by Tom Holt
The admission, and the use of his actual name, correctly pronounced, made him sit up straight. “What?”
She came a bit closer and lowered her voice a little. “I think they may have one of the lost Stones.”
He whistled softly. “You’re kidding.”
She glowered at him. “It’s not something to joke about,” she said. “If I’m right, and they’ve got hold of one of the Stones of Snordor, there’s no knowing—”
“Calm down,” Mordak said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. What makes you think it’s one of the Nine?”
She took a deep breath. “I had a good look at it.”
“And?”
“Well,” she said, “what do we actually know about the Nine?”
“Me? Practically nothing.” His face went blank. “Look, we were told, the Nine came up in last year’s exam, and the year before that, it won’t be in this year’s, you can bet. So I skipped that chapter and concentrated on the Black Breath, which did come up, and I got ninety-seven per cent. What?”
She clicked her tongue so sharply it made his eyes water. “All right,” she said, “since you’ve been honest and courageous enough to confess your ignorance, I’ll fill you in. The Nine Lost Scrying Stones came across the sea in the White Ships from Scoobidoobidorëon, before the Fall. Made by the hand of Glondel himself—”
“Yes, I know all that,” Mordak interrupted. “I’m not stupid.”
“Made by the hand of Glondel himself—” (maybe she had wax in her ears) “—the Stones will show you what was, what is and what is yet to come, though they are perilous and seek to lead the foolish to their doom. Nine there were, but five have fallen into shadow, two the dragons consumed, one stands in the Hall of the Woodland King in Saras Mithron, and one—”
Mordak nodded. “I know,” he said. “Upstairs. Doesn’t bloody work.”
She sighed. “That’s because seven of the Nine are lost and out of Communion, and the eighth is hidden from you. There is nothing for your Stone to talk to. But if one of the five that were lost has been found—” She shrugged. “What concerns me more is what the humans use it for.”
“I’m guessing you asked.”
“Oh yes.” She shivered. “The human said that the she-human talks to Home through it.” She paused. “Through a screen of glass.”
Mordak waited, then said, “That’s significant, isn’t it?”
Nod. “If you could’ve been bothered to read the chapter in your book even though it wasn’t likely to come up in the exam, you’d have learned that after the Fall, between the Hidden Realms and Scoobidoobidorëon the Golden the Iaressë raised a screen of glass, invisible but impenetrable, so that seafarers might cast their eyes on the Golden Land but never ever reach there.”
“That’s just mean,” Mordak said.
“The she-human,” Tinituviel went on, “speaks to her family and friends in a faraway land through a screen of glass. If I were you, I’d put your helmet on at this point.”
Obediently, Mordak reached for it. “Why?”
“So that when the penny eventually drops it won’t knock your brains out through your ears. Faraway land? Screen of glass? Oh, come on.”
Mordak put the helmet back under the throne. “Yes, I see what you’re getting at. You think these idiots come from Scoobi-whatsisface. Maybe they do. What about it?”
She was counting under her breath. She did that, a lot. “Let me guess,” she said. “The Prophecies were in the previous year’s paper, too.”
“Not even on the syllabus,” Mordak replied. “Lot of Elvish nonsense. Well, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know why I bother with you.”
“Money,” Mordak replied succinctly. “So? There’s a prophecy, then.”
“Yes, there’s a prophecy. When the Children of Fluor leave the Golden Land and pass through the Gate of Flour and Eggs, then shall the Realms be plunged in darkness and the Nameless One will arise.”
“What Nameless One?”
“I don’t know, do I, he’s Nameless. Anyway, that’s what it says, as you would know if you were even semi-literate, and that’s why I’m worried. All right?”
Mordak took a moment to think about it. “But surely that’s all fine and good, as far as we’re concerned. All the Realms plunged in darkness? That’s what we want, surely. I’m the Dark Lord, remember. We’re the bad guys.”
