by Tom Holt
The Queen laughed lightly. ‘Very true,’ she said, and sat down on the cardboard box. ‘Now then,’ she went on, ‘what can I do for you?’
Bedevere looked at her, and his face seemed to have undergone something of a transformation. Gone was the slightly sheepish look that always reminded Turquine of the last thing but one he saw in his mind’s eye before going to sleep; in its place was an expression of gentle but hard determination, such as you might find on the face of someone who will break both your arms if necessary, but with a fitting sense of gravity and decorum.
‘I want my money back,’ he said.
The Queen’s mouth fell open, and for the first time since the groat was demonetised she couldn’t think what to say. ‘I’m sorry?’ was the best she could do.
‘So you should be,’ replied Bedevere sternly. He was silent for a moment, and then added, ‘You don’t remember, do you?’
The Queen shook her head. ‘Frankly,’ she replied, ‘no.’
Bedevere frowned. ‘A castle,’ he said, ‘in the middle of a waste and desolate plain, somewhere in the middle of Benwick. A dark and stormy night, with the rain lashing down and lightning playing about the battlements. A young and innocent knight, hopelessly lost on his quest to pay the month’s takings from the family dye works into the bank in Rhydychen. The knight sees the castle, murmurs “Thank God!” and craves the right of hospitality. The chatelaine of the castle invites him in, makes him welcome. There is light, and warmth, and food. And then...’
A brief spasm of pain shot across Bedevere’s face and then his jaw set, as firm as a join in a superglue advertisement.
‘In the morning,’ he said, ‘the castle has gone. So has the money. The knight awakes on the cold fell, with nothing but his armour and a share certificate for twenty thousand Lyonesse Goldfields plc three-mark ordinary shares. He returns home. He explains as best he can. Stunned silence; then the reproaches, the recriminations, how could you do such a thing...?’
Bedevere shook his head and sighed. There were tears in the corners ofhis eyes, but his face remained as grim as death.
‘The young knight was me, of course,’ he said. ‘Of course, you don’t remember, how could you? Another day, another sucker. But we were different. We couldn’t afford it. Dammit, it was hard enough being in trade as it was. God, when I think how they scrimped and saved just so that I could go to the Ecole des Chevaliers! It ruined us, you realise, completely ruined. My father had to get a job as a fencing master. My mother had to go out posing for illuminated manuscripts. And kindly have the courtesy not to powder your nose when I’m talking to you!’
The Queen closed her compact with a firm click and looked up. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I was miles away. Did you say something about wanting some money back?’
Unable to trust himself to speak, Bedevere reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded paper, which he tossed contemptuously on the ground. The Queen leant forward and picked it up.
‘Gosh,’ she said, ‘haven’t seen one of these for years.
Twenty thousand shares!’ She giggled, then composed herself rapidly. ‘At the time,’ she said, ‘a greatly fancied investment. I believe they tried to put together a rescue package.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Bedevere growled. ‘My money back, please. Now.’
The Queen raised an eyebrow. ‘Terribly sorry,’ she said, ‘no can do. It’s this thing - terrible bore, but a fact of life nevertheless - called limited liability. It means that—’
‘I know what it means, thank you very much,’ said Bedevere, his voice ominously soft. ‘It means you can do something and get away with it scot free.’
The Queen nodded brightly. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Keystone of the enterprise economy, that is.’
‘Because the company has ceased to exist.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Fine.’ Bedevere stood up. ‘Now then,’ he said quietly, ‘on the same principle, how would it be if this company of yours ceased to exist? For the sake of argument,’ he added, picking up the ledgers he’d been sitting on. ‘Unlikely, but possible. If, for example, all the statutory books went missing? No, that wouldn’t work. How about if the company secretary and majority shareholder took it into her head to wind the whole thing up, just like that?’
