Grailblazers

by Tom Holt

  ‘Lampshade,’ Lamorak broke in, and there was a hint of desperation in his voice. But Boamund simply shook his head and said, ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘I know,’ Pertelope said. ‘Silly of me not to have guessed. It’s a plastic colander.’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Salad shaker.’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘In the kitchen, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Cutlery drawer.’

  Boamund shook his head again. ‘Nineteen,’ he murmured.

  The knights looked at each other; and then Bedevere, who had been looking up at the sky and noticing that the clouds were breaking up and the stars were coming out, cleared his throat.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘it’s the Holy Grail.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Boamund said. ‘Twenty.’

  9

  Before anyone had a chance to speak, there was a soft cough behind them, and a man stepped forward.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said.

  A thousand-year-old instinct brought the knights smartly to their feet.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Magus, sir,’ they chorused.

  Simon Magus looked down at his clothes and sighed. He had done his best to disguise himself as an aged woodcutter, but fancy dress had never been his cup of tea.

  ‘Ready?’

  The knights looked at each other. ‘Yes, sir,’ said Boamund. ‘All ready.’

  ‘Splendid,’ Simon Magus replied. ‘In that case, Boamund, if you’d care to follow me? The rest of you, stay here till I call.’

  There was a faint rumble of murmuring from the knights - something mutinous about it not being fair, and a certain person being the teacher’s pet. When Simon Magus turned round and looked at them, it died away completely.

  ‘Be good,’ Simon Magus said. Then he walked away.

  ‘You’ll need this.’

  Boamund had been wondering what was in the canvas bag. It could have been fishing rods, or drain rods even, or a small collapsible easel, or possibly a photographer’s tripod. But it wasn’t.

  ‘Mind out,’ the magician warned, ‘it’s sharp.’

  Boamund, who had already discovered this, sucked his finger. Very sharp and remarkably light, and it seemed to shine of its own accord in the pale moonlight.

  ‘Excalibur,’ said Simon Magus casually. ‘Been up on the top of my wardrobe for years now, so I said to myself, I’m never going to get any use out of it, might as well pass it on to somebody who will.’ He looked at it wistfully.

  Excalibur! Someone or something with just a little more imagination than Boamund - a rock, say, or the root of a tree - might have imagined that the dim flame of light dancing on the blade of the sword flickered at the sound of the name. Boamund bit his lip.

  ‘Um,’ he said, ‘are you sure, sir? I mean, I always thought that the King sort of chucked it in the lake.’

  Simon Magus grinned. ‘He did,’ he replied. ‘That’s how I got it. Look.’

  He pointed to a small group of letters engraved in gold on the ricasso of the sword; and as he did, one could have been forgiven for thinking that they glowed brightly for a fraction of a second.

  SHEFFIELD, they said.

  ‘Anyway,’ Simon Magus went on, rather self-consciously, ‘put it away for now and let’s hope we won’t need it. Should all be perfectly straightforward ...’

  ‘Halt!’

  Out of the darkness, a figure loomed. Moonlight glinted on blued steel.

  ‘All right,’ said Simon Magus patiently, after a relatively long pause. ‘We’ve halted. What can we do for you?’

  ‘Um.’ The silhouette turned its head and whispered something urgently into the bush from which it had emerged. A couple of other silhouettes emerged rather reluctantly and stood behind it. ‘You may not pass,’ it said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You can’t. Go away.’

  Simon Magus and Boamund exchanged glances.

  ‘Can I?’ said Boamund hopefully.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Simon Magus replied. ‘But don’t get carried away.’

  With a whoop of delight, Boamund drew the sword from the canvas bag, swung it round his head so fast that Simon Magus nearly lost an ear, and lunged into the darkness. There were a few loud but very musical clangs, and Boamund came back.

  ‘They ran away,’ he said. It was almost a whimper.

  ‘Never mind,’ the magician replied. ‘There’ll be others, I expect.’

  Boamund nodded stoically and sheathed the sword.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said eagerly, ‘they’ll ambush us.’

