Djinn Rummy

by Tom Holt

  “Here goes.”

  “Break a leg.” Con extended a slightly unsteady arm and rang Jane’s doorbell.

  “What do you mean,” Nick asked, “break a leg?”

  “It’s something mortals say,” Con replied as the porch light came on. “Something to do with good luck.”

  “It’s not good luck breaking a leg,” Nick said doubtfully. “Not if you’re a mortal, that is. Takes weeks to mend, a mortal leg does.”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  “Bloody silly one, if you ask me.”

  The door opened and Jane stood in the doorway. She was wearing a pink winceyette dressing-gown and fluffy slippers.

  “Ah,” said Nick, as smoothly as he could (but another half of pasteurised would, he realised, have been a wise precaution), “good evening, um, miss. My name’s Robert Redford and this is my friend Tom Cruise. Our car’s broken down and we were wondering if we could borrow your phone.”

  Jane frowned. “It’s two o’clock in the morning,” she said.

  If Nick was fazed for a moment, he didn’t show it. “Exactly what I was saying to Mr Cruise,” he replied. “Face it, Tom, I told him, chances of there being a garage open at this time of night are practically nil, so we’d better phone the breakdown service. And then, would you believe it, neither of us had any change. So we thought…”

  In the background, the carpet lifted smoothly into the air, waggled its seams and glided away. “You’d better come in,” Jane said.

  “Thanks.”

  Jane shut the door. “You’re genies, aren’t you?” she said.

  “An.”

  “It’s the carpet,” Jane said over her shoulder, leading the way through into the living-room. “It’s a dead giveaway, that. Also,” she added wearily, “you obviously haven’t seen Mr Redford for quite some time. Not that he hasn’t worn quite well, but…”

  Con took a deep breath. “Hey,” he said, “is this guy really a genie? Gosh, isn’t that.”

  “And so are you,” Jane sighed. “You’re still wearing your slippers.”

  The soi-disant Tom Cruise glanced down at his feet, which were encased in curly-toed gold slippers with jewels stuck to the uppers. “Damn,” he said.

  “Sit down,” said Jane.

  Nick smiled feebly. “Listen, Miss,” he said, “this has all been a big mistake, and…”

  “Sit down.”

  They sat down.

  “And take those silly faces off, for heaven’s sake.”

  They changed back into their proper shapes.

  “Sorry,” Nick said.

  “And so you should be.” Jane folded her arms and gave them each a look that would have made a woolly mammoth feel at home. “Men!” she added.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Typical male idea of a joke,” Jane went on. “Oh gosh, Kiss is getting married, let’s go and play a joke on him. Puerile.”

  “An.”

  “Posing as extremely handsome film actors, you said to yourselves, let’s make some excuse to get in to her flat, so that when he comes round the next morning he’ll jump to the wrong conclusion, get madly jealous and they’ll have a row. How utterly childish!”

  Nick swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said, “I see that now. How silly of me.”

  “Me too,” Con mumbled. “Won’t be doing anything like this again ma hurry, you can bet your life.”

  Jane glowered at them. “Actually,” she said, “you’re closer to the truth there than you think. Stay there.”

  She swept out, and came back a few seconds later with two tomato ketchup bottles and a saucepan. “It’s just as well,” she said, “that I was planning on making a bolognese anyway.”

  She emptied the bottles into the saucepan, put them down on a coffee table, and snapped her fingers. “Right,” she commanded. “In you get.”

  The two genies stared at each other.

  “You can’t be…”

  “You heard me. Come on, jump to it.”

  Quickly, the two genies assessed their position. On the one hand, Jane had invoked no magic spell or charm sufficient to force them into the bottles. They didn’t have to go. They would be perfectly within their rights to stay exactly where they were and simply explain, calmly and rationally, exactly what they thought they were playing at.

  WHOOSH!

  Jane nodded and screwed down the lids. Then she put the bottles away in the kitchen cupboard and went back to bed.

  NINE

  Start a war.

  Using hail, giant ants and burning pitch. Piece of cake.

