by Tom Holt
And also—
A thought burst into flower in her mind, beautiful and terrible. But why not? She’d come here, after all, to make money, preferably without having to stare at too many ceilings. And this idea was an absolute peach.
“Maybe,” she said, “you’re looking at it the wrong way.”
“Oh?” Drain turned the tin opener over and squinted at it from underneath. “Sorry, you’ll have to explain. What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“This whole issue,” she said, taking it gently away from him and putting it down on the kitchen table. “The cheap goods thing. I mean, why should it be a problem?”
“Are you kidding?” The point of his nose had gone bright red. “If these China people are going to start bringing their goods here to sell—”
“Ah.” she smiled. “You’re afraid because they can make things cheaper and better than your workers can, so they’ll all be out of a job.”
“Yes.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
There was an interval—about two seconds—when his mouth opened and closed but no words came out. Then he roared, “Are you—?”
“Back home,” she said calmly, “we call it outsourcing. Why pay five silver pennies to have something made here by expensive, truculent workers who don’t know when they’re well off, when you can get the same thing run up by smiling, obedient, grateful primitives for a penny three-farthings? Then, suppose you normally sell one for ninepence. You can cut the price to eightpence, which means you sell more, and still make a much bigger profit. Now that’s smart.” she smiled. “That’s the sort of thinking that’s made my homeland the sort of place it is today.”
He had that sort of bewildered look on his face; the sort that can’t make its mind up whether the rosy glow in the sky is a bright new dawn or the end of the world. “But that’s crazy,” he said. “I’m King of the Dwarves, I’m responsible for them. I can’t just throw the whole lot of them out of work, simply to make money.”
“Of course not,” she said soothingly. “That would be very naughty. So, you find them other things to do instead.”
Drain blinked. “Such as?”
“Oh, there’s loads of things. Information technology, financial services, entertainment, hospitality and tourism. All very worthwhile and fulfilling, and so much better than toiling away in a dirty old factory all day, or being stuck down a mine. We made the changeover years ago, and you wouldn’t believe how happy and content everyone’s been ever since. You’ll be Drain the Great before you know it. Statues of you all over the place.”
She watched him think. It was like observing speeded-up tectonic shift; huge masses of preconceived ideas colliding and forming mountains or sinking for ever beneath the oceans. “And these China people would sell us the stuff—?”
“No problem.”
“How would they get it here?”
“Oh, I can see to all that,” she said, as if undertaking to pick up a few groceries on her way to the office. “You wouldn’t have to be involved at all.”
A flicker of suspicion, which died away. “Really?”
“Sure. For a small percentage, naturally. But, yes, I can make all the necessary arrangements.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
Yes, she thought, but not too hard. “Of course. Take your time. I don’t suppose there’s any real risk of anybody else getting the same idea and beating you to it.” She paused and smiled. “The Elves, say, or even the goblins. You think about it as long as you like.”
There are worse things than goblins, so the proverb says, in the dark places of the Earth.
Goblins, naturally, resent that and regard it as a slur on their bad name. Mordak’s predecessor took it so much to heart that he had posters put up on the walls of the lower galleries: Your Worst Nightmare, and Nothing’s As Bad, with his portrait, in full regalia, drinking from the skull of his mortal enemy. That was fine, people said they brightened the place up; but then they started to disappear. Either they were removed completely or else torn down, ripped diagonally across by some sharp instrument, just conceivably an enormous claw. At the time it was put down to some of the lads larking about, and nobody thought very much about it.
That would have been around the time when the dwarves suspended mining operations in some of their lower galleries. Flooding, they said; subsidence, geological instability, and, besides, the seams down there are so thin they aren’t worth the bother. All perfectly reasonable explanations, and no reason whatsoever not to take them at face value. As for worse things than goblins—too right, the dwarves say with a merry laugh, there’s King Drain’s socks for a start, you really wouldn’t want to be trapped in a deep hole in the ground with those things; and then they change the subject.
And besides, even if there were any truth in the rumours, which there isn’t, needless to say, who in his right mind would want to go that far down anyway? It’s below the coal and the iron ore, you’d be chipping your way through solid rock and nothing worth having to show for it. Waste of time and energy. Why go down needlessly when there’s still plenty of sideways left for everyone? No, only a complete and utter halfwit—
Pat Lushington pulled back the cloth, embroidered with strange sigils, that covered the Eye of Snorgoth, folded it neatly and gave the Eye a tap with her knuckle. No dice. The milk-white crystal globe was still cloudy, nothing but swirly white bits, just like the Christmas ornaments of her youth that you shook to make a snowstorm. “Bloody thing,” she muttered under her breath.
You were supposed to be able to get video as well as sound on these contraptions, but she hadn’t managed it yet. The agent, when taxed with its inefficiencies, tended to mutter you’re six hundred feet under a mountain, you can’t expect perfect reception, whereupon she’d read him the bit about it in the brochure, guaranteed to work flawlessly under any conditions. Call that flawless, she’d say, and he’d go all quiet.
