'Oh, and our Dennis wants to see you,' she added, flashing him a smile which, under any other circumstances, would've turned his knees to jelly. 'In his office, five minutes. Don't ask me what it's about.'
Paul nodded glumly and trudged down the long, gloomy corridors to his dog-kennel office. He didn't know why Dennis Tanner, the firm's mining and mineral rights specialist, should want to see him first thing on a Monday morning, but he was sure it wouldn't be about anything nice. At best, it'd mean a huge great batch of aerial photographs of seemingly identical patches of featureless desert, which he'd have to scry for bauxite deposits. It sounded impressive, but all it meant was running his fingertip across the surface of the picture until he felt a mild electric shock, and then ringing the precise spot with black marker pen. It was one of the few magical talents he'd so far manifested, and as far as unwanted gifts went it was up there in his all-time top ten, along with socks and the latest Martin Amis in hardback.
Having sloughed his coat, he checked his desk for memos, yellow stickies, post and other hazards; just one today, a handwritten note from Professor Van Spee-
From: TCVS
To: PAC
You have finally read the first chapter of the book I asked you to read three weeks ago; accordingly, you are now in a position to help me with the Macziejewski account.
Dennis Tanner will want to see you at 9.05; you will be free again at 9.35. Kindly call at 16 Jowett Street (just off the Charing Cross Road) and collect a parcel for me. You will be back at the office at 11.15; please come and see me.
Paul read the note twice, then shrugged. Ever since he'd first encountered Professor Van Spee, he'd made a conscious effort not to let this omniscience thing bother him. So far, he'd just about managed, but the strain was getting worse all the time. He was about to drop the note into the home-brew coal seam he called his filing tray when he noticed a postscript he'd missed earlier-
PS: Leave now, or else you will be late for your appointment with Mr Tanner.
According to Mr Tanner's mum and various other goblins whose word he was prepared to take on the subject, Dennis Tanner was related to him, something like his fifth cousin thrice removed. The revelation had brought him no comfort whatsoever. Every time he saw Mr Tanner, his first instinct was to run and hide. This wasn't anything to do with Mr Tanner being half-goblin; he looked mostly human, a bit like a freeze-dried child, with curly brown hair going slightly grey, big brown eyes and his mother's horrible grin. It was rather more to do with Mr Tanner being an unmitigated bastard- 'Come in,' he heard through the chunky panelled door. Mr
Tanner was in his usual place behind the desk, wreathed in blue cigar smoke like a tiny, malevolent volcano. On the other side of the desk was someone Paul hadn't seen before.
Paul was on the tall, thin side himself; but he was an obese dwarf compared to the stranger, who was wearing a perfectly ordinary blue suit, shirt and tie but looked as though he'd been poked down the shirt collar like a pipe-cleaner and somehow got stuck. He had a long neck, like a turkey, and his head was absurdly too small for the rest of him. He had tiny round glasses and very short grey hair, like the bristles on a nail brush.
'You're here, then,' Mr Tanner said. 'Right, I'd like you to meet Frank Laertides. I'm delighted to be able to tell you, Frank's agreed to join us as our new PR and media partner.'
Paul immediately froze, and stared at the newcomer with undisguised trepidation. PR and media had been Judy di Castel Bianco's department, and three months ago Paul had, after a desperate struggle, succeeded in thwarting her attempt to subjugate the human race to her own people, the dream-inhabiting Fey. When last heard of, Countess Judy had been trapped on the Isle of Avalon, whence (Paul devoutly hoped) she could never return. The reason he was panicking now was that (according to Countess Judy) only the Fey had the innate abilities needed to perform the kinds of magic needed for PR and media work; in which case- 'Relax.' It was the newcomer speaking, but it was hard to believe that such a friendly, pleasant voice could've come from the strange creature sitting at Mr Tanner's desk. 'I know what happened a while back, and you needn't worry, I'm not one of Judy's mob.' Mr Laertides smiled, and his whole appearance seemed to change. Instead of being a cartoon Frankenstein's monster drawn by L. S. Lowry, he became just a nice man who happened to be rather tall. 'So you're Paul Carpenter,' he went on, steepling his impossibly long fingers. 'The chap who took on the Fey and won. Got to admit, I've been looking forward to meeting you.'
