Expecting Someone Taller Tom Holt

by Expecting Someone Taller (lit)

  "Why?" asked Flosshilde. Woglinde scowled at her.

  "Because if you don't, you get faults," said Aunt Marjorie, "and if you get more faults than everyone else, you lose."

  "That explains a great deal," said Flosshilde, brightly. "Thank you."

  "Mr. Philip Wilcox on Mayfair," said the tannoy.

  Aunt Marjorie turned to the Rhinemaidens, who were amusing themselves by making atrocious puns on the word "fault". "Watch this," she urged them. "He's very good."

  The Rhinedaughters put on their most serious expressions (which were not very serious, in absolute terms) and paid the strictest attention as Philip Wilcox and his tired but determined horse entered the ring. As the horse went past her, Flosshilde suddenly started forward, but Wellgunde nudged her and she composed herself.

  "You see," said Aunt Marjorie, "he's building up his speed nicely, he's timed it just right, and—oh."

  "Why's he stopped?" asked Woglinde. "I thought you said he was going to jump over that fence thing."

  Aunt Marjorie, raising her voice above the gasps and whispers of the spectators, explained that that was called a refusal.

  "Does he lose marks for that?"

  "Yes," said Liz, crisply.

  "He's still got points in hand," said Aunt Marjorie, trying to stay calm in this crisis. "I expect he'll go round the other way now. Yes, I thought he would."

  "He's stopped again," said Woglinde.

  "So he has," said Liz. "I wonder why?"

  "Is he allowed to hit his horse with that stick?" asked Flosshilde. "It must hurt an awful lot."

  "I think it's cruel," said Wellgunde.

  "I think he's going to try the gate this time," said Aunt Marjorie nervously. "Oh dear, not again..."

  "I think it's his fault for hitting the horse with that stick," said Wellgunde. "If I was the horse, I'd throw him off."

  "Thirty-three faults," sniggered the tannoy.

  "Is that a lot?" asked Flosshilde. Aunt Marjorie confirmed that it was, rather.

  Philip Wilcox was obviously finding it hard to think straight through the buzz of malicious giggling that welled up all around him. About the only jump he hadn't tried yet was the water-jump. He pulled Mayfair's head round, promised him an apple if he made it and the glue factory if he didn't, and pressed with his heels in the approved manner. Mayfair began to move smoothly, rhythmically towards the obstacle.

  "Come on, now," Aunt Marjorie hissed under her breath, "plenty of pace. Go on..."

  There is nothing, nothing in the world that amuses human beings more than the sight of a fully grown, fully clothed man falling into water, and sooner or later the human race must come to terms with this fact. But, to the Rhinedaughters (who are not human, but were created by a unique and entirely accidental fusion of the life-forces) it seemed strange that this unfortunate accident should produce such gales of laughter from everyone present, including the tannoy. Even Wellgunde, who thought it served him right for hitting the horse with the stick, was moved to compassion. She looked around to see if she was the only person not laughing, and observed that at least the girl sitting next to the fat woman did not seem to be amused. In fact, she appeared to be perfectly calm, and her face was a picture of tranquillity, like some Renaissance Madonna. Perhaps, thought the Rhinedaughter, she's an immortal too. Or perhaps she's just annoyed.

  "I'm so glad Joe won in the end," said Liz, getting to her feet. "Shall we go and find some tea?"

  * * *

  Restored to human shape once more, Malcolm crawled into the house and collapsed into a chair. He was utterly exhausted, his mouth was bruised and swollen, his back and sides were aching, and he had pulled a muscle in his neck when he had stopped so suddenly in front of the waterjump. The whole thing had probably hurt him just as much as it had hurt Philip Wilcox, and he had a terrible feeling that it hadn't been worth it. A minute or so of unbridled malice on his part was probably the worst thing that could happen to the universe, and his original argument, that anything that humiliated Philip Wilcox was bound to be good for the world, seemed rather flimsy in retrospect. He could only hope that the consequences would not be too dire.