“Hello?” she said.
She felt such a fool, saying hello to a glorified goldfish bowl. In theory, it was supposed to connect you instantaneously to anyone you wanted to talk to, anytime, anywhere. In practice, you had to chirrup at it pleadingly for half an hour, and then if you were lucky you’d get through to somebody, usually some crazy old man who cackled fiendishly and asked you to speak up, and then maybe he’d put you through or maybe the stupid thing would just glow bright green at you, in which case the best thing to do was put the cover back on, leave it for an hour and try again later. All in all, she wasn’t pleased. It was easier and more reliable than broadband, but once you’d said that, you’d said it all.
Today, though, her luck was in. The ball went coal-black, and then filled with a single luminous red eye, its pupil like the filament of a light bulb. It stared straight at her, and she had the uneasy feeling it was trying to look down the front of her dress, even though it was on the table and she was standing up.
“Hello,” she repeated.
Speak.
“I’m trying to get hold of a plumber,” she said, “because we’ve got this terrible banging noise in the pipes somewhere, but the little man who came out the last time was completely useless, and he hasn’t been back since, so I need someone reliable who actually knows what he’s doing, because if I have to spend another night in this place with that ghastly noise going on, I’m going to go loopy. Hello? Are you there?”
I am here.
She waited. Nothing. “Well?”
You seek a plumber.
“Yes.”
What is a plumber?
She sighed. “Look, no offence, but is there someone else I can talk to, like the supervisor? Um, puis-je parler avec votre superieur? Por favor?”
The red eye blinked. My superior.
“If you don’t mind.”
I have no superior. I am not of the body. I am not of Time. I am alone.
The night shift, she might have known. Sorry, there’s no one here, I’ll leave a note for them to call
you in the morning. She’d heard that before. “Look, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to do. I need a plumber. Our hot-water system no work, make bangy-bang noises. Plumber man with bag of tools, he come fix. Savee?”
You seek a wizard.
“What? Oh, for crying out—yes, I seek a wizard. A wizard who can come and stop those bloody pipes making that bloody awful noise. You send one? Chop chop, wiggle wiggle?”
I was a wizard once. I will come.
She sighed. “Thank you, so bloody much. Arividerci. Bye.”
She grabbed the cloth and slung it over the globe, and the red light instantly went out. She sat down, kicked off her shoes and poured herself a drink. Why did everything in this horrible place have to be so difficult?
Barry wandered in, looking vexed. “Have you seen my pliers?”
“Half an hour,” she replied, not looking up. “Half an hour to get through to a call centre, and they may be sending a plumber but I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
“Mphm. Have you seen my pliers?”
“No. What pliers?” She poured herself another drink. “What are you up to, anyway?”
“Me? Nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not trying to fix it yourself, are you?”
He had the grace to look guilty. “I thought I’d take a quick look.”
“You promised.” She rolled her eyes. “After the last time, we agreed. No more DI bloody Y, if something’s wrong, we call in a professional. Get it done properly.”
He always got angry when he was in the wrong. “I’m just looking at it.”
“With pliers.”
“There’s no point spending good money if it’s something minor I can fix myself.”
“No.” She folded her arms at him.
“I’m perfectly capable of doing a simple little—”
She shook her head. “It’s bad enough with the banging. Think about it, Baz, we’re underground. If you break something and it floods, we could drown.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to—”
“You said that the last time.”
At this point, he was supposed to shout, flounce off and leave her in peace. Instead he went sort of cold and calm. “You said you can’t get a plumber.”
“They’re sending one.”
“Don’t hold your breath, you said.”
He was getting cunning in his old age. Also, he was listening to her when she spoke to him; a new departure for him, so presumably he’d figured out that if he listened he could occasionally pick up things that could be used in evidence against her. She’d have to watch that. “For the last time, Baz, you’re not to go tinkering. Got that?”
“Fine.” He did the big shrug. He had the shoulders for it, bless him. “Only, I don’t want to hear any more about not being able to sleep because of the banging. Fair enough?”
“They said they’d send a plumber. Well, that’s not what they actually said, but as good as.”
“I do not tinker,” he said coldly. “I do household maintenance.”
She sighed. In theory, they could be trained to perform simple tasks, but you wouldn’t want them let loose where you live. Meanwhile, the weather forecast was for heavy sulks blowing in from the north-east. Life, she decided, is too short. What the hell. She could swim. “Tell you what,” she said. “We’ll give them till Thursday, and if the plumber hasn’t shown up by then, you can take a look at it. All right?”
“Today’s Thursday.”
He could well be right. It was so easy to lose track, stuck in this miserable hole in the ground. “Next Thursday.”
“Suit yourself. Only, like I said, no more whining about the banging noise. All right?”
She could agree to that with a clear conscience, because she never whined. She expressed herself clearly and with feeling, which is different. “Whatever.”
