Expecting Someone Taller

by Tom Holt

  The word Ring exploded in Malcolm’s mind like a bomb. He focused on the intruder’s mind, and did not have to read very far.

  ‘Now do you have any comment to make, Herr Finger? Or should I say Malcolm Fisher?’

  Malcolm leaned back in his chair and smiled serenely.

  ‘If only my mother could see me,’ he said, and the serene smile became a grin. ‘Chatting like this with a real God.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Mr Fisher, this is not a laughing matter.’

  ‘You’re Loge, aren’t you? It’s odd. I was frightened of you when I thought you were the taxman, but now you turn out to be a God, I’m not frightened at all.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Loge, ‘I should have known better, I suppose. But Wotan thought it was worth a try.’

  ‘It was,’ said Malcolm. ‘You had me worried, like I said. What were you going to do?’

  ‘He’ll murder me if I go back without it,’ said Loge. ‘He’s got a horrid temper.’

  ‘What can he do to you? You’re immortal.’

  ‘That’s the trouble.’ Loge was trembling. ‘If you’re mortal, all they can do to you is kill you. But if you’re going to live forever, they can really get you.’

  ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. He’ll turn me into an aquarium, I know he will.’

  ‘I’ll get the housekeeper to bring us some tea,’ said Malcolm soothingly.

  Loge calmed down slightly with some tea inside him, but the cup rattled in the saucer as he held it.

  ‘I was meant to put the frighteners on you,’ he said. ‘First, I was to be a Customs man, then the VAT inspector, then the Fraud Squad, then MI5. If that didn’t work, then I was to be the man from the IPU.’

  ‘What’s the IPU?’

  ‘Inexplicable Phenomena Unit. Wotan was sure you’d believe in it. It would be something like all those science fiction films about flying saucers invading the earth, and there’s always a secret Government agency that knows all about them but keeps them secret so as not to alarm people. They’re the ones who come and zap the Martians in the last reel. And I was going to be them, threatening to zap you. Sometimes I think he lives in a world of his own.’

  ‘He must be a difficult person to work for,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘Difficult!’ Loge cast his eyes up to the ceiling. ‘He’s impossible.’

  ‘But I thought you were the clever one,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘I used to be, back in the old days when life was much simpler. But progress has left me behind, I’m afraid, and Wotan has got more devious. And he’s never forgiven me for the mistake I made in drawing up the contract for Valhalla.’

  ‘Mistake?’

  Loge nodded glumly. ‘Oh, yes, it was a mistake all right, and I’ve never been allowed to forget it. A slip of the pen and now look at me.’

  ‘What sort of a mistake?’ asked Malcolm, purely from curiosity.

  Loge sighed. ‘I might as well tell you. You’ll find out sooner or later. The contract with the Giants was that they built us the castle in return for trading concessions in Middle Earth, and the German for “free port” is freihafen. But the trouble was,’ Loge said, and even after a thousand years he blushed, ‘well, my handwriting has never been marvellous, and what I’d written looked more like Freia zu haben, which would mean that they would have the Goddess Freia as their reward for that bloody castle. I don’t know what you’re laughing at. It was a mistake anyone could have made.’

  Malcolm, despite his ill-concealed mirth, could sympathise, for his own handwriting was none too good. ‘But couldn’t you explain the mistake?’ he said.

  ‘I did, God knows. But they wouldn’t listen, and Wotan had just had a quarrel with Freia and was only too glad to get rid of her. He’s always quarrelling with his relatives.’

  Again, Malcolm could sympathise. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least it explains how that bargain came to be made. I couldn’t understand it, the way it is in the books.’

  ‘Now you know.’ Loge was depressed again. ‘It was only because I suggested this Ring business that he didn’t change me into something wet and nasty there and then. And that backfired too - well, you know all about that - and I’ve been one jump away from metamorphosis ever since.’

  Malcolm felt a curious sense of authority, and his tone to Loge was pleasantly patronising. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I won’t let him turn you into anything.’