  With an effort, he rose to his feet and stumbled out into the grounds. The show was, mercifully, drawing to a close and, within an hour or so, all the cars that were hiding his grass from the sun would be winding their way home, probably, since this was Somerset, at fifteen miles an hour behind a milk tanker. All he had to do now was present the prizes. This would, of course, mean standing up in public and saying something coherent, and for a moment he stopped dead in his tracks. He should be feeling unmitigated terror at the prospect of this ordeal, but he wasn't. He tried to feel frightened, but the expected reaction refused to materialise. He raised his eyebrows and said "Well, I'm damned" to himself several times.

  As he stood on the platform handing out rosettes, the three Rhinedaughters studied him carefully through their designer sunglasses.

  "No, don't tell me," whispered Flosshilde, "I'll remember in a minute."

  "Siegfried," said Wellgunde. "It's Siegfried. What a nerve!"

  "Why shouldn't he be Siegfried if he wants to?" whispered Woglinde. "I think it suits him."

  "Oh, well." Flosshilde shrugged her slim shoulders. "Here we go again."

  Malcolm was shaking Joe Ayres by the hand and saying "Well done." Joe Ayres winced as he withdrew his hand; he suspected that the German's ferocious grip had dislocated one of his knuckles.

  "It could have been worse," said Flosshilde, "considering..." She stopped suddenly and poked Wellgunde's arm. "Look," she hissed, "over there, by the pear tree. Look who it is!"

  "No!" Wellgunde's eyes were sparkling with excitement as she followed Flosshilde's pointing finger, and a pear on the tree ripened prematurely as a result. "I don't believe it."

  "He doesn't look a day older," said Woglinde, fondly.

  The other two made faces at her.

  * * *

  Malcolm recognised Alberich at once. As the Prince of the Nibelungs approached him, Malcolm's heart seemed to collapse. Not that the Nibelung was a terrifying sight; a short, broad, grey-haired man in a dark overcoat, nothing more. There was no point in running away, and Malcolm stood his ground as Alberich approached and extended his hand for a handshake. Malcolm closed his fist around the Ring and put his hands behind his back.

  "I'm sorry," said Alberich in German. "I thought you were someone else."

  "Oh, yes?"

  "Someone I used to know in Germany, as a matter of fact. You look very like him, from a distance. But perhaps he was a little bit taller."

  "I don't think so," said Malcolm without thinking.

  Alberich laughed. "How would you know? But you're right, actually. He wasn't."

  "My name is Manfred Finger," Malcolm managed to say. "I own the Hall."

  "Hans Albrecht." Alberich smiled again. "I'm afraid I don't know many people in England. But perhaps you know a friend of mine who lives near here."

  "I'm afraid I don't know many people either," said Malcolm, forcing himself to smile. "I've only been here a short while myself."

  "Well, this friend of mine is a very remarkable person, so perhaps you do know him. Malcolm Fisher. Familiar?"

  "Any friend of Malcolm's is a friend of mine," said Malcolm truthfully. "But I don't remember him mentioning you."

  "That's so like him." Alberich was massaging the fourth finger of his right hand as if it was hurting. "Arthritis," he explained. "Anyway, if you see him before I do, you might remind him that he's got something of mine. A gold ring, and a hat. Both valueless, but I'd like them back."

  "I'm afraid Malcolm hasn't been quite himself lately," said Malcolm. "But I'll remind him if I see him before you do."

  "Would you? That's very kind. And do give him my best wishes." Alberich turned to go, then stopped. "Oh, and by the way," he said in English. "Well done. I liked your horse. Goodbye."

  * * *

  As if that wasn't bad enough, Malcolm heard on t
he late news that two airliners had missed each other by inches over Manchester that afternoon. Had they collided, said the announcer, more than five hundred people would probably have lost their lives. An inquiry was being held, but the probable cause of the incident was human error.

  6.

  AGAINST THE DARK blue night sky above the Mendip Hills, someone with bright eyes might have been able to make out two tiny black dots, which could conceivably have been ravens, except of course that they were far too high up.

  "It was around here somewhere," said Thought.

  "That's what you said last time," said Memory. His pinions were aching, and he hadn't eaten for sixteen hours. During that time, he and his colleague had been round the world twenty-four times. Anything the sun could do, it seemed, they could do better.

  "All right, then," said Thought, "don't believe me, see if I care. But he's down there somewhere, I know he is. I definitely heard the Ring calling."

  "That was probably Radio Bristol," said Memory. Exhaustion had made him short-tempered.

