by Tom Holt
It was dark in the stable. The oil lamp flickered atmospherically in the slight draught. Suddenly, all four of them felt this very great urge to kneel down.
‘Hello,’ Balthazar called out. ‘Anybody here? Hey, lads, I don’t like this, it’s kind of spooky in here ...’
It grew lighter; there was a soft golden glow coming from the far manger.
‘Hush,’ said a woman’s voice, ‘he’s asleep.’
It was Melchior who spoke first. Very gently, he crept forward towards the crib, peeped into it, and then rocked back as if he had been stunned. Then he knelt down and covered his head with the hem of his cloak.
‘Lady,’ he said.
The woman’s face was in shadow. ‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘Blessed may you be for ever, for you are the first to look on the face of the Son of Man.’
Melchior rocked backwards and forwards on his heels. ‘Lady,’ he said again, ‘is it permitted that we might offer gifts to your son?’
The woman smiled, and nodded, whereupon Melchior searched in his satchel and produced a small, shiny box. The woman nodded, as if she had been expecting it.
‘Gold,’ Melchior explained. ‘Gold is a fitting gift for a king.’
The woman took the box without looking at it and laid it down beside the crib. Caspar stepped forward, fell on his knees and offered the woman a little alabaster jar.
‘Frankincense, lady,’ he said shyly. ‘To anoint Him who shall be crowned with thorns.’
The woman nodded, and put the jar down by the box. Balthazar, his knees trembling, now stepped forward, knelt, and held out a silver phial.
‘Myrrh, lady,’ he whispered. ‘To embalm Him who shall never die.’
Again, a trace of a smile crossed the woman’s lips. She took the phial from Balthazar’s hands, looked at it for a moment, and put it with the other gifts.
Why didn’t they tell me, Klaus muttered to himself. The bastards. Why didn’t they say something?
There was a moment’s pause, while the other three looked at him. He decided to improvise. He grabbed something out of his satchel, tore a page out of a book to wrap it in (the book was a treatise on ornithology, and the page he had selected had little pictures of robins on it) and stepped forward.
‘Um,’ he said, and thrust the parcel into the woman’s hands.
She gave him a long look, then slowly unwrapped the parcel.
‘Socks,’ she said. ‘Just what He always wanted.’
The expression on her face told a different story as she held up two knee-length stockings to the light. Klaus winced.
‘They’re probably a bit big for him right now,’ he said, as lightly as he could, ‘but never mind, he’ll grow into them.’
The woman gave him another long, hard look; then she rolled the socks up into a ball and dropped them. ‘You may go,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ Klaus mumbled, backing away. ‘Oh yes, and a happy ... happy. The compliments of the season, anyway.’
He banged his head on a rafter, reversed out of the door, and ran for his life.
‘A fortnight later,’ the Graf went on, breathing heavily, ‘I got a parcel. It contained a pair of socks, and a letter. It was delivered by an angel.’
He hesitated, closed his eyes, and continued. ‘The letter wasn’t signed, but then, it didn’t need to be. I won’t bore you with the first three paragraphs, because they were mostly about me. What you might call the business part of the letter came in the last few lines.
‘To cut a long story short, I was cursed. For the rest of Time, it said, until the Child comes again to judge the quick and the dead, it would be my job to deliver presents to all the children in the world, every year, on the anniversary of my ... on Christmas Eve. Presents as inappropriate, unwanted and futile as the present I had seen fit to choose for the King of Kings. And, just to drive the point that little bit further home, just in case I hadn’t quite grasped it by now, on each ensuing Christmas Eve every child in the world would henceforth see fit to hang at the foot of its bed the longest, woolliest sock it could find, as a perpetual reminder.’
There was a long silence.
‘Yes,’ said Galahaut, pulling himself together, ‘be that as it may, what about these Socks?’
‘Socks?’ Klaus von Weinacht looked up at him and laughed. ‘Haven’t you worked it out yet? The socks you and your friend here have been looking for are the Socks. Hence,’ he added with a bitter chuckle, ‘the name. Do you seriously believe that I can hand them over to you, just like that?’
