by Tom Holt
“Me,” said Con. “Three earthquakes.”
“See your three earthquakes,” Nick replied, “and raise you one famine.”
“Twist,” said Kiss. “I think it’s a horrible thing to say about anybody.”
“Agreed,” said Con. “Who said it, and what had you in mind by way of reprisals?”
“My fiancée,” Kiss said. “Your go, Nick.”
“Your fiancée?”
“That’s right.”
“See your famine and raise you a pestilence. Since when?”
“Recently,” Kiss answered. “Can we change the subject, guys? I’m trying to enjoy myself.”
“Your pestilence,” said Con, “and raise you one. This is pretty heavy stuff, Kiss. She must be some doll if you’re thinking of packing in the genieing on her account.”
“Repique,” Kiss said (he was banker), “and doubled in Clubs. My clutch, I think.”
“Buggery.”
“That’s forty-six above the line to me,” Kiss went on, jotting down figures on a milk-mat, “and one for his spikes, makes seventy-seven to me and three to play. My deal.”
“I’ve had enough of this game,” said Con. “Let’s play Miserable Families instead.”
So they played Miserable Families; and two hands and a jug of pasteurised later, Kiss was ninety-six ahead and held mortgages on seventy-five per cent of Antarctica, which was where Con lived.
“No thanks,” Con said, when Kiss suggested another hand. “I get the impression your luck’s in tonight.”
“Tell me about it,” replied Kiss gloomily.
“This girlfriend of yours.”
“Fiancée.”
“Quite.” Con paused. Generally speaking, genies don’t kick a fellow when he’s down, just in case he grabs hold of their foot. There are, however, exceptions. “Lucky in cards, unlucky in love, they say.”
“They’re absolutely right.”
Nick grinned. “I take it,” he said, “you’re not overjoyed?”
“It’s that bastard,” Kiss blurted out. No need to say who the bastard was. “He hired Cupid to shoot me. It’s not,” he added dangerously, “funny.”
There was a difference of opinion on that score. When he had regained control of himself, Nick asked why.
“He’s going to destroy the world…”
“Not again.”
“…and he wants me out of the way first. I call it diabolical,” Kiss concluded, draining his glass. “He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Con replied mildly. “All’s fair in—”
“Don’t say it. Not the L word.”
“War,” Con continued. “You’ve got to hand it to Philly, he has brains. And vision. And that indispensable streak of sheer bloody-minded viciousness that you need to get on in this business.”
Kiss frowned. “Well, so have I,” he said. “Trouble is, she won’t let me use it.”
“Bossy cow!”
“Or at least,” Kiss amended lamely, “she wouldn’t like it.
And as things are at the moment…”
Nick winked. “Say no more,” he said. “What you need, I think, is a little help from your friends.”
Kiss looked up. “Really?”
“We might consider it,” Con replied. “Get a mate out of a hole. Can’t watch a good genie go down, and all that.”
Kiss’s frown deepened. “But what can you do?” he asked. “Philly’s a Twelve and you’re both Fives. He’d have you for breakfast.”
Con cleared his throat. “We weren’t thinking of that,” he said. “No, what we had in mind…” He looked at Nick, who nodded. “What we were thinking of was more by way of getting your beloved off your back. Weren’t we?”
“Could be fun,” Nick agreed. “How long have you got?”
Kiss shuddered. “Thirteen days,” he said, “before the papers go through. Any ideas?”
Nick poured the last of the pasteurised into his glass and chuckled. “I expect we’ll think of something,” he said.
Battered Volkswagen camper van speeding across the desert.
The Dragon King was beginning to get on Asaf’s nerves. After a long struggle, he had managed to jury-rig the primitive radio so that it could receive Radio Bazra’s easy listening music channel; but he needn’t have bothered, because he couldn’t hear a thing over the Dragon King’s Mobius-loop renditions of The Wild Colonial Boy. It would have been slightly more bearable if the King had known more than 40 per cent of the words. As if that wasn’t enough, the King had taken his shoes and socks off, and his feet smelt.