  ‘And how exactly will you stop him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Malcolm confessed. ‘But he can’t go throwing his weight about like that any more. He’ll just have to face facts, he’s had his time.’

  Loge raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ he said, ‘but for someone who was terrified of the Customs inspector a few minutes ago, you’re remarkably confident.’

  ‘I know. But that was real life. This is . . . well, it’s real life too, but different somehow.’ Malcolm was silent for a while, as he tried to work something out in his mind. ‘You know how some people are good at some things and bad at others,’ he said. ‘For instance, some people are marvellous at business or the Stock Exchange or whatever, but they can’t change a plug or iron a shirt. Maybe I’m like that. Maybe I’m hopeless at everything except being the master of the Ring, but I’m very good at that. I know how to do it, more or less, and only I can do it, and I’m happy doing it.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Well, no. But I’m no more miserable doing it than doing anything else, plus I can do it well, and I can’t do anything else. It’s like some people are naturally good singers or snooker players or they can compose music, and they’ve never tried it so they don’t know. And then they do try it, just by accident or for fun, never expecting they’ll be any good at it, and there they are. I don’t know,’ he said despairingly, ‘maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s so easy any fool can do it. But I’m not afraid any more - not of your lot, anyway.’

  Loge stared at him in amazement. ‘You’ve been drinking, ’ he said at last.

  Malcolm shook his head. ‘No, I mean it. I may be no good at all at real life, but this sort of thing - you can tell your boss to do his worst and see if I care. I’ve already seen off Alberich and the Rhinedaughters, and I’ll deal with him too, if he makes a nuisance of himself. I mean, what can he do to me? I can understand all languages and read people’s thoughts, so I’ll always know what’s really going on. I can change my shape, so anything he tries to attack me with I can either beat or run away from. And I don’t think that’s all, either. I don’t think he’s got any power against the Ring. If he wants to do something and I won’t let him, then he can’t do it. Stands to reason.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Simple. Unless I do something wrong or think nasty thoughts, nothing unpleasant can happen in the world. So nothing unpleasant can happen to me, can it? I’m just as much a citizen of the world as anyone else, so I’m under my own protection.’ Malcolm was quite carried away by this train of thought. ‘What’s that bit in the Bible about He saved others, He couldn’t save Himself? You won’t catch me falling for that one. And that’s why I met that girl,’ he went on, more to himself than to Loge. ‘Nice things are happening to everyone else, so they’re happening to me too.’ He laughed for pure joy, and Loge tapped the side of his head.

  ‘You’re as bad as he is,’ he said. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ said Malcolm, grandly. ‘Everything will be fine, you’ll see.’

  Loge rose to his feet. ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘If not, come and feed the ducks on me on Sunday afternoons.’

  Wotan leaned back in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, turning over Loge’s story in his cavernous mind.

  ‘He’s right, up to a point,’ said the King of the Gods. ‘Like I thought, force and violence are no good, and besides, I’m not sure how far I could take them. I still don’t think I could actually take the Ring from him against his will w
ithout getting into serious trouble.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Me, in my role as the God of Justice. If I did take it and I found that I wasn’t allowed to, I would have to cease to exist. Damn.’

  The Sky-God thought hard for a moment, then smiled. He had thought of something. Loge waited impatiently to hear what it was.

  ‘It worked before,’ said Wotan quietly. ‘So why shouldn’t it work again?’

  Loge was mystified. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘The Brunnhilde option,’ said Wotan. ‘Why not?’

  ‘But it didn’t work the first time,’ Loge said. ‘It failed miserably.’

  ‘Because of the Hagen factor and the Siegfried aspect. And, if we’re going to be honest about it, the Brunnhilde aspect, too. But now we’re dealing with a different kettle of fish.’

  The metaphor made Loge squirm. ‘It’s a terrible gamble,’ he said. ‘Don’t blame me if . . .’

  ‘As if I would. No, I think I’ve cracked it. He’s just the sort of idiot who’d fall for it.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Loge began to feel cautiously optimistic. ‘Why shouldn’t he be his own worst enemy, just like everyone else?’