  The atmosphere was electric.

  Around the packed arena, a hundred thousand spectators watched dry-mouthed as the synthesized fanfare sounded, the gates opened and — the teams appeared!

  They had said it couldn’t happen, not in our lifetimes. The political, cultural and ideological gulf was too great, they said. They’d been wrong.

  As the teams ran on to the field, one man sat back in his seat in the President’s box and swelled with pride like an overfed bullfrog. Rightly so; he had devoted the last three years of his life to making this moment possible. He had dreamed the impossible dream, and it had become a reality.

  The first ever international sporting event between the pathologically hostile Latin American states of San Miguel and Las Monedas. The symbolic resolution of a feud that threatened the peace of the whole world. Here, in the Stadio Ricardo Nixon, San Miguel City, the differences of these two bitter rivals would be fought out, not with tanks and bombs but the click of heels, the swirl of petticoats, the snap of castanets. The great Tango Showdown between the San Miguel Tigers and the Las Monedas Centurions was about to begin.

  Secretary General Kropatchek sighed with pure pleasure. One small two-step for a man, he reflected, a giant entrechat for Mankind.

  The contestants lined up, magnificent in their gaudy splendour. Nervously, the orchestra tuned their instruments for the last time. One false note, they knew, could even now lead directly to Armageddon. The Master of Ceremonies took the field — just for today, he had dispensed with the curule chair and his customary robes, and was dressed in a simple purple tuxedo — and read a brief prayer before shouting, “Ariba!” and standing well back. The contest began.

  In the clear blue sky, a small black speck appeared, too small to notice.

  Accounts of what happened next vary, naturally. If you believe the San Miguel version, a Starfighter of the Las Monedas air force swooped down low over the arena, discharged a drop-tank of napalm on to the dead centre of the specially installed dance-floor, and roared away. The Las Monedians, of course, say that it was a San Miguel MiG that dropped the incendiary device. The truth will probably never be known. The truth, in circumstances like these, is generally irrelevant anyway.

  What did matter was the sudden explosion of activity in the President’s box. As the flames roared up to the sky from the middle of the stadium, the delegates from the two countries flew at each others’ throats and started throwing punches, plates of vol-au-vents and souvenir programmes. Their aides, meanwhile, were yelling into their radio handsets, demanding punitive air strikes and massive retribution. Secretary General Kropatchek managed to escape to safety, but only by stunning a passing waiter, snatching his tray and edging out backwards handing out canapés.

  Three hours later, just before hostilities could begin in earnest, a hasty cease-fire was lashed together: involving a three-mile neutral zone along the common frontier, a UN peacekeeping force and a unilateral ban on all forms of ballroom and flamenco dancing throughout the front line states. It held. Just.

  Which pleased the human race no end but irritated Philly Nine, who had put a lot of thought and effort into the attack, and had quite reasonably expected a result. Back to the drawing board.

  High in his solitary eyrie, he watched the tanks withdraw, clicked his tongue, and took out his crumpled envelope.

  He ran his pen down the margin and drew a cross.

  x Burn
ing pitch

  Ah well, he muttered to himself. Better luck next time.

  One small random particle, working its way steadily towards the centre…

  “That signpost,” said Asaf, with deadly patience, “says Ankara, 15km.”

  The Dragon King lifted his sunglasses and squinted. “Too right, mate,” he said. “Well, stuff me for a kookaburra’s uncle.”

  Asaf breathed out slowly through his nose. “I may yet,” he replied. “Admit it,” he went on. “We’re on the wrong road.”

  The King looked out of the window. “Hell,” he said, “it all looks different from down here. I’m used to the aerial view.”

  Asaf snarled, put the camper into reverse and started to backup. The King put a hand on his arm.

  “Just a second there, mate,” he said. “While we’re here, we might just as well…”

  He tailed off. Asaf scowled.

  “We aren’t lost, are we?” he said accusingly. “You’ve lured me out here for another of your goddamn poxy adventures. Admit it.”

