “You’ll be paid handsomely for your trouble.”

  “Mmm. Every man has his price. The question is, can you afford me?” A round of Gladys’ cheese and pickle sandwiches would have bought him, but the old man wasn’t to know and he wasn’t about to let on.

  “How about the installation of all known optional extras on your own, personal snurd?”

  “I’ve already taken care of that.”

  “Of course yes. The proceeds from the sale of the ring worn by forty generations of Architraves, a potent symbol of power, now in the hands of the charlatan who wishes to seize it.”

  “Quite.” The Pan raised one eyebrow, “No need to rub it in—you want my help, after all. If you want me to be nice to you, you have to be nice to me.”

  “Don’t get antsy with me,” said the old man. “We both know you have no choice in this matter.” His tone of voice was stern, but his eyes were smiling again. “Alright then, how about the installation of all available optional extras on your snurd, including those which are not common knowledge?”

  Wow! That sounded brilliant! Better play it cool though. The Pan folded his arms and tried to appear belligerent. “And a new identity?” added the old boy, hopefully.

  Ah. It seemed he was susceptible to guilt. That was handy.

  “Now you’re talking. And ...?”

  The old man looked taken aback.

  “I told you I was very expensive,” said The Pan, “and don’t forget, I have a lot of persuading to do. My colleagues will take a great deal of convincing.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll make it worth their while.” There was that worrying word ‘we’ again.

  “How worth their while?” asked The Pan, glancing down at the bag of loot the old man had taken from him earlier and eyeing him knowingly.

  “Not that worth their while,” the old man smiled, “but you can keep the thimble if you wish.”

  There was a result.

  “Thank you,” said The Pan, trying to appear calm and unconcerned and failing, dismally, to hide his delight.

  “On one condition,” said the old man, “try to use it for something a little more constructive than—”

  “I know,” said The Pan, “ogling a girl.”

  “Exactly.” He stood up and, to The Pan’s disappointment, he remembered to pick up the bag of loot. “Well, I must be going now,” he said, “let me know how you get on with Big Merv.”

  “Er, yes,” said The Pan hesitantly. If Big Merv reacted the way he thought, he doubted he’d be alive to tell the old man anything. “Is there a timescale on this ludicrous mission?”

  The old man thought for a moment.

  “Well now, I understand you will have to pick your moment, but we need to move quickly. Is three months long enough?”

  “Three months is fine,” said The Pan gratefully. From the way the old man had been talking he’d been expecting a deadline of three days. Clearly the Nimmists had a more relaxed approach to timescales than anyone else. “If I manage to put this idea to Big Merv and survive, how will I contact you? I mean, I don’t know where you live.”

  “No,” said the old man, “I know where you live, though, don’t I?” He winked, “I’ll see you around.”

  The Pan stood up and made to escort him downstairs to the front door.

  “No, no my boy, don’t worry. I’ll let myself out,” he said, and was gone.

  Chapter 37

  Late at night. Or should that be, early in the morning?

  Ruth Cochrane was not asleep, or in bed. She was walking home and as she did so, she was having an attack of paranoia.

  Yes, she told herself, it was paranoia, but even so, she was beginning to think she was being followed. As she listened to wind rustling the leaves in the trees, she thought she heard something else: footsteps. Well, this was a city and other people would be making their way home, even at this time of night. Except ... She stopped and pretended to
fiddle with the heel of her shoe. It meant she could bend down and give the road behind her a thorough check while, at the same time, being ready to leap up and sprint away if she saw anything scary.

  The footsteps behind her stopped. She checked the road. Nope. Nothing.

  Casting her mind back over the day’s events she tried to decide in her own mind whether or not she was imagining things. The day had started well. Recession apart, her company had bagged a new account, a massive one. They wanted an executive to work on it, reporting to Ruth’s two favourite colleagues, and now she had completed four of her six months’ training they wanted Ruth to be that executive. Wahoo! She’d finally made it off the bottom rung. They were promoting her, giving her a pay rise and most importantly, the MD was advertising for a new secretary. She’d been walking on air all day and then, as if that wasn’t good enough, she had been out for a great night, a friend’s birthday dinner followed by a trip to a comedy club.

  It was way past midnight when the show finished but because the moon was as bright and clear as the street lights, Ruth had decided to walk home. It was only two miles or so, twenty or thirty minutes if that, mostly through respectable, well-lit neighbourhoods and half of it would be with a friend of the friend who lived in Bayswater, anyway. She would have bet any money that when she and the other girl set out, there was no-one in pursuit. They walked part of the way home together and after they’d parted company she realised she was too late for the tube and still too far away from the stop to make a run for the hourly night bus. She turned left into Little Venice. She’d slowed, admiring the big houses and generally enjoying the fact that she lived in such a huge metropolis. Yep, he must have picked her up somewhere there.