by M T McGuire
“Every legend contains a grain of truth,” he said, quoting the fifth book of Arnold. He often quoted The Prophet, the irony of doing so amused him. He had discovered that the technicalities of Nimmism, far from legend, were straightforward science. Advanced science, imaginative science, secret science, possibly even great science, but science, nonetheless. Not magic.
He picked up a small machine which looked like a gyroscope, only not, and spun the wheel. Blue sparks flew off it as he set it on a stand and watched the dial.
Yes. Finally. There it was. A name. A woman. A place. The Chosen One.
Someone must have selected her, which meant that somewhere out there was a Candidate – again, Lord Vernon’s gaze was drawn to the lights of the city, glinting among the roofs.
Did any others know about her? He thought of his enemies, the last handful of religious elders. Possibly. It mattered little. What could they do? Nothing more than he could. There was no-one left with the knowledge and all the books were destroyed or – he glanced up at the book cases – inaccessible to them. Yes. She was unattainable for now, but he was confident that if his studies continued according to plan, he would soon be able to rectify that. When he did, he would reach her first. Once she was in his power, the Candidate could not help but reveal himself.
He set the machine in motion again and took his own reading. His score had risen to an eight. High enough, in the circumstances. Soon it would be time.
She would choose him. And if she didn’t ... He had never balked at taking the things he wanted and he would make no exception now.
Chapter 31
As The Pan walked home, checking intermittently for any shadowy pursuers, he tried to rationalise his situation. The Resistance had finally caught up with him. He would have to tell Big Merv, but after his performance when pitted against the Interceptor, the prospect of giving his boss bad news held less fear. Perhaps there was now a chance Big Merv would demur from thumping The Pan if he said something controversial.
Gladys and Ada’s behaviour, on the other hand, worried him. They couldn’t be working for the Resistance. They couldn’t be working for the Grongles either, because had they done so, they wouldn’t have dealt with the ones in the Parrot’s bar. They would have stood by and let The Pan be dragged off to prison. That left Big Merv, which was highly unlikely, or another criminal organisation. Or could they belong to another Resistance organisation, a less violent Resistance of which The Pan knew nothing? He was too preoccupied, as he climbed up the drainpipe in the alley behind the Parrot, to notice anything untoward. The excess adrenaline in his system after the afternoon’s drive, coupled with his run-in with Denarghi, had left him jelly-legged, and twice in the course of what was usually a straightforward climb, he nearly lost his footing. He was relieved to reach the windowsill and throw his bag of loot through the opening. He heard the reassuring thump as it hit the landing carpet. As he was about to climb in, the window was flung open as wide as it would go and an elderly man stuck his head out.
“Ah! There you are, my boy,” he said proffering a gnarled fist, “can I give you a hand?”
The Pan was so shocked by the old man’s sudden appearance that he slipped and fell straight backwards into the alley below. He landed, with a surprisingly quiet rustle, on the pile of black plastic bin bags Gladys and Ada had put out for the dustmen. It smelled like the bottom of a parrot’s cage and what with Ada’s diligence in cleaning out Humbert’s living quarters every day, much of it probably had been. The bags had split and most of their insides were now on The Pan’s outside, including something damp and vile-smelling which had landed across his nose.
“Good grief,” he heard the old man above exclaim, “are you hurt?”
The Pan groaned and tried to move amid a crescendo of black plastic rustling accompanied by the plink, plink of empty beer bottles and food tins as they scattered about him in all directions. The Pan glared upwards. He’d never seen the old boy in the window before but something about him was strangely familiar.
“Are you there?” asked the old man.
“No,” said The Pan tetchily, “at least, I hope I’ll wake up in a moment and discover I’m not.” He finally managed to scramble to his feet.
“Coo-ee, dear!” trilled the disembodied voice of Ada from above and The Pan breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, he had just fallen from a second-storey window and was covered in evil-smelling refuse, but at least the old man, whoever he was, was merely a friend of Ada’s and not a Grongolian informant or a Resistance spy. In light of the day he’d had so far that had to be a plus.