  Simon Magus shrugged. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I rather think that was meant to be an ambush just then. I don’t think they’ve had an awful lot of practice at this sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh.’ Boamund sounded surprised. ‘You know who they are, then?’

  ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ Simon Magus replied. ‘I think they’re independent financial advisers. That or portfolio managers. Come on.’

  They walked on round the edge of the lake. In a tree above their heads, an owl hooted. Boamund got something in his eye and paused to get it out again.

  ‘Excuse me asking,’ he said tentatively, ‘but was it you who was that hermit I saw when I woke up, the one who said I should go and do this quest?’

  Simon Magus nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

  ‘Oh. I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘I was in disguise. It wouldn’t have done for you to know, you see. Actually, it was a pretty terrible disguise. I’m surprised you didn’t see through it.’

  Boamund considered this revelation for a moment. ‘So you’ve been behind the whole thing, then? Me going to sleep and all that.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘You didn’t mind, did you? I mean, you weren’t about to do something else, or anything like that?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Boamund replied.

  ‘Good. I was a bit worried, you know, that I’d messed you about rather.’

  A shadowy figure with a knife in its mouth dropped from a tree. Unfortunately, it had mistimed its descent. There was a thump; and when the shadowy figure came round, there were two men standing over it solicitously.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Simon Magus.

  ‘I’th cut my mouf on this thucking dagger,’ the assailant replied. ‘Thod it.’

  ‘You should be more careful, then, shouldn’t you?’ Simon Magus replied. ‘Here.’ He gave the assailant a handkerchief.

  ‘Thankth.’ He wiped his face, spat out a tooth and crawled away into the bushes.

  Simon Magus shrugged. ‘Something tells me we’re up against the B-team tonight,’ he said. ‘Never mind. Bit of an anticlimax, though.’

  They walked on in silence for a while, and then Boamund asked:

  ‘I know about the personal organiser, but what about the socks and the apron? I mean, are they for anything, or ...?’

  Simon Magus made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘Me and my memory,’ he said. ‘Good job you reminded me. Have you got them with you?’

  ‘They’re in my satchel.’

  ‘Good lad. Now,’ said Simon Magus, lowering his voice, ‘let’s just duck under this tree where it’s nice and—’

  ‘Ouch,’ said a masked assassin tetchily.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Why the hell don’t you look where you’re going?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Boamund replied, ‘it’s dark. Have at you?’ he suggested hopefully.

  The masked assassin scowled at him. ‘Not bloody likely,’ he said, getting to his feet and hopping a few paces. ‘You’ve done enough damage as it is.’

  Mutteringto himself, he limped away into the gloom.

  ‘Right,’ said Simon Magus. ‘Put on the socks and the apron, there’s a good lad.’

  Boamund frowned. ‘Have I got to?’ he said.

  Simon Magus looked at him. ‘Of course you’ve got to,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ Boamund replied. �
��Only I’ll feel such a twit wandering about the place in a pinny with flowers on it.’

  ‘You can put it on under your coat if you like,’ said the magician tolerantly. ‘Just hurry up, that’s all.’

  Boamund knelt down and unlaced his shoes. ‘They’re important, are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Vital, absolutely vital. Get a move on, will you? We haven’t got all night.’

  ‘They’re tickling my feet.’

  ‘Look...’

  There was a bloodcurdling cry just behind him, and Simon Magus spun round.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but can you just hang on a tick? We aren’t quite ready yet.’

  The hooded thug froze in mid-swing. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment,’ Simon Magus replied. ‘The lad’s just changing his socks.’

  ‘His socks? Now just a minute...’

  ‘It’s all right, I’m ready now,’ Boamund said, and there was a sudden flash of blue light as Excalibur swished out of the canvas bag. ‘Lay on!’ he cried happily, and he darted forward. There was a metallic note, approximately D sharp, followed by the sound of someone in armour tripping over his feet and falling into a bush.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ said a voice from the undergrowth. ‘I wasn’t ready.’

  ‘Tough,’ said Simon Magus. ‘We ambushed you.’

  ‘No, you’ve got it all wrong, I ambushed you.’