  They flew on in silence, completing a circuit of the counties of Somerset, Avon and Devon. Finally, they could go no further, and swooped down onto the roof of a thatched barn just outside Dulverton.

  "How come you can hear the Ring, anyway?" said Memory. "I can't."

  "Nor me, usually. It just sort of happens, once in a while. But it never lasts long enough for me to get an exact fix on it."

  A foolhardy bat fluttered towards them, curious to know who these strangers might be. The two ravens turned and stared at it, frightening it out of its wits.

  "If it's about the radio licence," said the bat, "there's a cheque in the post."

  "Get lost," said Memory, and the bat did its best to obey. Being gifted with natural radar, however, it did not find it easy.

  "Wotan's in a terrible state these days," said Thought. "Not happy at all."

  "So what's new?"

  "He's been all over the shop looking for clues. Went down a tin-mine in Bolivia the other day, came out all covered in dust."

  "I could have told him he'd do no good in Bolivia," said Memory. "Perhaps it would be better if we split up. That way we could cover more ground. You take one hemisphere, I take the other, sort of thing."

  Thought considered this for a moment. "No, wouldn't work. You couldn't think where to go, and I couldn't remember where I'd been. Waste of everybody's time."

  "Please yourself."

  "You want to go off on your own then, or what?"

  "Forget it."

  Thought was about to say something, but stopped. "Listen," he whispered. "Did you hear that?"

  "What?"

  "It's the Ring again. Somewhere over there." He pointed with his wing to the east. "Not too far away, either."

  "How far?"

  "Dunno, it's stopped again."

  Memory shook his head. "I'm thinking of packing all this in," he said.

  "How do you mean?" said Thought.

  "All this flying about, and that. I mean, where's it getting me?"

  "It's a living, though."

  "Is it?" Memory leaned forward and snapped up a moth. It tasted sour. "You take my brother-in-law. Talentless little git if you ask me. Used to run errands for the Moon-Goddess. Then they got one of those telexes, and he was out on his ear. So he set up this courier service—five years ago, give or take a bit—and look at him now. Nest in the tallest forest in Saxony, another in the Ardennes for the winter, and I bet he isn't eating moths."

  "Nests aren't everything," said Thought. "There's job satisfaction. There's travel. There's service to the community. "

  "I know," said Memory. "Instead of all this fooling about, why don't we keep an eye on the girls, or Alberich? Maybe they know something we don't."

  Thought considered this. "Could do," he said, "it's worth a try..." He stopped, and both birds were silent for a moment. "There it goes again. Definitely over there somewhere."

  "Stuff it," said Memory. "Let's find the Rhinedaughters."

  * * *

  Malcolm found it difficult to sleep that night. He had managed to get the thought of the two airliners out of his mind, but the meeting with Alberich was not so lightly dismissed. He had been afraid, more so than ever before, and the terrible thing was that he could not understand why. He was taller and stronger than the Nibelung, and he had the ability to make himself taller and stronger yet if the need arose. That was the whole point of the Tarnhelm. But the Nibelung had something else that made his own magic powers seem irrelevant; he had authority, and that was not something Malcolm could afford to ignore.

  He looked at his watch; it was half-past two in the morning. He toyed with the idea of transporting himself to Los Angeles or Adelaide, where it would be light and he could get a cup of coffee without waking up the housekeeper. He was on the point of doing this when he heard a noise in the corridor outside.

  Combe Hall was full of unexplained noises, which everyone he asked attributed to the plumbing. But something told Malcolm that plumbing made gurgling noises, not stealthy creeping noises. Without understanding why, he knew that he was in danger, and something told him that it was probably the right time for him to become invisible.

  His bedroom door was locked, and he stood beside it. Outside, he could hear footsteps, which stopped. There was a scrabbling sound, a click and the door opened gently. He recognised the face of Alberich, peering into the room, and for a moment was rooted to the spot. Then it occurred to him that he was considerably bigger than Alberich, and also invisible. The Nibelung crept into the room and tiptoed over to the bed. As he bent over it, Malcolm kicked him hard.

  It would be unfair to Malcolm to say that he did not know his own strength. He knew his own strength very well (or rather his lack of it) but as yet he had not come to terms with the strength of Siegfried the Dragon-Slayer. As a result, he hit Alberich very hard indeed. The intruder uttered a loud yelp and fell over.