  Malcolm watched the black limousine driving away, and poured himself a small whisky. He was rather worried about what he had said; it was the first time he had ever talked to a God, and perhaps he should have shown more respect. He strolled into the garden, and a blackbird fluttered down and perched in a rose bush beside him.

  ‘Have you seen a white moth with pale blue spots on its wings?’ asked the bird.

  ‘No,’ replied Malcolm, ‘but I’ve got some peanuts if you’re hungry.’

  ‘You can have enough of peanuts,’ said the bird. ‘Anyway, I wanted that particular moth. We’ve got people coming round for dinner tomorrow.’

  ‘Good hunting, then,’ said Malcolm. ‘Try round by the buddleias.’

  The bird cocked its head on one side. ‘Thanks,’ it said. ‘Good idea. Oh, and by the way.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t underestimate Wotan, whatever you do. There are more ways of killing a cat, you know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The bird fluttered its wings. ‘Don’t ask me, I’m only a bird. Besides, it’s my favourite proverb.’

  ‘Hope you find your moth,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘So do I,’ said the blackbird. ‘Good night.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Flosshilde was always beautifully dressed. She had been following fashion since the dawn of time, and her wardrobe occupied the space on the bed of the Rhine between Andernach and Koblenz. Not only did she follow fashion, she led it; she had been wearing figure-of-eight brooches when the Iron Age was still in its infancy, and it was her pioneering work that had given the ladies of sixteenth-century Europe the surcingle. In comparison, she thought, the twentieth century was drab, to say the least. Nevertheless, she had looked out a rather clever lemon-coloured pullover and a pair of black and white striped trousers which had, oddly enough, been in vogue at the height of the Hallstadt Culture. If you keep things long enough, she had learnt by experience, they eventually come back into fashion.

  To add the finishing touches, she decorated her ears with Snoopy earrings and slipped over her slim wrist a bracelet of amber which had been given to her by the first King of the Langobards and which looked reasonably like tortoiseshell plastic. She would, she concluded, do.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, as she sat down beside Malcolm in Carey’s.

  ‘You’re not,’ he replied. ‘You’re exactly on time.’

  ‘Am I?’ Flosshilde looked most surprised. She had always made a habit of being at least five minutes late for everything, especially dates and assignations. If she had subconsciously decided to be punctual, there was cause for concern . . .

  ‘I had a visit from Loge yesterday,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘Loge?’ Flosshilde’s blue eyes opened wide. ‘What happened? ’

  ‘He tried to frighten me, but I soon got rid of him,’ Malcolm replied smugly. ‘He’s not too bad when you get to know him.’

  Flosshilde was going to say something about this, but she somehow decided against it. Instead, she smiled.

  ‘I know a funny story about him,’ she said.

  ‘Is it the one about the Valhalla contract?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flosshilde, slightly annoyed.

  ‘Tell me anyway,’ Malcolm said and, to her surprise, Flosshilde found that she wasn’t annoyed any more. She told him the story, and he laughed.

  ‘You tell it better than he does,’ he said.

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Flosshilde. ‘I’m very good at telling stories. Have you heard the one about Hagen and the Steer-Horn?’

  The name Hagen made Malcolm feel uncomfortable, and he wondered why she had mentioned it. Perhaps it was a sort of warning. Instinctively, he covered his right hand with his left, so as to hide the Ring.

  ‘Go on,’ he said nervously.

  As she told the story (which was very funny), Malcolm found himself looking at her rather carefully. He had done this before, of course, for she was well worth looking at, and once Malcolm had accepted that there was a future in looking at her it had become one of his favourite occupations. But he was looking for something else now. She was, after all, one of Them, and he would do well not to forget that. To reassure himself, he flicked through her subconscious mind and was delighted to find that there had been developments. It irritated him that he could not read his own inner thoughts, but he had a fair idea of what they were, on this subject at least. In his life to date, he had met very few girls, and most of those had been friends of his sister Bridget. As a result, he had tended to fall in love with all the rest, just to be on the safe side. Since there had been no risk of the love being returned, this was strictly his own business and nothing to do with anyone else. Only since he had met Flosshilde had he become aware that this was a rather foolish thing to do, and he had been relieved to find that the Rhinedaughter had not inspired the usual romantic daze in him that he knew so well. Instead, once he had got over the shock of seeing what was in her mind and wondering if she could really mean him and not some other Malcolm Fisher, he had carefully considered whether or not he liked her. He did, of course, but that was because she was nice, not just simply because she was there.