“Twas in eighteen hundred and sixty-two,” the King informed him for the seventeenth time that day, “that he started his wild career / Tum tumpty tumpty tumpty tum tee tumpty tumpty fear / He robbed the wealthy squatters and…”
“Do you mind?”
The King looked up. “Yer what, mate?” he enquired.
“Do you mind,” Asaf said, “not singing?”
The King looked hurt. “Sorry, chum,” he said. “Thought a good old sing-song’d help pass the time.”
“You did, did you?”
“No offence, mate.”
“Quite.”
The King turned his head and looked out of the window. “I spy,” he said, “with my little eye, something beginning with S."
“Sand.”
“Too right, sport, good on yer. Your go.”
“No, thank you.”
“Fair enough.” The King sighed and opened a can of beer, which hissed like a bad-tempered snake and sprayed suds all over the place. Asaf wiped his eye.
“That’s another thing,” he growled. “This car smells like a brewery.”
“Glad you like it.”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. Can’t you wait till we stop?”
“Anything you say, boss.” He drained the can and chucked it out of the window. No point, Asaf reflected, in raising the subject of pollution of the environment and the recycling of scrap aluminium. Deaf ears.
“Not much further now, anyway,” the King said, “till we reach the first Adventure.”
Asaf applied the brakes, bringing the van to a sudden halt. “What do you mean,” he asked dangerously, “adventure?”
The King looked at him. “Gee, mate, this is a quest, right? You gotta have a few adventures in a quest. Don’t you worry, though, she’ll be right.”
“Who will?”
“It’ll all go beaut,” the King translated. “No worries on that score. Trust me.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
The next half-hour was relatively painless. True, the King hummed Do You Ever Dream, My Sweetheart in a Dalek-like drone under his breath, but with the radio and the groaning of the suspension over the rocky, potholed road, he was scarcely audible. It could have been worse, Asaf rationalised. It could have been My Way.
“Here we are,” the King said, pointing with his right forefinger into the middle of the trackless waste of their left. “Anywhere here’ll do.”
Asaf sighed and pulled over, leaving the engine running. “Now what?” he said.
The King chuckled. “You’ll like this,” he said. “Right up your alley, this is. Watch.”
A flicker of movement in the far distance caught Asaf’s eye. The King handed him a pair of binoculars, through which he could see a girl on a donkey being hotly pursued by three men on camels. The girl had a good lead on her pursuers, but they were gaining fast.
“The low-down is,” said the King, “the chick is the daughter of some Sultan or other, and the three blokes on the camels are wicked magicians. All clear so far?”
Asaf nodded.
“Well,” the King continued, “she’s running away from them because she’s just stolen the Pearl of Solomon, which gives them sort of magic powers. You go to meet her, she gives you a magic bow and three arrows. You fire the first arrow at the first magician—”
“Excuse me—”
“And,”
the King continued, “he turns back into a beetle — that’s what he really is, you see, a beetle — and you tread on him and that’s that. You fire the second arrow—”
“Excuse me—”
“The second arrow at the second magician, and he turns back into a scorpion, which is his true shape, and you drop a rock on him. You shoot the third…”
“Excuse me,” Asaf shouted.
The King looked up. “Sorry, mate, am I going too fast? The first…”
“I won’t do it.”
The King stared at him with a wild surmise. The surmise couldn’t have been wilder if he’d just said that Dennis Lillee was a slow bowler.
“I don’t want anything to do with it,” the fisherman reiterated. “You’re asking me to aid and abet a theft, commit murder—”
“Jeez, mate, they’re insects.”
“Insectide, robbery with violence, obstruction of the highway and heaven knows what else, for no readily apparent reason—”
The King was almost in tears. “For crying out loud,” he said, “it’s a flamin’ adventure. What sort of a bloke are you?”