“Mphm. And when the Nameless One arises, you’ll just meekly hand him over the keys and retire to the seaside, presumably. And of course, he’ll let you.”
“Um.”
“Quite. You see, I do have your best interests at heart, I have no idea why. So if you want your head to stay on your shoulders, rather than on a hook in the crockery cupboard, I suggest you start worrying. Hard.”
Mordak scowled at her. “Oh come, now,” he said. “It’s just a prophecy.”
“Just a—”
“Just another Elvish prophecy. Like Reluctant Hero for the Snordor Derby. That one cost me a hundred and sixty zlotyl that I’ll never see again, so please don’t give me all that infallible wisdom stuff—”
“That wasn’t a prophecy,” she said coldly, “it was a prediction. And I would venture to suggest that there’s rather more at stake this time than a handful of coins. I mean, we could be looking at the ultimate victory of Evil.”
“But like I said—”
“Real Evil. Not your peelie-wally alternative tree-hugging bleeding-heart New Evil, the genuine article. And I don’t think either of us wants that.”
Let her have the last word, he told himself, it might mean she’ll go away. He was right about that; and after she’d gone, he was able to get back to his thinking.
Peelie-wally bleeding heart? The hell with that. Yes, he was right behind bleeding hearts, one hundred per cent, especially if they were still beating as he ripped them from the ribcages of his mortal enemies. Not, he had to admit, that he’d done an awful lot of that lately. It’s always the way. You get bogged down in admin and paperwork, and quite soon you’ve lost sight of what it was you originally went into the profession for. But all this drivel about Nameless Ones was just Elvish scaremongering, surely. Besides, there’s no such thing as a foregone conclusion in the fight game, that much he knew from long experience. A phantom rival with no name was one thing, but it’d take a phantom rival with no name and a very large contingent of heavy infantry to get him seriously concerned. And besides, even if we lose we’re used to that. It’s what we do…
Which brought him back full circle; New Evil and the monstrous creature currently plaiting its hair into braids down in the dungeons. Damn, he thought. Why has everything always got to be so difficult?
It took him an hour to find what he was looking for, down in the Black Vault, where even the Wraith-lords are reluctant to go; an old battered trunk, with five massive padlocks, the keys to which he no longer had, it went without saying. Half an hour with an axe that would never be much use for anything again, and he had the trunk open. He lifted the lid, and couldn’t help smiling.
He’d put the trunk in the Black Vault because he didn’t want anyone to find it, not ever. The goblins would laugh at him, Tinituviel would say it was just a load of old junk and throw it away, but to him these were treasures way beyond gold and gemstones, magic weapons or rings of power.
“Hello,” he said. “Long time no see.”
Reverently, using only the tips of his claws, he lifted out a small, crumpled shape. The years hadn’t been kind to Willy the Werewolf. Most of his stuffing was gone, and he was missing one of his button eyes, but that was all right. Sarah Spider wasn’t much better off; if she was real, she’d be scuttling with a distinct limp, and she could definitely do with a decent meal or two. But they were still there, that was the point. He put them gently back on their bed of straw and carried on looking.
Ah. He took out a crumbling book and opened it at the flyleaf
Mordak
Form IVb
If this bûk shold dare to r
ome box its ears and send it hoam
There were other books—the Black Library was full of the things, shelf upon shelf of uniform editions, with the Dark Bookplate pasted inside every front cover, but none he trusted like this one. He sat down cross-legged on the floor, looked up Prophecies, Elvish in the index, and began to read.
“It’s nothing personal,” the senior partner said, gazing at him as though he’d just found him stuck to the sole of his shoe. “It’s a simple question of arithmetic. You’re seven billable hours short of your target for the month, which gives us a nice straightforward equation. T minus seven equals the sack. Sorry,” he added, with a certain lack of sincerity. “Clear your desk and be out by noon.”
