by Tom Holt
“No,” Theo said firmly. “What I want really is impossible, even in an infinite multiverse. Nearly infinite,” he added with a slight catch in his voice. “Wish I could explain, but you’ll just have to take my word for it. Which leaves us in a—”
Mexican standoff.
“You took the words right out of my mouth. Or you could just admit defeat and leave.”
No way. I suggest you get used to me, because I’m staying. I like it here. Whither thou goest, and all that.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Theo said sadly. “Meanwhile, sorry to be rude but I do have things I ought to be doing, so if you could see your way to letting me have my legs back, I would be ever so grateful.”
No legs unless you open the locked room.
Theo let out a long sigh. “You clown,” he said. “Haven’t you got it yet? I mean, there you are, inside one of the best-informed brains in the multiverse, and you can’t even be bothered to read the FAQ. I can’t open the locked room.”
Then what’s the point of—?
“The room will open,” Theo explained, “of its own accord, when the time and circumstances are right. It’s like those time-locked bank vaults. Until then, nothing will get it open, not hissy fits or wishing on a star or dynamite. And the time and circumstances haven’t happened yet. And before you ask, I have no idea when that will be. Comprendez?”
You’re lying.
“Oh, for crying out—”
You’re not lying. But you’re keeping something back.
“You know what?” Theo said. “I’ve had about enough of you. I’m going to shut you up for a bit, so I can think.”
You can’t do that.
“Watch me,” Theo said. And he lifted his head, banged it hard on the stone floor and knocked himself out.
“I knew this would happen,” Terry said gloomily, as he staggered down the murderously tight spiral staircase holding Theo’s feet. “We should have put up a sign. Didn’t I say we should put up a sign?”
“Slow down,” Molly said, edging down backwards with Theo’s head cradled in her arms. “You nearly pushed me over.”
“I said, if we put up a sign they won’t be able to sue. I asked the lawyers about it before we signed the paperwork and they said. And now, as soon as this idiot wakes up, what’s the first thing he’s going to do? Off to the nearest lawyer like a bullet out of a gun, and we’ll be liable.”
“I’m sure he’ll do no such thing,” Molly said, as they reached the landing. “Put him down, I need a breather.”
Theo was still fast asleep, and smiling. The Barringtons sat on the floor with their backs to the wall and gasped for air. There were still thirty-seven flights to go.
“Your turn for the head end,” Molly pointed out.
“We could pitch him out of a window,” Terry said quietly. “Nobody would know, and in five minutes those horrible creatures out there would have eaten him, and—”
His wife gave him a shocked look, and he shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “Just thinking aloud.”
“You’re right,” Molly said firmly. “We need to go home. This place is doing bad things to us.”
Terry nodded. “He can sue us till he’s blue in the face if we’re back home,” he said. “I bet you, the jurisdictional issues—”
“Come on,” Molly said. “Next lot of stairs.”
Theo’s journey down the stairs of the Tower of Snorgond was not uneventful, and it was probably just as well that he slept through it. When at last they reached the ground floor, he was still smiling. They dumped him onto the chaise longue and collapsed on the sofa.
“They’re still out there,” Molly said.
Terry looked, then mumbled the obscuring spell so he wouldn’t have to see. “There’s more of them,” he said. “A lot more.”
Which was entirely true. The entire goblin nation: every single journalist and civil servant in Elvenhome (which amounts to roughly the same thing); a substantial contingent of dwarves, who’d just got around to reading the eviction notice served by John the Lawyer. King Mordak, King Drain and the High Elf had held an impromptu summit conference, sheltering from the rays of the Beautiful/Horrible Yellow Face under the shade of the Barrington’s satellite dish; and although the summit conference had achieved as much as all summit conferences everywhere always do, nobody had killed or eaten anybody else, which was in itself an unimaginable leap forward in the diplomatic history of the Realms. Meanwhile, a pale-looking young woman was going round pestering newspaper editors, and a chubby young human was searching in vain for a door to knock at.
“You’re wasting your time,” said Ms. White.
“There’s got to be a door,” John replied. “Buildings have doors, otherwise where’s the point of them?”
“I read about it,” Ms. White said.
John looked at her. “I remember you,” he said. “You bought my law book.”
“Quite. So you’ll believe me when I tell you that I have actually read Thrandifuill’s Longer Elvish History. And it says in there how the wizard who built this thing designed it without any doors, specifically so as to frustrate process servers. For some reason, people kept wanting to sue him, and he’d had enough.”
“Fancy that,” John said. “But there’s got to be a way of getting their attention.”
“Try the bell.”
“There isn’t a bell.”
Ms. White pointed. “What’s that, then?”
John looked closely. “It’s a small round button made of some material I’ve never seen before, set into a small rectangular brass plate. Not,” he added, “a bell. Otherwise—”
“Sorry,” Ms. White conceded. “It’s, um, a magic bell. Here, let me.”
She pressed the button. Nothing happened. John sighed.
“Pressing the button,” Ms. White explained, “causes a bell to ring inside the tower. It’s magic.”
“Of course it is.” John counted to ten under his breath. “Doesn’t seem to be working.”
