Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  “I’m a little teapot!” he said. Instead of ‘ouch’.

  “Do not play games with me,” shouted Lord Vernon, savagely kicking The Pan again, “you may be a fool, but whatever you told the Resistance, I know you have wits enough not to have thrown the items you stole out of the snurd window! Where is Sir Robin Get? Where are the things you took?”

  “I don’t know! In the basement of the Parrot and Screwdriver!” said The Pan’s brain, “I’m a little teapot!” said his mouth. Lord Vernon picked him up by the scruff of the neck and threw him sideways. He was almost winded by the impact as he hit the front of the desk; never mind, at least it was flat – a single leg would have done a lot more damage. He rolled over and tried to get to his feet, but Lord Vernon was too quick. Grabbing him again he hauled him over the top, the blotter and its contents scattering in all directions as he did so, and flung him into the chair.

  “Tie him down,” he ordered one guard, and to the other: “Get me more Truth Serum! His resistance is astounding.”

  While the guards did as they were told he glared at The Pan, his anger almost tangible, dripping across the space between them like molten lead.

  “Clearly, I have underestimated you,” he hissed, “but no-one can resist the Truth Serum for long. One way or another, you will tell me everything I wish to know.”

  Nope. Oh ho ho.

  “I’m a little teapot?”

  Three more syringes-full later, The Pan could say nothing else. He hoped Truth Serum wore off as he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with a four-word vocabulary. Not that it wasn’t convenient right now, or that the rest of his life was likely to extend long enough for it to matter. He had been kicked and beaten – he suspected Denarghi had already broken his nose – and now he also had a black eye, judging by the way it was smarting. Lord Vernon could certainly pack a punch and the ring worn by forty generations of architraves hadn’t helped. The Pan wished, even more keenly than before, that he had never sold the wretched thing.

  Chapter 63

  Lord Vernon took a knife from his belt. Not a penknife, a great big hunting affair, with a blade about six inches long. Marvellous, thought The Pan; thumped, kicked and now cut. Smiling nastily, Lord Vernon waited long enough for the sweat to appear on The Pan’s face, before viciously spinning the swivel chair round and cutting the ropes binding him into it. He spun the chair back, a little more slowly and stepped away.

  “Stand up,” he said.

  The Pan, borrowed knees aside, managed, by concentrating very hard, to do as he was told. It was a bit like trying to stand after one too many of Gladys’ home-made Calvados or high-alcohol beers. Difficult, but not impossible if you swayed backwards and forwards with the right momentum.

  “It would seem you are impervious to the Truth Serum. That is,” Lord Vernon waved the knife in an expansive gesture, “inconvenient—not to mention unusual—but not insurmountable.” He spoke to the guards.

  “You may leave us, gentlemen,” he said without taking his eyes off The Pan. “If you cannot tell me the information I require, then you will have to show me.”

  What in the name of The Prophet was he on about?

  “Perhaps you think I am stupid?”

  The Pan realised he must have been looking quizzical, and tried to rearrange his bruised face into a noncommittal expression. He would have liked to have said that the idea of Lord Vernon being a fool would be the last thing he thought, but he feared another ‘I’m a little teapot’ might provoke the Lord Protector to do more with the knife than wave it about. At all costs he must survive this interview and warn his friends of the danger they were in. He shook his head.

  “Good.”

  The Pan watched as, for a second time, Lord Vernon turned his back and walked away across the room. His neck ached, and since he could do so unobserved, he rolled his shoulders, rolled his head from side to side and then backwards, looking up. He was standing almost in the great inglenook fireplace and far away in the distance, high up the chimney, he could see a patch of sky. It was a big opening, you could climb up there, possibly right to the top where a well-built Grongle, no matter how prone to violence, might not be able to follow. He’d have a gun, of course, or he’d throw the knife, so it wouldn’t make any difference unless ... there were darker patches which might have been other chimneys; if it was a main flue and others joined it, that would add the option of a passage into another room. It would be a gamble, a dangerous gamble but then, being trapped in Lord Vernon’s office with Lord Vernon was a fairly life-threatening situation. The Pan realised, with alarm, that the Lord Protector had turned round without his noticing.

  “Perhaps you are thinking of trying to escape?”

  Was it so obvious? The Pan shook his head.

  “I see you do not understand the hopelessness of your situation. Your efforts to withstand the Truth Serum for which,” the casual wave of the hand again, “I must grudgingly admit my admiration, will not save your friends. Incidentally, if I believed you were able to tell me I would be interested in knowing your method. However,” he twirled the knife from one hand to the other, “I fear I will lose control and do something I may subsequently regret if you inform me, once again, that you are a little teapot.”