“Are you concussed?” he heard Ada ask.
“No,” said The Pan. “But I wish I was. The smell ...” He gingerly peeled whatever it was off his nose and held it at arm’s length between his thumb and first finger. It was a piece of semi-decayed fish skin. “Eugh!” he said, flinging it away in disgust. He could hear the old boy chuckling to himself.
“This isn’t funny,” he said tersely. He scrutinised the visage of the old man above him, framed in the light from the hall window, and classed him as essentially harmless – irritating, but harmless.
“Aren’t you going to come inside?” the old man asked.
“Not while you’re there,” said The Pan. “Ada, can’t you tell him to go away?”
“Oh no, he’s a dear old friend of Gladys’ and mine. We go way back,” said Ada. “Now hurry inside so I can introduce you properly.”
“He’s certainly very old,” muttered The Pan, who by this time was on his hands and knees, searching the rubbish for his false moustache. He finally found it, covered in something yellow and slimy, which looked like egg yolk but smelled far worse. Unfortunately, it was an essential part of his disguise, and what’s more the old man had seen him wearing it. He could hardly reappear at the window without it. He wiped it on his sleeve and stuck it back. “I would have thought a man of your advanced years would have had more consideration than to scare the living daylights out of a man of my advanced years,” he said, trying not to breathe though his nose; the moustache smelt truly terrible.
“You aren’t my age,” said the old man.
“Yes I am,” snapped The Pan.
“You don’t climb a drainpipe like a man my age.”
“I doubt you’ve seen many men our age climb a drainpipe,” said The Pan, “how can you tell without a point of reference?”
“That’s exactly my argument. Men my age don’t climb drainpipes. By the time a man has reached my advanced age he’s been around long enough to know better. He’ll use the door like everyone else, or at the very least, a ladder.”
“You could have given me a heart attack,” said The Pan.
“Your moustache has fallen off again, dear,” said Ada, and the old man started another bout of chuckling.
The Pan folded his arms and glared upwards.
“Don’t take it to heart, my boy. As disguises go, yours is capital, absolutely capital. Now, do get a move on. Time is of the essence and you and I must talk.”
Says who? The Pan thought. “Not until I’ve had a bath,” he said, “and anyway, how do I know I can trust you?”
“Ada will vouch for me,”
“Ada would vouch for me,” said The Pan, “that hardly commends her powers of judgement.”
“I understand you’re upset, dear, but it’s perfectly safe,” said Ada. There was an awkward pause. Something bounced off his shoulder and flapped against the wall. It was a rope. The Pan glanced up and raised one eyebrow, as cynically as he could at the pair of them, before beginning, a second time, the climb to the landing window.
Chapter 32
It was late. Lord Vernon had not slept. In his apartment, he sat in the armchair which afforded him the best view over Ning Dang Po. His plans were proceeding reasonably well. He was master of all he surveyed, and one day soon he would be master of Grongolia. His strategy for world domination was foolproof. He would bestride the planet like a colossus and every living thing woul
d pay homage to him. He smiled. That would be most enjoyable. He would crush all resistance, destroy anyone who stood in his path. It would be ... delicious.
His reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door. He stood up, strode across the room and flung it open. He liked catching those beneath him – which in K’Barth was everyone – off their guard.
“Lord Protector,” said a flustered officer.
Lord Vernon noticed, with disdain, that he was a member of the Imperial Guard. They were separate from the army, which in K’Barth was commanded by Lord Vernon himself, and they were usually tasked with the protection of things or people. They were fiercely loyal to the state and the High Leader who had sent them to K’Barth – ostensibly to guard Lord Vernon, but, privately, he suspected they were there to watch him. He did not trust or require them. Indeed, he considered them an inconvenience and an insult, foisted on him by his fearful superior. Lord Vernon made sure they were kept busy with a string of pointless and demoralising tasks well beneath their skill set and station.