  Malcolm was horrified. His first reaction was that he must have killed Alberich, but a loud and uncomplicated complaint from his victim convinced him that that was not so. His next reaction was to apologise.

  "Sorry," he said. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  "You clumsy idiot," said the Prince of the Nibelungs, "you've broken my leg."

  It occurred to Malcolm that this served Alberich right, and he said so. In fact, he suggested, Alberich was extremely lucky to get off so lightly, since presumably he had broken in with the intention of committing murder.

  "Don't be stupid," said Alberich. "I only wanted the Ring."

  He made it sound as if he had just dropped by to borrow a bowl of sugar. "Now, about my broken leg..."

  "Never mind your broken leg."

  "I mind it a lot. Get a doctor."

  "You're taking a lot for granted, aren't you?" said Malcolm sternly. "You're my deadliest enemy. Why shouldn't I... well, dispose of you, right now?"

  Alberich laughed. "You?" he said incredulously. "Who do you think you are. Jack the Ripper?"

  "I could be if I wanted to," said Malcolm. The Nibelung ignored him.

  "You wouldn't hurt a fly," he sneered. "That's your trouble. You'll never get anywhere in this world unless you improve your attitude. And did no-one ever tell you it's bad manners to be invisible when someone's talking to you?"

  "You sound just like my mother," said Malcolm.

  He reappeared, and Alberich glowered at him. "Still pretending to be who you aren't, I see," he said.

  "I'll be who I want to be. I'm not afraid of you any more."

  "Delighted to hear it. Perhaps you'll fetch a doctor now."

  "And the police," said Malcolm, to frighten him. "You're a burglar."

  "You wouldn't dare," replied Alberich, but Malcolm could see he was worried. This was remarkable. A few minutes ago, he had been paralysed with fear. Now he found the whole thing vaguely comic. Still, it would be as well to call a doctor. He went to the telephone beside his bed.

  "Not
that sort of doctor," said Alberich, irritably. "What do you think I am, human?"

  "So what sort of doctor do you want?" Malcolm asked.

  "A proper doctor. A Nibelung."

  "Fine. And how do you suggest I set about finding one, look in the Yellow Pages?"

  "Don't be facetious. Use the Ring."

  "Can I do that?" Malcolm was surprised by this.

  "Of course you can. Just rub the Ring against your nose and call for a doctor."

  Feeling rather foolish, Malcolm did what he was told. At once, a short, stocky man with very pale skin materialised beside him, wearing what appeared to be a sack.

  "You called?" said the Nibelung.

  "Where did you come from?" Malcolm asked.

  "Nibelheim, where do you think? So where's the patient?"

  The doctor did something to Alberich's leg with a spanner and a jar of ointment, and disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

  "That's handy," Malcolm said. "Can I just summon Nibelungs when I want to?"

  "Of course," said Alberich. "Although why you should want to is another matter. By and large, they're incredibly boring people."

  Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, how's your leg?" he asked.

  "Very painful. But it's healed."

  "Healed? But I thought you said it was broken."

  "So it was," replied Alberich, calmly. "And now it's unbroken again. That's what the doctor was for. It'll be stiff for a day or so, of course, but that can't be helped. If you will go around kicking people, you must expect to cause anguish and suffering."

  Malcolm yawned. "In that case, you can go away and leave me in peace," he said. "And don't let me catch you around here again, or there'll be trouble."

  This bravado didn't convince anyone. Alberich made no attempt to move, but sat on the floor rubbing his knee, until Malcolm, unable to think of anything else to do, offered him a drink.

  "I thought you'd never ask," said Alberich. "I'll have a large schnapps, neat."

  "I don't think I've got any of that," said Malcolm.

  "You're supposed to be a German. Oh well, whatever comes to hand, so long as it isn't sherry. I don't like sherry."

  So it was that Malcolm found himself sharing a bottle of gin with the Prince of Nibelheim at three o'clock in the morning. It was not something he would have chosen to do, especially after a tiring day, but the mere fact that he was able to do it was remarkable enough. Alberich made no further attempt to relieve him of the Ring; he didn't even mention the subject until Malcolm himself raised it. Instead, he talked mostly about his health, or to be precise, his digestion.