“It’s a big tower. It’ll take them a long time to get to the door.”
John looked at her. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you worked for King Drain.”
“You’re the lawyer.”
“That’s me.”
She looked thoughtfully at him. “I might just need you for something,” she said. “Tell me, are you any good at extradition law?”
“Yes,” John said. “Never heard of it, but that’s not a problem, I can look it up. Why?”
“Tell you later. No, I was on my way—somewhere, and I saw all these people milling around, and I thought, safety in numbers—”
“Are you scared of something?”
“Me? Good Lord, no. And then I saw you prodding and poking about and I said to myself, there’s a man looking for a door, only he’s wasting his time, because I happen to know… Yes, I’m scared all right. Trouble is, there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
John gave her a sad look. “Sure?”
She grinned. “Well, maybe. I seem to remember you’re persistent, resourceful and fundamentally dishonest, so maybe you might be able to do something after all. It all depends on exactly what sort of shit I find myself ankle-deep in. I’ll keep you posted. Try the bell again.”
“But I just—”
“Try it again.”
John did as he was told. “Look,” he said, “it obviously doesn’t—oh, hello.”
An angry bald head was scowling at him out of the wall. “What do you want?”
“I think he wants to serve you with a writ,” Ms. White said helpfully, and stepped back out of the way. The angry bald head grew into an angry head and torso. John stood his ground, mostly because his feet wouldn’t move. “No, I don’t,” he said, “really. I just want to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”
The angry man glowered at him. “I’m busy. Push off.”
“Just a few minutes of your time—”
“Jesus,” said the angry man. “Look, whate
ver it is, we don’t want it, all right? We’re fine for life insurance and religion, and you can see for yourself, double glazing is out of the question.”
“I’m not selling anything,” John said. “All I want is some answers. It’s very important. Please?”
The magic word; or maybe Terry Barrington saw in John’s eyes, as in a mirror, a man at the very furthest extent of his rope. In any event, he hesitated, then stepped out of the wall, which closed behind him like a black mercury curtain. “What?”
John took a deep breath. “Where are you from, exactly?”
“What are you, the census or something?”
“I’m a lawyer,” John replied, and before Terry could tell him what he thought about that, quickly added, “I’m a lawyer, and recently a weird man hired me to evict the goblins and the dwarves. And I got to thinking, why would anyone want to do that?”
Terry grinned at him. “You met any of them?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then that’ll be why.”
John nodded. “They make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Too bloody right. Horrible little buggers with faces like a bomb going off in a pet shop. If the council or someone’s moving them on, bloody good job, that’s what I say.”
The faint glimmer at the back of John’s mind turned into a glow. “They—what’s that Elvish expression?—lower the tone of the neighbourhood?”
Terry laughed. “Any lower, you could flood it and sail boats on it. So, is that right, then? They’re getting shot of them?”
“To go back to my original question,” John said. “Am I right in thinking you’re not, um, local?”
“You bet,” Terry said. “We’re from Putney. Well, Molly, that’s my wife, she’s from Dunstable originally, then we both lived in Hounslow for a while, but when the kids were grown up—”
“Excuse me,” John interrupted gently. “These places. They’re not in the Realms, are they?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I see. So there are—” He took another deep breath. “Other places.”
“Yes, thank God. Decent, sane places with shops and WiFi, where you can buy stuff and the locals don’t look like bad CGI. No offence,” he added generously. “Obviously you people like it here, and that’s fine. Just not everyone’s cup of tea, is what I’m saying.”
“Of course,” John said quickly. “Tell me, how did you get here?”
Terry pursed his lips. “Now actually, that’s a bloody good question. The bloke who sold us this place did explain, but it was like when someone tells you about Einstein in a pub, you think it’s clear as crystal and five minutes later it’s all gone out of your head. Something to do with multiverse theory, I think, or string theory, some theory, anyhow. We came through a doughnut.”
John nodded slowly. “I don’t actually know that word,” he said, “but I’m guessing it’s some sort of magic gateway or portal. Is that about right?”
Terry hesitated before answering. “Yeah, sort of,” he said. “In context, like.”
“That’s what I thought,” John said. “And there are more like you? More people from Putney, living here.”
“Not from Putney as such, but, yeah, people like us. Well, more like us than you lot, that’s for bloody sure.”
“And they all bought their homes from the same man?”
Terry shrugged. “I guess so. I think he’d sort of cornered the market. Because of the doughnut thing. He’s the only one with the technology. Though I imagine when the patent or whatever it is runs out, there’ll be loads of them at it.” A thought, completely new and unanticipated, floated into Terry’s mind. “Bit of a blow for your lot, that’d be.”
“Um.”
“Well, it would be,” Terry said sagely. “I mean, look at the Dordogne. When Rita and Phil Arkwright moved there in ’96, they were the only Brits for miles and everything was dirt cheap and unspoilt. Now there’s expats as far as the eye can see, and none of the locals can afford to live there any more. Which is a real cow when it comes to getting a plumber or a builder, and as for getting the septic tank emptied—”
“You see,” John said, “I think the weird man who hired me to drive out the goblins and the dwarves wants their lands so he can sell it to, um, people like you. And—no offence—I’m not sure that’d be a very good thing.”