“Yes,” he said softly. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. That was good. He liked the way his deformity scared others and only wore them to ensure the impact was all the more shocking when he chose to remove them. He looked into the officer’s face and saw his fear. “What do you want?”
“I am with the detachment conducting excavations on your behalf at the High Temple,” the officer said, holding out a bag. “I believe these may be the items you seek.”
These. Yet the bag contained one box.
“Wait.” Lord Vernon took it from him and closed the door. As he emptied the contents onto his desk he tried to suppress his excitement. The bag contained a small leather box that, in turn, contained three ornate thimbles: one of copper, one of bronze and one of platinum, with empty spaces for two more.
“As I expected,” he said softly, “gold and silver are missing.”
The K’Barthans had run their state on democratic lines, but the final say rested with the Architrave. To advise him – or her – were three high-ranking officials, chosen by the Parliament; the Council of Three. Each of these three had a thimble-shaped portal; one of silver, one of platinum and one of copper, while the Architrave’s was made of gold. The last portal, a bronze one, was lent to high-ranking officials when it was deemed necessary, for a special assignment, or a dangerous one.
“Three portals.” These were the source of the rumours about Nimmism – a portal could be used to move instantly from one place to another. It could be used to watch others, unobserved – but apart from himself, was there anybody left with knowledge of such things? No, not anymore. Not now the K’Barthans had been cleansed of their leaders. Now, anyone owning a functioning portal would be ... indomitable.
The gold thimble was, supposedly, lost forever, long since according to police records, and the final Architrave had substantiated this. Questioned under the influence of Truth Serum, shortly before his summary trial and execution, he had confessed to losing it and being too embarrassed to tell anyone. Hardly surprising. He was vacuous and vain, and conveniently, from the Grongolian point of view, possibly the most useless Architrave ever. Even so, Lord Vernon, ever thorough, was conducting his own search to substantiate these claims.
The silver one had plunged into a ravine with the High Priest – and his snurd – four or five years previously. Lord Vernon had several squads of Grongles searching the wreckage, but from the molten state of the vehicle it was looking more and more unlikely that a piece of silver would survive.
These three were the last known portals – for now. He was optimistic that the boffins in his laboratories would be able to reverse engineer them and create a bespoke – and superior, naturally – Grongolian version.
“Remarkable.” He had been waiting for this moment, expecting it to come soon, but not quite this quickly. He took the platinum thimble from its place and turned it over in his hands. It was a work of art, finely crafted with scenes from the life of The Prophet. He laughed, a manic evil guffaw. A laugh like that wasn’t a luxury he allowed himself often, but on this occasion, he couldn’t help himself.
Lord Vernon left the box on the desk and returned to the officer outside the door. A colonel, he noticed, one he didn’t recognise. Unsurprising, as a staunch army Grongle, Lord Vernon ensured he had as little as possible to do with the Imperial Guard.
“You are new here, Colonel?” The red eyes returned his stare with equanimity. He had clearly prepared himself for eye contact, the second time. He was plucky, this one.
“Yessir, just posted here.”
“Where were you before?”
“I commanded the garrison guarding the Bank of Grongolia, sir.”
“Interesting. Your name, Colonel?”
“Moteurs, sir.”
“The items you have so kindly given me. Are they what I think they are?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Yet you doubt.”
“It is difficult to tell.”
“Because ...?”
“Because they are not currently functioning, sir.”
“No matter, that can be rectified.”
“I’m not so certain, sir.” Contradiction? That was close to insubordinate. Perhaps it was time to show Moteurs who was in charge.
“Why, exactly?” asked Lord Vernon, with all the menace and sneering disdain that he could muster – which was quite a lot.
Colonel Moteurs began to sweat. Good.