“Fine. I think I’ll go up to the workshop for a bit.”
She smiled vaguely at him, and he went away. Workshop; bless him. All that expensive carpentry stuff he never used. He’d probably have a drink and read the paper. And why not? The paper, of course, would be six weeks old, but he liked the ritual. It reminded him of—
She caught herself just in time. I will not feel nostalgic for home. Which isn’t home anymore, because this is. Home, I mean England, is a noisy, smelly place where we used to live in a rabbit hutch surrounded by feral youths and litter, and everything was a rip-off, and it was only marginally easier to get a plumber, and when he did turn up he only spoke Lithuanian. And we’re far better off here, I mean, we’ve got space, we’ve got miles of space, literally; vast echoing halls that make the temples of ancient Egypt look like a bungalow, which is what we always wanted. Isn’t it?
She picked up her drink and walked through the long gallery to the pool. Something else they’d always wanted and knew they could never have back home, an indoor pool. She sat down and closed her eyes, listening to the faint drip-dripping noises. And not just a pool; a huge pool, so big it had an island in the middle, with that big fern thing. Only film stars and MPs could afford pools with islands in them, back home. No, they’d done the right thing, no question about that.
Funny; she couldn’t feel a draught, but the fronds of the fern thing looked like they were stirring slightly. She frowned. Maybe the third drink hadn’t been such a good idea. She really ought to keep an eye on that. But it was so easy, especially now she didn’t have to drive anywhere; one little drink, and then another, and you don’t even notice that you’ve poured a third one.
She decided she didn’t like the fern thing. It was big and thick and ugly, and there were times when it had a distinctly creepy look about it, as though it was watching you. Right, she decided. As soon as we can get a reliable gardener, it’s coming out, and we’ll have a nice flowerbed there instead, bedding plants and maybe a couple of standard roses.
It was almost as though the fern thing had read her mind, because its fronds—if you could call them that; more like nasty big green tubes—definitely waved a bit, and if it had had fingers she knew what gesture it’d have been making. Same to you, too, fern thing. In fact—she looked down, and there was a stone, a bit of rock crumbled off something, God, this place really does need some work doing or one day it’s going to fall down. She picked up the stone and threw it at the fern thing, but it fell short and went splash in the water. Screw you, fern, she muttered under her breath, and closed her eyes. Just resting them for a second. Sleepy.
She woke up out of a dream, in which a boy she hadn’t seen for thirty years and whose name escaped her was tickling her ankles. She opened her eyes and blinked, then looked down at her feet. A frond from the damn fern was lying next to them, its revolting little pale green tendrils just touching her feet. She jumped up and stamped on it. How the hell had it got there? She looked and saw that it had come up out of the water. Yuck. It’d have to go. Otherwise it’d be like the Collingwoods and their Russian vine, which got in everywhere and did thousands of pounds’ worth of damage to the foundations.
Wearily she clumped back up the stairs, pulled the cloth off the stupid crystal ball thing and waited for it to go black. Oh, come on, she thought, that’s not right, it’s taking longer and longer to get started, probably needs an upgrade or a reboot or whatever. “Hello,” she said. “Hello?”
The red eye was back. What joy.
You again.
Her sentiments exactly. “Oh, hello,” she said. “Look, I need a gardener. Man who pulls up weeds. Comprendez?”
“This is serious,” Tinituviel said. “You need to do something.”
Mordak nodded. “Yes, right,” he mumbled. “Soon as I’ve got five minutes.”
She had a wonderful knack of choosing her moments. He’d climbed all the way up to the top of the Dark Pinnacle in the hope of having five minutes’ peace so he could really think things through, and suddenly there she was, nagging, telling him to do something. And the trouble was, when she was in this mood, s
he simply wouldn’t take yes for an answer.
“You should have seen the stuff they’ve got there,” she went on. “Amazing.”
“Jolly good. I mean, well done.”
“Which is bizarre,” she went on, “because they’re primitives, just like other humans, maybe worse. I mean, they cook outside over an open fire, so obviously concepts like chimneys are way too advanced for them, but in other respects they’re quite terrifyingly advanced.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh yes. You should see their weapons.”
The W word snagged his attention. “Weapons?”
“Never seen anything like it.”
“Spears? Swords? Axes?”
She was frowning. “He called them clubs,” she said, “but they looked like a sort of precision poleaxe to me. Cross between a poleaxe and a halberd, but without the spike. Nasty piece of work. I would guess you need a lot of skill to use it, but the damage it could do—”
“Without the spike.”
“But with a really carefully contoured slanting blade. He started to explain, but it was a bit technical. Impact velocities and mass transfers. They obviously take it very seriously.”
Mordak looked at her. “You did say,” he conceded, “if they can make a superior egg whisk, they might well have superior weapons.”
“And I was right. But that’s just for starters. Mordak, I’m worried.”