  “Fair dinkum, mate, you’ll like this one. Stand on me.”

  Asaf stamped on the accelerator, sending the camper hurtling backwards. “Oh no, you bloody well don’t,” he snapped. “Not after the last time.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And the time before that.”

  “Hang on just a—”

  “And the time before that, with the talking shrub. I nearly died of embarrassment.”

  The King shut his eyes, took a deep breath and stalled the engine. Or rather, he caused the engine to stall. Then he tried his best at an ingratiating smile.

  “Adventure,” he said weakly, “is the spice of life.”

  “Get out.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Get out of my van,” Asaf growled. “And you can bloody well walk home.”

  “You haven’t seen the adventure yet.”

  Just then, at precisely the moment when Asaf was leaning across to work the passenger-door handle, a beautiful white gazelle sprang out in front of the camper, stopped dead in its tracks, raised its head for an instant and then ran on. Asaf stared.

  “Is that the adventure?” he said.

  The King drew breath to explain, thought better of it and nodded.

  “You see?” he said. “Told you you’d like it.”

  Asaf frowned. “I must be mad,” he muttered. “Stark staring—”

  “She’ll be right, mate. Trust me.”

  Still muttering, Asaf climbed slowly out of the camper, shut the door and walked slowly towards the gazelle, which had stopped about seventy-five yards away and was feeding peacefully on a discarded cheese roll. He had covered half the distance when — WHOOSH!

  It seemed as if the ground split open at his feet, as a huge apparition reared up and loomed over him. Generally humanoid in form, it had three heads, five arms and the legs of a wild goat. Out of the corners of its mouths projected weird curling tusks, and in its hands it held a variety of archaic but imagination-curdling weapons. It crouched in a fighting pose and said, “Ha!”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” said Asaf, disgustedly. “Not you again.”

  And justifiably; because all three of the monster’s heads were the same, and the face on each of them was identical to the one Asaf had so far encountered on one camel-riding magician, one magic-carpet-riding Grand Vizier, one man-eating Centaur, one seven-headed magic bird and, improbable as it may seem, one evil but enchanting houri. It was a face that was starting to get on Asaf’s nerves.

  “Tremble!” the monster commanded, a mite self-consciously. It was the tone of voice a policeman might use when arresting someone who, on closer inspection, turned out to be his elder brother.

  “Bog off,” Asaf replied. He turned on his heel and started to walk back to the van.

  “Wretched mortal, I shall devour…” the monster started to say; then it realised that its audience was fifteen yards away and walking briskly. It scampered after him; a manoeuvre that wasn’t helped by the goat’s feet.

  “Wretched… mortal… I…” it puffed. “Here, wait for me!”

  Asaf turned and scowled, hands on hips. “Look,” he said, “I told you the last time. I’m not interested. Go away.” He turned and quickened his pace, and the monster had to sprint to keep up with him.

  “But I shall devour… oof!”

  Before the monster could halt its teetering run (imagine Godzilla in a pair of two-inch-heel court shoes, each shoe on the wrong foot) Asaf had whirled round and prodded it hard just below the navel. It wobbled for a fraction of a second and then sat down hard on a sharp boulder.

  “Ouch!” it said. “That hurt.”

  “Good.” Asaf grabbed a pointed ear and twisted it. “Look, chum, so far I’ve killed you twice, imprisoned your soul in a bottle, thrown you off a cliff and nailed your ears to a tree. What exactly do I have to do to you before you get the message?”

  “I’m only doing my job,” the monster replied.

  “Find another job, then,” Asaf snapped. “Carpentry, for instance. Plumbing. Chartered surveying. Anything which doesn’t involve meeting me ever again. Otherwise,” he added, “I shall get seriously annoyed. Got it?”

  “Finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” The monster clicked its tongues. “Now then, where was I? Oh magnanimous one, spare my life and I shall…”

  “Hold on,” Asaf interrupted, turning the ear in his hand a few degrees clockwise. “This doesn’t involve three wishes, does it, because I’ve had all that and as far as I’m concerned you can take your three wishes and you can—”

  “No, it doesn’t,” replied the monster irritably. “And my ear is not a starting handle. Thank you very much.”