The Queen laughed shrilly. ‘Now, then,’ she said, ‘why on earth would I want to—’
‘And if she did,’ Bedevere went on, ‘I wonder what would happen to all this?’ He made a sweeping gesture with his free hand. ‘This ... this remarkable set-up you’ve got here? The registered office that nobody can find, and which keeps dodging about, so that it’s never in any one jurisdiction long enough for the courts to dissolve the company. Or the strong magical field that keeps the whole enterprise hidden, so that the only way to get into it is by fax? All it would take is one special resolution of the shareholders, with a straight seventy-five per cent majority vote.’ He held the register of shareholders open. ‘I notice,’ he said, ‘that you hold ninety-nine per cent of the shares, so all you need to do is vote yes, and that’s that.’
‘Quite true,’ said the Queen, very calmly. ‘I hold ninety-nine per cent.’
Bedevere reached inside his jacket again. ‘And I,’ he said, ‘hold this very sharp knife.’ He grinned. ‘Ready?’
The Queen started to back away towards the jar of pickled onions that had appeared out of nowhere in the comer of the room, but Bedevere simply laughed and threw the register at it. It smashed into a thousand pieces, and no door came.
‘Ready?’ he repeated. ‘In the Articles of Association, which I’ve just been reading, it says that only a director can move a special resolution.’ He advanced slowly, holding the knife very steady in his right hand. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘there’s just been a vacancy on the board.’
The Queen’s eyes were glued to the knife. ‘Surely not,’ she said. ‘I’d have been the first to know.’
‘Not in this case,’ Bedevere replied. ‘Your friend there,’ and he nodded at the recumbent PA, ‘resigned just before he passed out. I heard him. You believe me, don’t you?’
The Queen nodded. The knife caught the light and glittered.
‘In which case,’ said Bedevere, ‘you’ve just proposed me for the post of -’ he chuckled ‘- director in charge of takeovers and mergers. Bloody, foul and unnatural mergers. All those in favour say yes. Say yes.’
‘Yyy.’
‘Great. Now then, I vote that Lyonesse (Holdings) plc be wound up forthwith. All those in favour...’
The Queen started to scream, but Bedevere curled his lip. It was a long time since he’d last had occasion to do anything so melodramatic - not, in fact, since he’d been the Second Roman Soldier in the sixth-form mystery play - and as a result, parts of his moustache went up his nose. He sneezed.
‘Save your breath, please,’ he said. ‘Nobody can hear you, and even if they could, what good would it do? Nobody can get in here, remember? Nobody can even find it. It moves about. Unless you know the trick with the jar, the only way in here is by fax, and I’ve cut the bloody thing’s flex. And once you’re in here,’ he added, ‘magic, even Gold 337, doesn’t work, because of your extremely clever insulation system. I’m sorry,’ he continued, moving the knife, ‘but this is a cut-throat business. All those in favour.’
The Queen’s tongue darted round the circuit of her lips but could do little to moisten them. She tried to speak, but nothing came out except a small, creased whimper.
‘Ready?’
‘No!’ The Queen could feel her shoulder-blades against the wall. ‘You can’t. You’re a knight, remember; knights can’t kill damsels in distress. It’s...’
‘Unethical?’ Bedevere smiled. ‘Three points, briefly. One, you’re not a damsel, you’re a sorceress, and they’re fair game, all year round, with or without a permit. Two, we’re inside the registered office of the Lyonesse Group, which is outside all recognised jurisdictions, so nobody will ever know. Three ...’
He grinned. ‘Three is, what the hell, rules were made to be broken.’ He grinned savagely, and the Queen instinctively raised her arm in front of her face.
‘There is, of course, an alternative...’
‘Excuse me,’ said the assistant cashier, ‘but you can’t go in there.’
Von Weinacht turned and stared at him. ‘Sorry?’ he said.
There was a brief moment when their eyes met; and the cashier remembered that he had a son, and the son wanted a mountain-bike and a Teenage Mutant Accountants Playset more than anything in the world, and that if he didn’t get one...
‘No problem,’ the cashier mumbled hoarsely. ‘Where to?’
‘The Forbidden City, I think it’s called.’
‘Third on the left,’ the cashier said. ‘Follow your nose, you can’t miss it.’
‘Is there?’
Bedevere nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Just give me my money back and,’ he added, as nonchalantly as he could, ‘the Personal Organiser of Wisdom, and we’ll say no more about it. All right?’