John didn’t have much to take away with him: a few books, a cheap whalebone slide rule, a framed cameo portrait of his mother. The doorman sold him an old wooden box to put them in, and some string to make a rudimentary carrying strap. He slung the box over his shoulder and climbed down the long ladder to ground level, a free man.
Bastards, he thought cheerfully. Ah well.
He left the forest, whistling a sprightly tune, and headed for the halfling village a few miles down the Old North Road. There he stopped at the carpenter’s shop and asked the man there to make him a sign.
“A what?”
“Flat piece of wood,” John explained, “about a foot by eight inches, half-inch thick, oak or ash, something hard-wearing. And I want you to carve my name on it.”
The carpenter frowned. “You mean, letters and stuff?”
“Is that a problem?”
The carpenter blinked. “I can do letters,” he said. “No bother at all. Come back in an hour.”
So John went to the Pink Oliphaunt for a coffee and a slice of simnel cake; and when he went back, the carpenter was just slapping on a coat of linseed oil. “Like it?” he asked proudly.
John looked at it.
JON THE LIAR
ATURNY AT LOR
John considered the literacy level of his target demographic. “It’ll do,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
“That’ll be twopence.”
Which was precisely half of his total capital, but what the hell. Every mighty tree was once a tiny pip, and some of the greatest lawsuits of all time have grown out of trivial incidents, like an idiot not reading the label or putting his foot in a pothole. At any rate, he had a sign. Now all he needed was somewhere to hang it up.
He asked around, but nobody knew of vacant premises to let. He asked at the inn, but they told him there was no room; all they could suggest was a lowly cattle shed out the back, which was a bit lacking in the structurally sound walls and weathertight roof department, but if he wanted it he could have it, twopence a month, two months payable in advance. That came to exactly fourpence, which by some strange coincidence was exactly how much money he had. An omen. “Deal,” he said.
“Really?” The innkeeper quickly wiped the grin off his face. “I mean, that’s settled, splendid. See you in a couple of months, then.”
Something is usually better than nothing at all. So, though his office was a stable and his desk was a manger and his filing cabinet was a stall, and the best he could do for a door was a couple of old feed sacks slung over a bit of rope—in spite of all that, he was back in the business, only this time without a bunch of pointy eared millstones round his neck. His own boss. Master of his fate and captain of his soul. Gosh.
To begin with, business was quiet. The chickens left in a huff and the pig moved out to the broken-down tool shed on the other side of the yard—choosy, presumably, about the company it kept—but the rats didn’t seem to mind him at all, which was broad-minded of them. Then one night, as he was lying on his pile of vintage straw looking up through a hole in the roof at one especially bright star he couldn’t remember having noticed before, he heard a strange flapping noise, followed by a stifled curse.
It only took him a moment to identify the sound as that made by a man trying to knock on a sack hung over a bit of string. “Come in,” he called out. “It’s open.”
Light filled the shed, coming from a lantern in the hand of a tall figure in dark robes. “Are you the liar?” said a deep voice.
John pulled a face, which was fortunately masked by the shadows. “No,” he said. “I’m a legal practitioner and notary public.”
The stranger looked at him, and his eyes were a pale green gleam. “Not the liar.”
“No.”
“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? Mind if I sit down?”
John shrugged. “Pull up a straw bale and be my guest. Now then, what can I do for you?”
“I need someone to tell lies for me. Convincingly. With style.”
“Sorry,” John said. “I can’t do that. It’s against my code of professional ethics.”
The stranger studied him for a moment. “That was very good,” he said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you meant it.”
“I do. Really. If they catch me distorting evidence or perverting the course of justice, they’ll take away my licence and that’ll be that. It’s just not worth it.”
The stranger frowned. “Really?”
“Really and truly.”
“You’re not a professional liar, then.”
“No.”
“But that’s what you say you are, on your sign outside.”
“I was lying.”
“Ah. Oh well,” the stranger said, and as he stood up to leave he made a soft clinking noise, as of coins jingling together in his pocket. “Sorry to have wasted your time.”