  “Get on with it, then.”

  “Spare my life,” growled the monster, “and I shall show thee the most wondrous treasure.” It glanced up with its unencumbered heads. “Interested?”

  “Not very,” Asaf replied. “But it’s an improvement. Go on.”

  “Not three leagues from here,” said the monster, “there lies an enchanted castle, under whose walls—”

  “Hold it.”

  “Well?”

  “Three leagues,” said Asaf. “What’s that in kilometres?”

  “Fourteen and a half,” snapped the monster. “Not fourteen and a half kilometres from here there lies an enchanted castle, under whose—”

  Asaf shook his head. “No way,” he said. “A fifteen-kilometre detour on these roads, there and back, that’s best part of an hour. We wouldn’t reach Istanbul till gone nine.”

  “Hoy!” the monster broke in angrily. “We’re talking about a wondrous treasure here.”

  “Sorry,” Asaf replied. “Not even with free wine-glasses.” He gave the ear a final twist, for luck, and let go. “So long,” he said. “I have this strange feeling we’ll meet again soon. Till then, mind how you go.”

  “Gold!” the monster yelled after him. “Silver! Precious stones!”

  “Balls,” Asaf replied.

  “You can’t do this,” screamed the monster. “I’ve signed for it now, they’ll have my guts for—”

  “I expect you’re used to that by now,” Asaf said. “Ciao.”

  “Bastard!” The monster shook its many fists, spat into the dust and started to sink into the ground. Asaf walked a few more yards, and then stopped.

  “Hey!” he said.

  The monster paused, waist-deep in the earth. “Well?”

  “Did you say gold?”

  “Yes.”

  “And silver? And precious stones?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay there, I’ll be right with you.”

  Asaf turned and hurried back. The monster was leaning on its elbows, drumming its fingers on a rock.

  “You really like causing problems, don’t you?” it said.

  “You do realise I’m stuck here till they can get a maintenance crew out?”

  “Gosh,”
said Asaf. “Sorry about that.”

  “Either you can materialise,” grumbled the monster, “or you can vanish. One or the other. You try mixing the two, you get stuck.”

  “That was thoughtless of me,” Asaf admitted. “By the way, I don’t think I caught your name — your actual name, that is. Like, when you’re off-duty.”

  “Neville.”

  “I’m Asaf.”

  “Hello.”

  “Hello. Now, about this gold.”

  “And silver.”

  “Quite. How exactly do I set about—?”

  “And precious stones.”

  “Great.” Asaf broadened his smile a little. “Can you give me specific directions, because then I won’t have to trouble you to come with me, I can just…”

  The monster shook his heads. “Oh, no, you don’t,” it said. “This time we do it by the book.”

  Asaf sagged a little. “Do we really have to?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sure? I mean, wouldn’t it be far simpler if you just drew me a map or something?”

  “Out of the question,” Neville replied. “First, you’ve got to fight the hundred-headed guardian of the pit, and then—”

  “Hang on,” said Asaf. “This hundred-headed guardian. That’ll be you, right?”

  Neville bit his lips, then nodded. “That’s right,” he mumbled.

  “And I win, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you get killed.”

  “Yup.”

  “Again.”

  Neville furrowed all his brows simultaneously. “Yeah,” he said. “A bit pointless, really, isn’t it?”

  “Futile, if you ask me.”

  “Anyway,” Neville went on, “after you’ve killed the hundred-headed guardian, then you’ve got to guess the secret riddle of the Mad Witch of the North—”

  “You again, right?”

  Neville nodded. “In a frock,” he added. “Three sizes too small, too. Stops your circulation.”

  “Must be awful.”

  “It is. After that,” he went on, counting off on his fingers, “there’s the monstrous cloud-stepping ogre—”

  “Guess who.”

  “Followed by the wicked Grand Vizier who tries to have you thrown in the snake-pit…”