Don’t you just know, immediately and instinctively, when you’ve said the wrong thing? Like asking someone how his girlfriend is, just as you notice out of the corner of your eye that half the furniture is missing, and the picture of a dog burying a bone which he’d always told you he hated has vanished from the wall? And all the magic of the Great Pentagram won’t drag the words back into your mouth, or do anything to mitigate the joint-cracking embarrassment of it all.
‘So that’s what it’s all about, is it?’ the Queen replied.
‘Um.’ Bedevere bit his lip. ‘That’s beside the point,’ he said, ‘and the point is very sharp, very sharp indeed, so...’
‘Very well, then,’ said the Queen, folding her arms and sticking her chin out. ‘Kill me then, see if I care.’
Bedevere frowned, and then turned the frown into a scowl. ‘Don’t push your luck,’ he growled; but the growl came out about as menacing as the mewing of a kitten.
‘Go on.’
‘Look...’
‘Scaredy-cat!’
‘Don’t you—’
‘Cowardy cowardy custard!’
‘Damn!’
With a grunt of pure rage, Bedevere swung the knife up and hurled it into the floor, where it quivered like a violin string. Then he sagged, like an ice-cream skeleton in a microwave.
‘I thought so,’ said the Queen. ‘You never had the faintest intention, did you?’
Bedevere scowled at her. ‘Don’t sound so damned disappointed,’ he said, and slumped into the corner. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘I had you going there for a moment, didn’t I?’
The Queen had her powder compact out again.
‘Certainly not,’ she said to the mirror. ‘You knights are all mouth and vambraces. You’ll be hearing from my legal advisers about this, by the way.’
But Bedevere had made up his mind. One moment he was in the corner, about as taut and poised as a bag of old shoes; the next moment he was on his feet and grabbing the Queen’s organiser bag with both hands.
‘Hey!’ the Queen squealed. ‘Get off, will you?’
The strap broke - it was a fiendishly expensive bag, with one of those flimsy gold chain straps, and Bedevere weighed close on thirteen stone without armour - and the bag flew open. One of the things that landed on the floor was a small, leather-covered thing like a book. Before the Queen could move, Bedevere was standing on it, with a smirk on his face you could have built a trading estate on.
‘And sucks to you too,’ he said.
‘You’ve got no right...’
‘Granted,’ said Bedevere. Then he stuck his tongue out.
The Queen shrieked and grabbed the hilt of the dagger, but it was too firmly stuck in the floor. So she called Bedevere a rude name instead.
‘Sticks and stones,’ replied the knight, and he stooped quickly, picked up the book, and stowed it carefully away.
‘Now then,’ he said, ‘about my money...’
Just then, a chimney appeared in the corner of the room; and in the mouth of the chimney, a pair of boots...
‘What the hell’s keeping him?’ said Turquine irritably.
The hackers looked at each other.
‘Ten to one he’s got lost,’ Turquine continued, picking at the sleeve of his coat, where a loose thread was beginning to unwind itself. ‘No more sense of direction than a tree, that man. Got us lost on the way here, and that was just on the ring road.’
The hairy hacker coughed meaningfully. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know this isn’t going to be easy for you to accept, but people...’
‘What?’
The hacker flushed under his superabundance of facial hair. ‘When people go in ... in there,’ he said, ‘well, coming out is the exception rather than the norm, if you see what I mean. Like, your friend is probably...’
‘Balls,’ Turquine replied. ‘He’s just got lost somewhere, that’s all. Come on, you dozy lot, I suppose we’d better go and get him.’
The hacker shrugged; a what-the-hell, Light-Brigade, last-one-into-Sebastopol’s-a-sissy shrug.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Wait for us.’
‘Freeze,’ said a voice from the fireplace.
Bedevere and the Queen turned and stared. The boots kicked, like the feet of a hanged man, and there was a vulgar expression from about where the mantel-piece should have been. Then a lot of soot and what looked rather like a dead bird fell into the grate, followed by a man in a somewhat grubby red cape.
‘Hold it right there,’ he said. ‘Don’t even think of moving, either of you.’