“I believe two are damaged beyond repair, sir,” he said. “But I am told the platinum one might be revived with the help of a priest ...” an awkward pause, but entirely natural, since it was largely due to Lord Vernon that priests were such a rarity these days, “should there be one left in the cells.”
“A priest will not be required. Do not be taken in by these savages and their religious hype. This is not ju-ju, Colonel, it is science. Intelligent, advanced science but nothing more. Do you understand me?”
“Yessir.”
Another glare of sneering disdain.
“I assume you did not come by these artefacts at the High Temple.”
“No, sir.”
“Naturally. Where did you find them?”
A long, long, pause. The officer was choosing his words carefully. Lord Vernon watched and waited.
“I cannot tell you, sir,” said Colonel Moteurs, eventually.
“I’m so sorry, I seem to have misheard you,” said Lord Vernon glibly, “I am almost sure I heard you say could not tell me.”
“I’m afraid I did, sir. My sources are secretive and they trust me. I would not wish to compromise the safety of a reliable informant.”
Lord Vernon made no effort to keep the menace out of his voice when he said, “Do you imply that telling me who your sources are would compromise their safety?”
“Nossir.”
“Then what do you imply, exactly? Think carefully before you answer. Remember that if I choose to, I can make you tell me in a manner which may be ...” he waved his hand casually as he sought for an appropriate word, “disagreeable to you.”
The Colonel glanced up and down the corridor.
“Your Gracious Exaltedness,” he said, using the Lord Protector’s full title, “there is no such implication, but we do not know who might be listening. This person is blacklisted—he should be shot on sight—but he has information which could be of use to us; information about the few enemies of the state who remain. At the beginning he agreed to work for me in exchange for his life, but I have convinced him I am dissatisfied with those in power at home and here, and that I am working to promote a new Grongolian order. He now trusts me implicitly because he believes I am using these as part of a ruse to trick you.” Lord Vernon was impressed. Colonel Moteurs was now sweating profusely but his voice was steady and throughout his speech he maintained eye contact without flinching or turning away. To increase the Colonel’s discomfort, he waited before answering.
“Then, perhaps, it is your luck
y day, Major General Moteurs.”
“Thank you, Your Most Gracious Exaltedness,” said the new Major General Moteurs with a bow.
Lord Vernon paused. Yes. Why not? Moteurs was brave enough to look him in the eye, brave enough to contradict him.
“General Moteurs,” he said, “let us skip to plain General. I like to keep things uncomplicated.” The General’s face darkened in a green blush. He’d just been promoted four ranks at once.
“How can I ever thank you, Your Gracious Exaltedness?”
“With your loyalty, General.” And how that would cost him. Lord Vernon looked the General up and down and was tempted to smile. Everybody has a price – even a Grongle courageous enough to contradict him, like this one.
“I may ask a small favour of you one day.” He waved one arm in a dismissive it’ll-be-tiny gesture. Ah, if only the newly promoted General knew, he would spurn his freshly-won rank and head back to the Bank of Grongolia. “For now, that is all. You may go.”
The General bowed.
“Thank you, sir.”
Lord Vernon shut the door. He loved playing with the lives of those who served him.
He took a leather-bound tome from the bookcases which comprised most of one wall of his office. Officially, all Nimmist books had been burned. However, unofficially, Lord Vernon had ensured those which were important or useful to him had escaped incineration. He leafed through the well-thumbed pages and then read for a few minutes with rapt concentration.
Still reading, he walked back to the desk, opened a secret drawer and removed a box of implements. He selected a small plinth of greenish metal and stood it in the middle of the desk blotter. After a brief consultation of the book he took a black Biro and drew a circle round the plinth and placed the platinum thimble on it. He walked over to the safe and removed a small machine which looked like one of those toy gyroscopes, only not, wound it up with a key, placed it on the table and moved the small release lever to set it spinning. It wobbled less and less as it gained speed, until it stood steady on its single spindle, humming quietly. Small flecks of crimson lightning crackled between the spinning plate and thimble.