Boamund set his face in what he hoped was an impassive expression. ‘You’d better had,’ he said, ‘or it’ll jolly well be the worse for you.’
Von Weinacht turned his head and looked at him.
‘Please?’ Boamund added.
‘No.’ The Graf curled his lip. ‘You don’t think I wouldn’t be delighted to see the back of them, do you? I hate the very sight of them. But they aren’t mine to dispose of. Certainly not,’ he added, ‘to you.’
Boamund became aware of an urgent digging in his ribs and glanced down.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Can’t you see we’re busy?’
‘It won’t take a moment,’ Toenail replied. ‘Just come over here, where he can’t hear us.’
Boamund shrugged and got to his feet. They walked over to the fireplace.
‘He’s not telling you the whole story,’ Toenail said, ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘Really?’ Boamund raised an eyebrow. ‘It must be a pretty long story, then, because ...’
Toenail shook his head. ‘It’s true all right, about the Socks and that. But there’s more to it. I know there is.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
Boamund considered. He had always known that everybody, even servants, knew much more about everything than he did, and that was the way it should be. A knight has far more important things to do than go around knowing things. The way he saw it, if your head’s full of knowledge, it’ll get too big to fit inside a helmet. Nevertheless, wasn’t the whole thing supposed to be a secret?
‘How do you know, exactly?’ he asked.
Toenail looked round. ‘I just do, that’s all. Maybe it’s because I’m a dwarf.’
‘How does that come into it?’
‘Race-memory,’ Toenail replied. ‘That and it’s easier for dwarves to keep their ears to the ground. Look, just ask him about the Grail, see how he reacts. Go on.’
Boamund nodded. Great heroes, he knew, had faithful and wise counsellors, invariably of lower social rank, but dead clever nonetheless; and the good part of it was that their names tended to drop out of history at a relatively early stage.
He turned to the Graf, narrowed his brows to indicate thought, and walked slowly back across the hall.
‘You’re keeping something back, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Come on, out with it.’
‘Drop dead.’
‘Don’t you take that tone with me,’ Boamund replied. ‘What about the Grail, then? You tell me that.’
By way of response, von Weinacht roared like a bull and struggled furiously with the dressing-gown cord that held him to the chair. Galahaut frowned and reached for the rolling pin he’d found in the kitchens.
‘Now cut that out,’ he said. ‘Honestly, some people.’
‘Knights!’ Von Weinacht spat. ‘Bloody knights! Always the same. If I ever get my hands on you two ...’
Galahaut hit him with the rolling pin. It seemed to have a mild therapeutic effect, because he stopped roaring and confined himself to looking daggers. Boamund nodded.
‘Thanks, Gally,’ he said.
‘Don’t mention it, Bo. It was a pleasure.’
Boamund drew up a chair and sat down. ‘Let’s start again,’ he said. ‘Now then, about the Grail.’
Von Weinacht made a suggestion as to what Boamund might care to do with the Grail as and when he found it. The rolling pin moved through the air once more.
‘The Grail,’ B
oamund repeated. ‘What about it?’
This time von Weinacht remained resolutely silent, and the two knights looked at each other.
‘Don’t think you can hit him just for not saying anything,’ Galahaut remarked. ‘Probably. What do you think?’
‘Probably not,’ Boamund agreed. ‘Pity, but there it is. What do we do now, then?’
Galahaut shrugged his shoulders. ‘Find the Socks, I suppose. Hey, you,’ he said, leaning down and placing the rolling pin under the Graf’s nose. ‘Socks. Where?’
Von Weinacht tried to bite the rolling pin and Galahaut removed it quickly. ‘I wonder what he’s got against knights,’ he mused. ‘Is it just us, or knights per se, or what?’
‘Don’t think he likes anyone very much,’ Boamund replied. ‘Odd, that, given the line of work he’s in. You’d think somebody who spends his whole time delivering Christmas ...’
Von Weinacht howled like a wolf. The knights exchanged glances.
‘Seems like he doesn’t like you to mention a certain word,’ Galahaut remarked.