He extracted himself from the fireplace, brushed a good deal of soot off himself, and straightened his back. He was very tall and broad, and he had eyes like little red traffic lights.
‘Where you made your mistake,’ he said to Bedevere, turning round and tugging at something still lodged in the chimney, ‘was in assuming that there was no other way into this room. Well, you were wrong. I can get in anywhere.’
Bedevere turned to the Queen. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but do you know this gentleman?’
The Queen mumbled something and nodded. Good Lord, Bedevere said to himself, she’s terrified. Then a tumbler fell in the combination lock of his mind.
‘Just a moment,’ he said, ‘aren’t you...?’
Von Weinacht snarled at him. ‘Don’t say it,’ he said. ‘Don’t make things worse for yourself than they already are.’ He tugged, and a sack came down into the grate with a heavy crunch. From it, von Weinacht produced a transparent cellophane package with a brightly coloured piece of cardboard at the top. Bedevere recognised its contents as one of those plastic swords given to children by parents who don’t value their neighbours’ daffodils. The Queen gave a little shriek.
‘Now,’ said von Weinacht, ‘to business.’ He tore off the cardboard and took out the plastic sword. ‘Two birds with one stone. You,’ and he nodded his streaming white beard at Bedevere, ‘are searching for the Holy Grail. You aren’t going to find it. And you...’ He gave the Queen a long and unfriendly look. ‘You and I go way back. I’ll deal with you later.’
‘Excuse me,’ Bedevere interrupted, ‘But how did you know...?’
Von Weinacht laughed. ‘I know everything,’ he said, with conviction. ‘I know the ground-plan and floor layout of every house in the world. I can read the minds of every parent and every child ever born. Of course I know what you’re up to, and you aren’t going to get away with it. Now, give me that book before I take it from you.’
He pulled off the plastic scabbard and threw it on to the ground, revealing a horribly shiny steel-blue blade. If that’s plastic, Bedevere realised, then I’m Sir Georg Solti.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘no can do.’
Von Weinacht grinned repulsively, then roared like a bull and swung his sword. There was a disturbance in the air where Bedevere’s head would have been if he hadn’t moved it; and at the same moment, a patch of honey appeared on the wall,
followed by a door, which opened to reveal Sir Turquine. He was slightly out of breath and holding a two-foot-long adjustable spanner.
‘Oh good,’ he said, ‘fighting. That’s more like it.’
Von Weinacht wheeled round and scowled at him. Turquine did a double-take.
‘Just a tick,’ he said, ‘I know you. You’re that burglar.’
There was a moment of perfect stillness while two memories rewound many hundreds of years...
... To the Yuletide Eve before Turquine’s seventh birthday, when he’d been sleeping peacefully in the hall at Chastel Maldisen and this burglar had tried to break in through the smoke-hole in the roof. Ugly customer, dressed all in red for some reason, carrying a whopping great swag-bag on his shoulder. Luckily, Turquine’s father had bought his son a crossbow for Yule, and hadn’t hidden it very carefully...
... To that nightmare back in the Chastel Maldisen, when some horrible little child had kept him holed up in the roof for ten very long minutes by shooting arrows at him while he clung to a rafter and yelled frantically for reindeer support...
Turquine was the first to recover. ‘It’s been a constant source of aggravation to me, that has,’ he said, ‘the one and only time I’ve ever had a burglar and I kept missing. Mind you,’ he added, ‘bloody thing wasn’t properly shot in, kept pulling to the right...’
‘You didn’t do so badly,’ von Weinacht hissed, and he drew back the sleeve on his left arm to reveal a long, white scar. ‘Three birds,’ he added. Then the sword flashed in the air like a blue firework.
Turquine parried with the spanner, and there was a ringing sound like a fight in a belfry. The head of the spanner fell to the ground.
While von Weinacht was celebrating with a horrible gloating cry and whirling the sword round his head for a final devastating blow, Turquine very shrewdly kicked him in the nuts, belted him with what was left of the spanner, and ran for it.
Von Weinacht recovered quite remarkably quickly, screamed like a wounded elephant and followed.