Terry Barrington was a fair man, deep down. “Maybe not,” he said. “Still, doesn’t matter a stuff to us, because we’re leaving.”
Directly behind him, where John couldn’t see, someone coughed gently. “Excuse me.”
“What? Oh, it’s him.” Terry turned, so that all John could see was the back of his head. “What?”
The sheer black wall rippled, and a different human came out, with Terry following. He was about as nondescript looking as it’s possible to be while actually remaining visible, and he had an ugly bruise on his forehead. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” said the new human. “Oh, and thanks for the use of your phone, by the way. But did I just hear you say you’re leaving?”
“That’s right.”
“Leaving the Realms?”
“Yup. Going back to London. Well, we thought maybe Surrey, because Molly’s sister June—”
“No, you aren’t,” the new human said sadly. “Sorry.”
Somewhere, a bird sang. Nobody was interested.
“You what?” Terry said.
Maybe Theo didn’t hear him. “Excuse me.”
“Who, me?”
“Yes. I take it you live here.”
“Yes. I’m a lawyer.”
“I’d sort of gathered that. Please, can you tell me, where can I find whoever’s in charge?”
John turned and pointed. “Right there,” he said. “That’s the King of the Dwarves, the tall one with the pained expression is the High Elf, and the little chap with the tusks is Mordak, Dark Lord and king of the goblins.”
“Gosh. Really?”
“No shit.”
Theo nodded. “That’s lucky,” he said. “And who’s that over there? The man chasing after the pretty girl, waving an axe?”
John frowned. “Him I don’t know,” he said. “She’s the dwarf-king’s cook. Actually, I think she may be one of your lot.” He hesitated. “I suppose I really ought to go and rescue her before he does her an injury.”
“Before the injury,” Theo repeated. “I guess lawyers are different here. Ah well.”
The man with the axe had stopped chasing the pretty girl and was talking excitedly to another man, dressed in melodramatically swirly black robes, who John knew very well. “That’s my client,” he said.
“The one who hired you to—?”
“Yup.”
Theo looked at him. “Seems to me that the fat chap with the axe is your client’s boss. In which case,” he added, looking very sad indeed, “he really ought to hear what I’ve got to say, too. Could you do me a big favour and get their attention for me? I’m shy,” he explained.
John looked at him, then nodded. He wasn’t going to enjoy this, but never mind.
There’s one fail-safe, guaranteed way of getting people to listen to you in the Realms. John took a very deep breath, lifted his arms above his head and yelled, “The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!” Then, blushing like mad, he stepped back into the shadow of the tower.
Everyone (except the fat man with the axe) stopped what they were doing and stared, first at the sky and then at John. Then there was a long silence. Then someone said, “No, they aren’t.”
John nodded. “Just kidding,” he said. “But there’s someone here who wants to talk to you.” He scuttled round behind Theo, who smiled feebly and gave a little wave.
“Ladies and, um, gentlemen,” he said, “I have an announcement to make. The result of the Rexit referendum is now in, and Reality 7754/88/A42c has voted Leave. Effective forthwith, A42c is no longer part of the multiverse. Thank you for your time.”
Dead silence, apart from a horrified scream somewher
e near the back. Then Mordak detached himself from the summit conference, waddled forward a few paces and said, “Say what?”
Theo closed his eyes for a moment. Perhaps he’d actually believed that he could get away with simply stating the abbreviated truth and making a run for it, but probably not. He sighed. “Let me explain,” he said.
“Let’s just run through it one more time,” Mordak said.
It was cool and shady under the marshmallorn tree, where Mordak had led Theo after his goblins had dispersed the riot that followed Theo’s explanation. Theo was feeling a bit better now, though he hadn’t touched the skull of nice cool water Mordak had given him, or even had a nibble of the plate of dry roasted toenails. “Sure,” Theo said wearily. “Why not?”
Mordak took a moment to order his thoughts. “You come from another Realm, far, far away.”
“That’s right.”
“And your lot have recently found out how to get to our Realm by going through a hole in a sort of bun.”
“It’s—yes, that’s right.”
Mordak nodded. “With you so far. And this is because of multiverse theory.”
“Check.”
Mordak rubbed the side of his head, taking care not to gouge grooves in his flesh with his claws as he did so. “Multiverse theory states that there’s lots and lots and lots—”
“An infinite number.”
“And lots of Realms, and they’re all sort of separate, and the only way to get from one to another is through this bun.”
“Um.”
“Yes?”
“All right then, yes. Broadly speaking.”
“Fine,” Mordak said, “just so long as we’ve got that straight. And these weird humans I’ve been so worried about lately, they all came from your Realm.”
“That’s right,” Theo said. “And it’s all my fault, because I invented the—well, the bun.”
“You’re a baker?”
“Particle physicist,” Theo amended. “Same sort of thing, but—” He shrugged. No point, really. “And I didn’t actually invent it, that was a friend of mine. But I sort of set the whole thing up, something I now rather regret.”
Mordak gave him a kind smile. “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he said. “From what I gather, there’s a lot of people who’ll happily do that for you. So all the weirdos—”