“That said,” John said smoothly, “what I can do, and in fact do exceptionally well, is present a body of purported facts, which I then invite the opposition to prove to be false, on the understanding that, should they fail to do so, my version of events is deemed to be true by default.”
“That’s not lying?”
“Of course not. It’s a dialectic-based methodology for ascertaining the truth based on adversarial debate, founded on time-honoured rules of evidence and procedure and governed by hallowed conventions, such as the presumption of innocence and the burden of proof, the final outcome of which is universally regarded by society as tantamount or equivalent to the truth, even though it usually isn’t. Quite different, obviously.”
The man nodded slowly. “So what you’re saying is, if you tell people a pack of—a load of stuff, and you can get them to believe you, or at least put it in such a way that they can’t prove it’s all garbage, then it becomes the truth.” He whistled softly. “Neat trick.”
“Indeed. Which is why I can say, hand on heart, that I don’t tell lies. Honest as the day is long, me. Especially the day at midwinter at the North Pole. Trust me, I’m a lawyer.”
“Mphm. Sounds like the sort of work people would be prepared to pay a lot of money for.”
“It has been known, yes.”
“You any good at it?”
“The best,” John said simply.
“Really. In which case, what are you doing in a dump like this?”
John smiled. “Starting out on my own. Which means,” he said, “you have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to engage my services before they become too shatteringly expensive. I mean, you could chance it and come back in a week, and who knows? You might be able to afford me, or you might not. Up to you, really. I mean, are you a born gambler?”
“All right,” the stranger said. “How much do you charge?”
“For straightforward presentation of true facts? Shilling an hour.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
John’s smile spread, like oil on water. “If I charged less, how would you know I was any good?”
The stranger’s face was more or less invisible in the shadows, but John was fairly sure, on the balance of probabilities, that he was smiling, too. “Agreed,” he said. “I can see now, less than a shilling an hour wouldn’t be enough. All right. Consider yourself hired.”
A peal
of bells rang out in John’s heart; at least, he attributed the vague rumbling to joy rather than the interval since he’d last eaten. Accentuate the positive, it’s the only way.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now, what would you like me to do?”
One of the first things Ms. White had done, once she’d satisfied herself that King Drain liked her enough to do her small favours, was to ask for the loan of a safe.
Dwarves make the best safes anywhere, and the House of Driri Mk7A Warranted Dragonproof is the absolute top of the line. King Drain had fifteen of his best men deliver it to her room, and they ended up having to knock through two walls and a ceiling and lower it on ropes from the gallery above.
“Out of interest,” Drain asked, “what’ve you got that’s so valuable?”
She showed it to him: a small, flat thing about a third the size of a roofing slate, glass on top and some material he couldn’t identify underneath. “It’s a religious artefact,” she explained. “Among my people it has deep cultural and spiritual significance.”
“Get away.”
“No, really. We believe that if someone steals your phone—that’s what this is called, a phone—they can steal your entire identity.”
Drain handed her the safe key without another word. Later he asked if she wanted a few additional padlocks, but she said no, it was just fine as it was.
The good thing was that the phone worked. With it, she could call Home. Presumably it, too, was attuned to George’s doughnut thing. The bad thing was that she only had $1.17 credit left on it, and she’d left her credit card behind in her native reality.
Enough for one call, two if she kept it snappy. The question was; did the amazing opportunity that now confronted her justify blowing her one call?
She agonised over the problem for a long time before the obvious solution occurred to her. She cursed herself for being an idiot, unlocked the safe and made the call.
“I thought I told you,” said the voice at the other end of the line, “never to call me on this number. Or any number, ever again.”
“Don’t be like that,” she said sweetly. “Listen. This is business.”
Sigh. “Look, I know the IT revolution has changed the way we all work and there are countless things we used to have to go to the office to do that we can now do at home over the phone. Your speciality isn’t one of them. Besides, you’ve been replaced. Now go away.”