The fear started to ebb away, but suspicion remained. At the time, Paul had been left in precious little doubt by the partners that the defeat of Countess Judy, though quite probably the salvation of the human race and civilised life as we know it, had been a nasty blow for the firm, and so far from being pleased with him, they'd only just managed to forgive him for depriving them of the staggering sums of money she'd brought in every year. This Mr Laertides, on the other hand, appeared to think he'd done something clever, and was pleased to meet him- (Well, quite, Paul told himself. If I hadn't got rid of Countess
Judy, Stick-Insect Guy wouldn't have landed her old job. That's got to be the reason-)
Paul smiled awkwardly, unable to think of anything appropriate to say. Mr Laertides nodded, then glanced back at Mr Tanner, who cleared his throat and looked down at his desk. If Paul hadn't known better, he'd have thought he was embarrassed.
'The other thing,' Mr Tanner went on, in a rather strained voice, not like his usual cheerfully abrasive self, 'is, we, my partners and I, we've been giving some thought to your, um, position in the firm. I take it,' he added, in a strangled sort of voice, 'you're happy here at JWW?'
It'd have been rude to laugh; and obviously Mr Tanner didn't want to hear the truth, or he wouldn't have asked the question. 'Yes, rather,' Paul heard himself say. 'Absolutely.'
'Excellent,' muttered Mr Tanner. 'Because we, my partners and I, we're very pleased with the work you've been doing for us, we think you've settled in very nicely, and -' here he paused, and maybe he closed his eyes just for a fraction of a second '- and so we'd like to, um, promote you, from junior clerk to assistant sorcerer, if you're happy with that.' Mr Tanner's dribble of words finally dried up completely, like the last trickle from a Saharan explorer's water bottle, and he buried his face in his hands for a moment. To his credit, he managed to pull himself together again in a matter of seconds. 'It'll mean more money, of course,' he said grimly. 'Plus extra holiday allowance-' He paused. 'How much holiday do you get at the moment?'
'Um.' Paul thought about it. 'None.'
'Ah, right. Well, from now on you can have seven days off a year. Just be sure to clear the dates with me first.' It was as though some huge, invisible bird of prey was ripping the words out of Mr Tanner's chest with its talons. 'Also you get a company car, a proper one this time, and there's other stuff too, but I won't bore you with it now.'
Oh, Paul thought. Oh well, never mind.
'In return -' Mr Tanner seemed to have cheered up just a bit '- we'll be looking for that extra bit of effort and commitment on your part; I mean, it's not going to be just a job any more, you're joining the JWW family, if you want to look at it that way, and the way we look at things is, we all pull our weight and do our best and-' Mr Tanner seemed to go all boneless, as though he simply couldn't go on any further, no matter what anybody did to him. 'That sort of thing,' he concluded. 'Look, do you want it or not?'
If Paul had really had a genuine choice in the matter, it'd have been different. But he didn't. He knew perfectly well that his parents had sold him to the firm just over a year ago. He even knew how much they'd got for him. Watching Mr Tanner suffer, on the other hand, was the most fun he'd had in ages. 'Yes, please,' he said quickly. 'And thanks. This means a lot to me, it really does.'
'Mm.' Mr Tanner nodded. 'I bet. Well, there you are, then, and I hope you'll be really happy. Now, you'd better get out of here and go and pick up that parcel for Theo Van Spee, before he starts giving me attitude for keeping you.' He
shuddered, from his toes upwards, and looked away. The tall, thin bloke (Mr Laertides, Paul remembered) smiled pleasantly and nodded. 'Glad to meet you, Paul,' he said. 'I'll drop in your office later and we can have a chat.'
'Um, right,' Paul mumbled, and fled while he still had the use of his legs.
He had to go and do Professor Van Spee's shopping next; but instead, he went straight to the front office, where the lovely girl was lolling in her chair, sharpening her fingernails with a farrier's rasp.
'It was you, wasn't it?' Paul said.