‘It does, rather, doesn’t it?’ said Boamund. ‘Christmas!’ he hissed in the Graf’s ear, and then jumped back, startled. He wouldn’t have believed a human being could make such an extraordinary noise.
‘Well now,’ said Galahaut, with a malicious grin on his face, ‘that changes things rather, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?’ he shouted in the Graf’s ear.
‘Get knotted.’
‘I think,’ Galahaut said, ‘it’s time for a sing-song, don’t you?’
It was a scene that Toenail would never be able to forget until the day he died. The Graf, twisting and squirming in his chair and roaring until you thought his voice would crack; and on either side of him, the two knights, singing The Holly and the Ivy, Silent Night, Away in a Manger, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It was the last of these that finally did the trick.
‘All right,’ the Graf sobbed. ‘You swine, you inhuman swine. I’ll talk.’
Radulf grabbed the walkie-talkie impatiently.
‘Moo,’ he grunted into it; then he slammed the aerial down and nodded his horns. Three pages armed with halberds at once set off down the stairs.
They must be somewhere. Two knights and a supernatural being can’t just vanish off the face of the earth ...
Use your brains, Radulf. What are the knights here for? Suppose - just suppose - they’ve managed to overpower him somehow and forced him to show them the secret hiding place. Of course! That must be it.
The only problem being that the secret hiding place is - well, secret ...
‘In here?’
Von Weinacht nodded. ‘And the very best of luck,’ he added.
Boamund didn’t quite follow that, but following things wasn’t his forte, unless they happened to be hounds. He was quite good at that, provided there weren’t too many gates and things in the way.
He grabbed the handles of the drawer and pulled. Socks. The drawer was full of socks ...
‘My God,’ said Galahaut, in an awed voice, ‘there must be several hundred pairs in there.’
Von Weinacht chuckled dryly. ‘One thousand and forty-one,’ he said. ‘A good idea, no?’
‘I don’t suppose,’ Galahaut said, ‘that you care to tell us which pair is the right one?’
‘Correct.’
Galahaut grinned. ‘Did you ever hear the one about Good King Wenceslas?’ he enquired. But the Graf was ready for him. With a sudden movement, he broke away from Galahaut’s grip and dashed his head against the frame of the door, knocking himself out cold.
‘Hey,’ exclaimed the Haut Prince, ‘that’s cheating!’
Boamund lifted a heaped handful of socks and let them fall again. ‘Just look at them all,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen so many socks in all my born days.’
‘Nor me.’
‘Oh well,’ Boamund sighed. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to take the lot, and try and sort them out later. Toenail, get us a very large sack.’
The dwarf made a resigned gesture with his shoulders and wandered off. Between them, Boamund and Galahaut pulled out the drawer and emptied its contents on to the floor.
‘I expect we can discount the ones with St Michael written on the label,’ Galahaut said. ‘Although he might have had a false label sewn in as camouflage. He’s a clever devil, I’ll say that for him.’
Boamund nodded. ‘We’d better take all of them, Gally,’ he repeated. ‘Gosh, though. Who’d have thought socks could be so heavy?’
‘So’s sand,’ Galahaut replied, ‘in bulk. Did you follow all that stuff about Atlantis and offshore banking?’
‘Not really,’ Boamund admitted, ‘all that sort of thing goes right over my head. But I sort of gathered that he’d had the Grail at one time, and then this Joseph person—’
‘Joseph of Arimathea.’
‘You know,’ Boamund said, ‘I’ve heard that name before somewhere. Anyway, this Joseph took the Grail himself and disappeared with it, so we’re not much further forward in any event. Not that it matters, really. Once we’ve got the Apron and the Personal Organiser, and we’ve sorted out these socks, it won’t really matter very much, will it?’
‘Hope not,’ Galahaut said. ‘I prefer things to be as simple as possible. Where’s that wretched dwarf got to?’
They looked round.
‘Wandered off somewhere, I expect,’ Boamund said. ‘They do that.’
‘Shouldn’t be any problem finding a sack in this place,’ Galahaut said. ‘One thing you’d expect to find, a sack. Probably full of presents. I remember one year, I was resting, I got a job as a Father Christmas in one of those big department stores. Of course, there was nothing in the sack except old newspapers and bits of cardboard.’