  Simon Magus grinned. ‘Didn’t make a very good job of it, then, did you? Come on, Boamund, we’d better not be late.’

  They walked on a few paces. ‘That wasn’t very fair, was it?’ Boamund said. ‘I mean, if he waited for us, then surely...’

  ‘Nonsense,’ replied the magician firmly. ‘An ambush is an ambush. If he doesn’t know that, then he’s not fit to be out on his own.’

  ‘I didn’t know that—’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Simon Magus, ‘but you’re not on your own, are you?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  They had come to a sort of jetty or landing-stage, and Simon Magus stopped and looked about him.

  ‘I think we’re here,’ he said. ‘Well, best of luck and all that. Don’t forget what I told you.’

  Boamund’s face fell. ‘You’re not leaving me, are you?’ he said. ‘Only I thought ...’

  “Fraid so,’ the magician replied. ‘Any further intervention on my part would be most irregular, and I don’t want the whole quest set aside on a technicality’

  ‘Oh,’ Boamund said. A light breeze began to blow, rippling the surface of the lake. ‘What do I do now, then?’

  ‘You’ll find out,’ said the magician through a curtain of blue fire. ‘Cheerio.’

  ‘Cheerio, then,’ Boamund replied. He turned and looked at the lake. ‘Oh, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What was it you told me that I’m supposed to remember?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten,’ Simon Magus replied, and his voice was hollow and indistinct. His immortal half was already thousands of miles and hundreds of years away. ‘It probably wasn’t important. Keep your guard up, remember to roll your wrists, something like that. Good luck, Boamund.’

  The blue pyramid flared up briefly and faded, leaving only a few lingering sparkles and an empty crisp packet. The wind started to blow harder, rustling the leaves of the trees round the lake. The moon came out. It was getting colder.

  ‘Good evening.’

  Boamund spun round. Standing beside him - he hadn’t been there a moment ago, unless he’d been very heavily disguised as a small ornamental cherry tree - was what Boamund took to be a hermit.

  ‘Hello,’ Boamund replied. ‘Are you a hermit?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the hermit. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I just sort of did,’ Boamund replied. ‘Excuse me, but what do hermits actually do?’

  The hermit scratched the lobe of his ear. ‘It depends, really,’ he said. ‘In the old days, we used to meditate, pray, fast and converse with spirits. These days, though, most of us sit in lay-bys on main roads with a big painted board saying “Strawberries”. You’ve probably seen us.’

  ‘Well, no, actually,’ Boamund replied. ‘You see, I’ve been asleep for rather a long time, and—’

  ‘So you have,’ the hermit replied. ‘I forgot. Well now, young Boamund, I expect you’re rather excited.’

  ‘Um,’ said Boamund, ‘yes. Quite. Are you going to tell me what happens next?’

  The hermit shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘My role is what you might call a nice little cameo. Very cameo,’ he added, with a touch of bitterness. ‘All I’m supposed to do is tell you something true but misleading. You don’t mind if we spin it out a bit, do you? Only I’ve been waiting fifteen hundred years for this, and I’d hate to rush things. I mean,’ he added, ‘it’s not as if I’ve got a great deal to look forward to, is it?’

  ‘Is it? I mean, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not really, no,’ the hermit said. ‘I’m booked in at that terribly dreary Glass Mountain place. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You haven’t missed much,’ replied the hermit. ‘That’s why I volunteered for this job, actually, just to have an excuse to put it off for a while. It wasn’t exactly a riot of fun sitting beside the A45 in the rain with twenty pounds of squishy strawberries for all those years, but anything’s better than where I’m going next.’ The hermit sighed deeply and brushed a fly off the tip of his nose.

  ‘Oh,’ Boamund said. He felt rather awkward. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Not your fault,’ the hermit replied. ‘That’s where we go, you see, when we finally leave the world. They’ll all be there, all the great magicians and sorcerers and hermits and anchorites, all sitting about yammering away or falling asleep in big leather armchairs. I expect I’ll get used to it.’ The hermit shook his head sadly. ‘They all do, apparently, after a while. That’s the really awful part of it, in my opinion.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Boamund replied. It was hard to know what to say.