She looked up, frowned a little. 'Probably,' she said. 'What the hell are you talking about?'
'This promotion thing. You made Mr Ta- your son, you made him do it. The pay rise, the holiday-' He stopped and looked at her. 'It wasn't you, then.'
She shook her head. 'Sorry,' she replied. 'Nothing to do with me.'
For some reason, Paul felt distinctly uneasy. 'You sure?'
'Absolutely. I mean,' she went on, 'if our Dennis has given you a raise, I'm really thrilled and of course you deserve it and all that crap. But it's the first I've heard of it.'
'So it wasn't just you trying to-' Paul stopped dead and turned beetroot. Mr Tanner's mum giggled.
'Look,' she said. 'Yes, if I thought it'd do any good, and if I could've made our Dennis do it, that's just the sort of thing I'd be capable of. But it doesn't work like that. For one thing, Dennis can't make decisions like that on his own, he'd have to clear it with the rest of the gang first. And if I asked him to do this one small favour for his dear old mum, he'd tell me to piss off and die in a ditch. If you've just got a promotion - well,' she added, with a grin, 'maybe it's because they really like you and they think you're an asset to the firm. Or there could be some other reason,' she added blithely. 'But it's none of my doing. Hope you're not too disappointed,' she added, and her tone of voice had him out of the front office and halfway up the stairs before he realised he was going the wrong way.
Annoying. 70 St Mary Axe had no back or side door; to get out onto the street, you had no choice but to go past the front desk, and Paul didn't want to have to run the gauntlet of Mr Tanner's mum's industrial-grade heavy leering again. Trying to explain all that to Professor Van Spee was, of course, completely out of the question, as was failing to obey a direct order from the Great Man. He hesitated, like a rubber ball on top of a fountain, kept in place by the two opposing forces of fear and embarrassment- 'They make the world go round, you know,' said a voice behind him. He spun round so fast that he nearly lost his balance and toppled backwards through the banister rail, like an inept sniper in a Western. Mr Laertides, Stick-Insect Guy, had materialised on the step below, and so offensively excessive was his height that he still towered over Paul like the London Eye. Where he'd come from or how he'd got there, Paul didn't even bother to wonder.
'According to the songwriters,' Mr Laertides went on, 'it's Love, but that's just silly. Science would have you believe that it's the gravitational pull of the sun, but bless them, they've got research grants to justify, so we'll forgive them a little white lie or two. Seven large vodka martinis on an empty stomach will make the world go round for a while, but then you fall over and pass out, so it's a temporary expedient at best.'
Paul stared at him as though he'd just sprouted an extra head; although, after nine months at JWW, he might well have been able to take that in his stride. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I don't quite follow.'
'Embarrassment and fear,' said Mr Laertides. 'You were just thinking about them.' He smiled, and Paul's bewilderment melted like grilled ice-cream. So what if he didn't have a clue what Mr Laertides was talking about? It just confirmed that he was a whole lot smarter than Paul, and Paul knew that already. 'The mainsprings of human motivation. You're afraid of getting looked at sternly if you turn up for your appointment with Theo without the parcel, but the thought of facing Rosie Tanner turns your spine to jelly. What you need, therefore, is a third option. Right?'
Paul felt his head bob up and down, though he couldn't recall asking it to.
'No problem.' Mr Laertides inserted a splayed-octopus hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a big, thick book that couldn't possibly ever have fitted inside it. 'Go on, take it,' he said. 'It won't bite. You can have it, by the way. Plenty more where they came from.'
Frowning, Paul opened the front cover. It was a book of carpet samples; maybe two dozen of them, with fibre backings and little sticky labels on the undersides telling you what they were.
'But not the whole truth,' Mr Laertides said. 'Bit more to it than that. Three guesses? All right, they're carpet samples, yes, but carpet samples with a difference. A bloke in Muscat makes them for me. You just use them once and throw them away.'
'Muscat,' Paul repeated. 'That's in France, isn't it?'