“Basically law-abiding,” Asaf replied coldly. “Has it also occurred to you that I might miss? With only a very scanty knowledge of archery and just three arrows—”
“It’s a magic bow, you dozy bastard!” the King yelled. “You can’t miss. Believe me.”
“It’s still wrong,” Asaf replied. “If there’s a dispute between these people, they ought to take it to the proper authorities.”
The donkey was quite close now, and slowing to a gentle trot. The camels, however, were accelerating.
“Look,” shouted the King. “Unless you rescue the chick, she won’t be able to give you the three white stones, which—”
“What three white stones?”
“The three magic white stones which have strange and supernatural powers, you stupid drongo!” the King snapped. “Of all the…”
Asaf sighed, and opened the door. “Oh, all right,” he said.
“But I’m not shooting anybody, and that’s final. You wait here and don’t interfere.”
He climbed out of the camper. His legs were stiff with cramp after the long drive, and his left foot had gone to sleep. He hobbled over to where the donkey had come to an expectant halt.
“Allah be praised!” the girl exclaimed. She was radiantly beautiful, and around her neck hung a single white pearl which shone with a strange inner light. “Quick, my prince, take this bow and—”
“Be quiet!” Asaf snapped. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.” He trudged past her and stood between her and the camels, which slewed to a halt. The lead camel-rider drew a curved blue sword and brandished it ferociously.
“Out of the way, infidel,” he snarled, “or I shall cut off your head!”
Asaf shook his head. “Don’t be silly,” he said briskly. “And for your information, I’m not an infidel.”
The camel-rider reined in his steed and frowned. “Yes, you are,” he said. “By definition,” he added.
“Rubbish.”
The other two camel-riders drew their scimitars and waved them, but with rather less enthusiasm.
Asaf didn’t move. “Well?” he said.
“Well what?”
“Ask me a question about Islamic belief and culture. That’ll show whether I’m an infidel or not.”
“It’s just an expression,” the second camel-rider started to say, but his superior shushed him.
“All right, Mister Clever,” said the first camel-rider. “What’s the first verse of the fortieth chapter of the Koran? You don’t know, do you? I thought you…”
Asaf cleared his throat. “This book is revealed by Allah,” Asaf recited in a loud, clear voice, “the mighty one, the all-knowing, who forgives sin and accepts repentance, the bountiful one, whose punishment is stern. Want me to go on?”
The camel-riders looked at each other.
“OK,” said the first camel-rider. “So you’re not an infidel. Now will you please shove off and let us get on with our work?”
Asaf stayed where he was. “Bet you don’t know the next bit,” he said.
The camel-rider glowered at him. "Course I do,” he said.
“Go on, then. Prove it.”
“Huh.” The first camel-rider sniffed. “There is no god but Him, all shall return to him, none but the unbelievers dispute the teachings of Allah—”
“Excuse me,” the second camel-rider interrupted.
The first camel-rider whirled round in his saddle. “What?” he said.
“It’s not teachings, it’s revelations. The revelations of Allah.”
The first camel-rider scowled. “It says teachings, son of a dog!” he growled. “Do you dare—?”
“Actually,” muttered the third camel-rider, “he’s quite right, it is revelations. Here, have a look. At the bottom of the second page, three lines up.”
“What!” roared the first rider. “You dare to contradict me, spawn of filth! I shall cut off—”
“Here, look for yourself, it’s there in black and…”
“He’s right, you know, Trev. It does say…”
There was the sharp, brittle sound of steel clashing on steel. Asaf sighed, shook his head sadly, and sauntered back to where the girl was waiting.
“Idiots,” he muttered softly. “All right, give me the stones and sling your hook.”
“Allah be praised, oh my prince,” said the girl nervously, rather as if she’d been expecting a rather different cue. “Thanks to you—”
“Yes,” Asaf said. “We’ll take all that as read, shall we? The stones, please.”