  ‘Thank you,’ the hermit said. ‘Now, the message is this. Only the true King of Albion will recover the Holy Grail. Good luck.’

  A blue pyramid, smaller than the one Simon Magus had vanished into and somehow indefinably but perceptibly second class, formed over him, gave a few perfunctory twinkles and vanished. Boamund looked at where it had been and chewed his lip for a moment.

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  He turned to look at the lake; and then in the corner of his eye he caught sight of a stealthy shadow creeping furtively towards him. He whipped out the sword and sprang.

  ‘Hold it,’ said the figure. ‘Have you just been talking to the hermit?’

  ‘Yes,’ Boamund said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh nuts,’ said the figure. ‘I’m late. Forget it.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the figure said, ‘my fault, I blew it. What I’m going to say to the bloody woman when I come back without a scratch on me I really don’t know. Probably I’ll be back behind the counter Monday morning doing car insurance. Still, there it is.’

  Boamund frowned. ‘You want me to thump you?’ he said. The figure nodded.

  ‘Still,’ he said, ‘no use crying over spilt milk. Thanks anyway. Be seeing you.’

  Boamund moved to strike, but the figure had gone. He shrugged, and returned to his seat on the landing-stage.

  ‘Gosh,’ he said.

  Where he’d been, there was now an enormous blue car - a Volvo - with a strange yellow object fastened to its wheel. Under one of its windscreen wipers was a scrap of paper. Boamund lifted it out, unfolded it and read: WHOSO EXTRICATES THIS CAR FROM THIS CLAMP SHALL BE THE RIGHTFUL KING OF ALBION.

  He scratched his head, and looked down at the yellow thing. It looked like some sort of trap or snare, and he wondered if the car was in pain. Perhaps it was dead; it certainly wasn’t moving.

  Rightful King of Albion...

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘here go
es.’

  Excalibur whistled in the air, and he struck with all his might. Because of a slight miscalculation - the blade was some six inches longer than he’d imagined - the net effect was that a tree immediately behind him lost the tip of one of its branches. He steadied himself, rubbed his wrist where he’d jarred it, and tried again. There was a clang, and the yellow thing broke in two and fell to the ground.

  ‘Nice,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Very neat.’

  It was a girl, wearing a blue and yellow uniform and holding a notebook. For some reason Boamund felt slightly apprehensive.

  ‘It’s all right,’ the girl assured him, ‘I’m purely allegorical, I’m not going to give you a ticket. You’re supposed to get in and turn the key.’

  ‘Oh,’ Boamund said, ‘right. Which key?’

  The girl gave him a puzzled look, and then laughed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I forgot, you’ve been asleep. Inside the car, there’s a big wheel thing. Behind that on your right-hand side you’ll find a small key. Give it a gentle turn clockwise and that’ll start the engine. Clockwise is this way.’ She demonstrated. ‘Got that?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said the girl and, rather to Boamund’s disappointment, vanished. He climbed in, located the ignition and turned the key.

  The car vanished.

  Boamund sat up and felt the top of his head. There was something on it. A crown.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he said, and took it off. It was quite light and thin, and he had the feeling it was probably silver gilt; but it had little points like a saw-blade and a few rather small jewels set into it. He put it back on and tried to imagine being a king.

  He looked up, conscious of a noise in the middle distance. It wasn’t the sort of noise he had expected to hear beside a lake, somehow. It was, in fact, a telephone.

  He looked round, and saw a hand breaking the surface of the lake, about a hundred and fifty yards from the bank. It was white, clothed in samite and holding a telephone.

  Suddenly, Boamund wondered if the whole thing was a practical joke.

  You know how it is with telephones. Whatever you’re doing, however busy or preoccupied you are, sooner or later you give in and pick up the receiver. Boamund sighed and got to his feet. At the side of the jetty was a small boat - hadn’t been there a moment ago; big deal, nothing surprised him about this caper any more - and sitting in it was a hooded figure holding the oars.