Mr Laertides smiled. 'Oman,' he said, 'on what used to be called the Persian Gulf. Still haven't figured it out? Fine. They're flying carpet samples. You just unclip these two rings up the middle, see, and take out one of the carpet squares, and tap it very gently with the side of your left index finger-'
Abruptly, the carpet sample lifted into the air, levelled off, straightened out its creases, and hung motionless in front of him, about four feet off the ground. 'That's a flying carpet?' Paul asked breathlessly.
'Well, it's carpet,' Mr Laertides replied, 'and there it is, flying.
Just for once, a great leap of faith isn't absolutely essential. And before you ask, it's dead easy. You just stand in the middle of it and say where you want to go; and next thing, there you are. A nice little added bonus is, the carpet zips along so fast, it can't be seen by the naked eye. Pretty neat bit of kit, though I do say so myself. You've just got to be a bit careful about low doorways and unusually tall coffee tables, that's all.'
'That's amazing,' Paul said doubtfully. 'But I still don't see-'
'Oh.' Mr Laertides's left eyebrow shot up. 'You surprise me. I'd have thought the guy who outsmarted Countess Judy'd have figured it out for himself a while back. Hop aboard, and it'll whiz you past Rosie's desk without being seen. It won't take you all the way to Jowett Street, unfortunately; even the best of them -that's the beige deep-pile Wilton knock-off with the faint herringbone pattern - its maximum range is only about four hundred yards. That one you've got there, the light blue imitation Axminster, ought to get you out the door and fifty yards down the street. Well, don't just stand there gawping like that, give it a go.'
'But-' Paul was going to ask some pertinent question or other. Unfortunately, his subconscious had been trying to work out how far down St Mary Axe from the front door fifty yards was, and a mental image of the bus stop flitted across his mind.
Immediately, he felt something jerk viciously at his right wrist, and a shield-wall of air hit him hard in the face as he shot upwards and forward. Fuck, I'm flying, he thought, just like bloody Superman- Then something very hard and chunky slammed into his shoulder, and he dropped to the ground. When he came round after a brief holiday from consciousness, he realised that he was sitting on the pavement next to the lamp-post from which the bus-stop sign hung, and he was holding a small square of light blue carpet in his right hand.
'That,' continued Mr Laertides, who was leaning on the lamp-post like an absurdly elongated George Formby (and he looked as though he'd been there all along, waiting for Paul to show up), 'is why it's better to start off kneeling or sitting on the carpet, like I told you, only you had to know best. Maybe next time you'll try it my way. Also, don't forget the light tap with the left forefinger, it helps slow the bugger down so you don't get your neck sprained by the slipstream.'
Paul looked up to reply, but Mr Laertides wasn't there any more. Several passers-by looked, at him, and one woman made a point of crossing the street to avoid him. He couldn't blame her in the least.
As he stood up (Mr Laertides had forgotten to include unexpected high-velocity flight followed by a sharp blow in his list of things that made the world go round; odd, since it was a dooz
y), Paul felt something heavy in his offside jacket pocket, and instinctively reached in and drew it out. It was the carpet-sample book, still far too big to fit in any jacket pocket ever made; but when he tried to put it back, it dropped in quite happily as though it was no larger than a matchbox.
Gift-horses' teeth, Paul told himself. Of course, he knew that it couldn't possibly be real, but on the other hand it didn't take much imagination to realise that if it did actually work, under certain circumstances it could be amazingly useful. He shrugged. Mr Laertides was, after all, a specialist in what Countess Judy had called effective magic; the point about which was that if you believed something was true, quite often it would be, assuming you'd first made out a sufficiently large cheque in favour of J. W Wells & Co. He'd sort of got the impression from Countess Judy that he was one of the very few non-Fey who had the innate knack of doing effective magic, which perhaps explained why the carpet had responded so readily to him. The pain in his arm reminded him that sometimes a very strong but completely untrained latent ability could be more of a liability than an asset.
What the hell; in any event, he'd got past Mr Tanner's mum without rupturing any blood vessels through excessive blushing, so that was all right. Paul found a rubbish bin and dumped the used-up carpet square (if only she could have seen him, his mother would've been so proud). Now all he had to do was find Jowett Street and pick up the professor's parcel.
Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt Page 3