Behind him there was a roar of triumph. The third rider lay slumped on the sand, and the first rider was brandishing his sword again.
“If I were you,” Asaf said, “I’d hand them over and get the hell out of here before those two sort out their differences. Keep straight on down this road about ten miles and you’ll find a telephone box. Phone the police. OK?”
The girl nodded, confused, and handed him a white cloth bag which held something heavy. Before she could say anything else, Asaf turned on his heel, hobbled back to the van and slammed the door.
“I trust,” he said, putting the van into gear and driving off, “that there’s not going to be much more of this sort of thing, because a man can only take so much pratting around before his patience starts to wear thin. I’m telling you this,” he added, “just so’s you’ll know. OK?”
“OK, mate. Actually…”
Asaf turned his head and gave the King a long, cold look. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “There’s more.”
“Fair crack of the whip, chum, it is a quest.”
Asaf glanced quickly in the mirror, slowed down and started to turn the van around.
“Hey,” the King protested, “what are you…”
“Going home,” Asaf replied. “Look, I may just be a simple fisherman, but I have my self-respect. So let’s just call it quits. You get out of my life and stay out, and everything will be fine.”
“But the sheila,” the King said. “It’s all fixed up!”
“Then unfix it.”
“I can’t!”
Asaf stopped the van. “What,” he asked quietly, “does that mean?”
The King bit his lips. “Like I said,” he replied mournfully.
“Everything’s set up. You wished, remember?”
“Wealth without limit was what I wished for,” Asaf replied. “There wasn’t anything in the original specifications about running amok killing and stealing half-way across the blasted continent.”
“For pity’s sake, mate, this is my job on the line here. I’ve made arrangements…”
Asaf leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “All right,” he sighed. “On three conditions.”
“Anything.”
“One, you don’t sing.”
“No worries, mate, not another note.”
“Two,” said Asaf,
“we keep these stupid adventures to the basic minimum. No magic spells, no more beautiful maidens than absolutely necessary, and positively no gratuitous folldore. Agreed?”
“You got it.”
“Three.” He leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. “Keep your bloody shoes on.”
Two genies, rather the worse for six pints apiece of semi-skimmed with double-cream chasers, lurched out of Saheed’s and hailed a taxi.
“Where to?”
“Isson this bitta paper,” mumbled Nick. “Fastasyoulike.”
“You’re the boss,” replied the taxi. It hovered for a moment, straightening out its corners, and lowered itself to ground level. The genies climbed aboard.
“Home, James,” Con declaimed, “an’ don’t spare the Axminster.”
The carpet rose like a very flat Harrier, made itself stiff in every fibre of its being, and shimmered away into the night sky.
The cold air, rushing past their ears, served to cut the milk fug, and by the time they arrived at the destination scribbled on the milk-mat both genies were — not sober, exactly, but at least 90 per cent in charge of their principal motor functions. The ideal state, in other words, for attempting something very silly indeed.
“Right,” said Nick. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Con replied. “Here, I’m not so sure this is a very brilliant idea…
“Shuttup.” Nick rubbed his eyes and said the shape-changing spell aloud. It worked. “Your turn,” he said.
“I still think—”
“Get on with it.”
“All right.” Con mumbled the magic words; and he too changed shape. The carpet braked smoothly and began its descent.
“Here, Con,” Nick whispered. “Remind me. Which one am I supposed to be?”
Con shrugged. “I’ve forgotten,” he admitted. “Let’s have a look at you.”
“Well?”
Con rubbed his chin. “I think,” he said after a while, “you’re the tall one. Wossisname.”
“I see. So you’re…?”
“The other one.”
“Fine. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out.”
The carpet came to rest. The two genies climbed off and paid the fare, and then looked round. Nobody about. Probably just as well. What they were doing was, of course, unethical and probably highly illegal by genie standards. On the other hand, virtually everything genies do is.