Boamund looked across at the stunned figure on the floor. ‘We could try waking him up, I suppose. Sing some more, that sort of thing.’
‘We could try,’ Galahaut agreed, but with just a touch of hesitation. It wasn’t that Boamund’s voice was flat exactly - it was certainly no worse than a pneumatic drill - but there was no guarantee of results, and he didn’t want to get another one of his headaches.
‘Or,’ he suggested, therefore, ‘we could find someone else who’s in on the secret. Must be someone,’ he added.
‘Such as?’
‘Well,’ replied Galahaut diffidently, ‘there’s that awful bloodthirsty girl, for a start.’
‘The one who doesn’t appreciate Games?’
‘The impatient one, that’s right. Bet you anything you like she knows which pair of socks it is.’
Boamund nodded fervently. ‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’
Galahaut was just about to say that he hadn’t the faintest idea, when the door opened and the girl herself came in.
She was simply but attractively dressed in an organdie-print blouse with pin-tucks and a Peter Pan collar and a Liberty cotton skirt in pale lilac, and she was holding an assault rifle.
Aristotle was losing his temper with the pinball machine.
‘It’s rigged,’ he muttered, fumbling in his pocket for change. ‘Every time you get beyond three hundred thousand, a little gate opens down there and the ball sort of trickles down into it.’ He gave the side of the machine a hard blow with the heel of his hand.
‘You aren’t using your upper flippers properly,’ Simon Magus observed quietly.
‘What the hell do you know about anything?’
‘Sorry,’ Simon Magus replied, ‘just trying to be helpful. You haven’t seen my wife anywhere, have you?’
‘No.’ Aristotle pulled back the handle and put the first ball into play. There was a short, tense interval while he pressed both buttons about a hundred times in the space of ten seconds, and the ball ran unerringly down the table and into the jaws of the machine.
‘She’s wandered off somewhere again,’ Simon Magus said. ‘Funny creatures, women.’
Aristotle glowered at him. ‘Exactly,’ he repli
ed. ‘Not really appropriate on campus, either, if you ask me.’
‘Then I’ll make sure I don’t,’ Simon Magus replied. ‘Thanks for the warning.’
Aristotle grunted and launched into the second game, while Simon Magus wandered through into the coffee room. Nobody in there had seen Mahaud, either.
Eventually he ran her to ground on the balcony. She had a big pair of binoculars and was looking out in the general direction of the North Pole.
‘Something,’ she said, ‘is going on.’
‘Yes,’ her husband replied. ‘I know.’
She looked round at him. ‘You do?’ she said. ‘What? Is it anything to do with that quest young Bedevere was on?’
‘You might say that, yes. Lend me those glasses a moment, would you?’
He focused them, and stood for a while; then he lowered them and bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘Too late to do anything about it now, I suppose.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It looks rather like I chose the wrong man for the job,’ he replied. ‘Do you remember a boy called Boamund? One of the Northgales kids, tall, gangling, unfortunate manner.’
‘Of course I do,’ Mahaud said. ‘Snotty, the other boys called him. Not a very agreeable name, but apt.’
‘Well,’ Simon Magus said, ‘he was one of my Sleepers. This spot of business that’s going on now, I put him in charge of it. He was doing all right, too, until... Oh well.’
Mahaud took the glasses back. ‘What’s happened?’ she said.
‘Girl trouble.’
‘Oh dear. I never thought he was the type, really.’
‘They’re the worst sort, usually,’ Simon Magus replied. ‘Anyway, it’s not that sort of trouble. Oh damn,’ he added peevishly.
‘Never mind,’ said Mahaud briskly. ‘Can’t be successful every time.’
‘Suppose not,’ replied the magician, philosophically. ‘A great pity, though. I’d rather set my heart on this one coming off.’
‘Put a lot of work into it?’
‘Rather a lot, yes,’ Simon Magus said. ‘And I thought I’d made sure it was fairly idiot-proof. Still, there are idiots and idiots.’