  Tentatively, he lifted his left hand and used it to pick up his fork. The Ring was visible again, but she did not even look at it. Suddenly, a terrible thought struck Malcolm. Bearing in mind the conclusions he had just come to, what was he supposed to do next?

  Flosshilde had seemed rather put out when he had told her that he would be busy for the rest of the day, but the statement had been partially true. There had been a letter from a certain L. Walker, of Lime Place, Bristol, that morning, and it seemed that L. Walker was coming to Combe Hall to catalogue the library.

  The library, which was huge and contained no funny books, had come with the Hall when Malcolm bought it, and he had left it alone. Books, the estate agent had told him, provide excellent insulation, and since the heating bills would be very considerable in any event, he might as well leave them there even if he had no intention of ever reading them. Ever since he had moved in, however, the English Rose had been nagging him to have the library professionally catalogued, so that Malcolm would be able to know at a glance what he was missing. He had strenuously resisted these attempts, but he supposed that his secretary had booked L. Walker before she left for her holiday and deliberately not told him.

  He drove back to Combe and went into the house. The housekeeper had been lying in wait for him, and he was tempted to make himself invisible before she could persuade him to buy a new vacuum cleaner - she had been demanding one for weeks, although Malcolm knew perfectly well there were at least four in the house already. Perhaps she was starting a collection. But lately he had felt guilty about avoiding people who were, after all, his employees and only doing their jobs, so he stood his gr
ound, like Leonidas at Thermopylae.

  ‘There’s someone to see you,’ said the housekeeper.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘About the library,’ she said. ‘From Bristol.’

  She made it sound as if Bristol was somewhere between Saturn and Pluto. But to Malcolm, who had been dealing with strangers from Valhalla and Nibelheim for what seemed like years now, Bristol sounded delightfully homely.

  ‘That’ll be L. Walker,’ he said. ‘Where did you put her?’

  The housekeeper said the lady was in the drawing-room, and Malcolm had walked away before he thought to ask which one. Eventually, he found the stranger in the Blue drawing-room.

  L. Walker was about five feet four, roughly twenty-three years old, with long, dark hair and the face of an angel. Malcolm, who knew exactly what an angel looks like, having turned himself into one during an idle moment, felt a very curious sensation, almost like not being able to breathe properly.

  ‘Herr Finger?’ said the girl. ‘I’m Linda Walker. I’ve come to catalogue the library. Ms Weinburger . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Malcolm did not want to hear about the English Rose. He wanted to know why his knees had gone weak, as if he had just been running. There was a long silence while Malcolm tried to regain the use of his mind.

  ‘Could I see the library, perhaps?’ said the girl.

  ‘Yes,’ Malcolm replied. ‘It’s through here somewhere.’

  He found it eventually, which was good work on his part considering that he had just been struck by lightning or something remarkably similar. He opened the door and pointed at the rows of books.

  ‘That’s it in there,’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ said the girl, ‘I think I’ll start work now, if you don’t mind. The sooner I start, the sooner I’ll be out from under your feet.’

  ‘There’s no rush, honestly,’ said Malcolm quickly. ‘Please take as long as you like.’

  The girl looked at him and smiled. Malcolm had come to believe that he was fairly well equipped to deal with smiles, but this was a new sort; not a happy, optimistic smile but a sad, wistful smile. It didn’t say, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if . . .’ like the stock delivery of a Rhinemaiden, but, ‘It would have been nice if . . .’ which is quite different.