  The Pan wanted to reply but in light of Lord Vernon’s threat, he kept quiet. Anyway, if he listened, he might learn something he could use.

  “I must say this in your favour, Hamgeean, you are full of surprises. Once you had shared your knowledge with me I had anticipated ending you, here, now. However, since you have verbally inconvenienced yourself in this intriguing manner, I must alter my plan. Unwittingly, I believe you may have presented me with a greater opportunity. You see, since you are unable to tell me the whereabouts of Sir Robin, I have no choice but to spare your life in order that you may lead me to him.”

  The Pan couldn’t believe his luck. He’d disappear and make sure the Grongles never found him again; it’d be a piece of cake. He would warn Gladys and Ada, he would find the old man and warn him and then he would step through his thimble into the girl’s world and live there. He might not know how it worked but he would soon learn, and it had to be a better version of the universe than the one in which he currently resided.

  “Don’t think I would set you free if there was any chance of escape. I know what you are thinking but even there, I will find you.”

  Did he though? Did he know about the girl’s world?

  The Pan shifted from one foot to the other and trod on something. Of course, strewn about the floor, mostly round his feet, were the things which had been neatly set out on the desk, until he had been dragged bodily across the top of it, that was. Carefully, because the Truth Serum had given him even more of a monster headache, he bent down and began to pick them up, setting them out across the blotter again in a wonky row. It was good to do something small and mundane, it helped to balance his mind, or at least to focus it on a more normal and useful train of thought than the current one, which was firmly centred around his fear.

  There was the usual stuff, pen, ruler, pencil, blotter and of course, the keys to his snurd. Should he? No. Tempting though it was to slip them into his pocket, he placed them on the blotter. Lord Vernon was too sharp, he would notice they were missing. But, as The Pan picked them up, he was able to press the homing button without being seen. He had no real hope. Apart from the receipt, there’d been no word from Snurd so it probably wasn’t finished, in which case the homing function wouldn’t work, and even if it came to his aid, what could it do, outside, with him indoors?

  Apart from his hat, which he put on, there were some strange items which reminded him of the loot Sir Robin had taken from him when he came to visit him that night at the Parrot. The first was a thing that looked like a gyroscope, only not, because it had a stand with a dial and a pointer. The second was a fountain pen and a round gold ... was that a powder compact? Yep. Interesting. The pen and compact were replicas, by the looks of things. There was a
box, exactly like the one he and the Mervinettes had stolen from the Bank of Grongolia. For a moment he thought it was the same one, and felt as if his heart had stopped. Closer examination showed it to be different, though. The carving wasn’t as good quality, for starters and it was newer. Another replica? He opened it. Yep. Definitely modern. Too badly finished inside for the real deal and no piece of paper. There was also a thimble, like his own.

  He turned it over. Lord Vernon was watching him, so he didn’t dare put it to his eye, but he was able to catch a glimpse of something white in the bottom, daylight? Yes, it must be, the thimble was, after all, very similar to The Pan’s but silver like the old man’s – or platinum, perhaps? He placed it on the blotter with the rest.

  “You understand what that is.” More of a statement than a question.

  “I’m a little tea—” he began, before noticing the way the blade of Lord Vernon’s knife reflected the light, and stopped abruptly. He nodded.

  “Good.”

  After successfully resisting the Truth Serum The Pan felt different. Brave would be an exaggeration but something in him felt better. Without appreciating what he was doing, he looked up at Lord Vernon’s face. Still no sunglasses. The icy eyes bored into his, but to his surprise he was able to meet their gaze. Indeed, it was Lord Vernon who looked away first. A brief millisecond glance at the desk before continuing to glare at The Pan but still a minute concession. There were advantages to being tanked up with Truth Serum, then. Pity about the headache.

  “And by that knowledge, you will also understand that you have no secrets from me.”

  The Pan shrugged. Clearly everyone in the entire world had a thimble through which they were watching him the way he had watched the girl – presumably, bearing in mind what Sir Robin had said about listening being an easy enough skill, with full Sensurround sound. Gits.

  “An artefact with as much power as this,” Lord Vernon held up The Pan’s thimble again before placing it on the desk next to the other one, “is clearly wasted on you. Rest assured I will use it to its full capacity.”

  “Oh yeh? I’d like to see you work out how to use it for yourself—” began The Pan’s brain angrily. He was annoyed; it wasn’t as if he’d been given any tuition. “I’m a little tea—” he heard himself say but again, he stopped talking as soon as he caught Lord Vernon’s expression.

  “Do that once more and I will be involuntarily compelled to act in a way you may find painful,” said the Grongle coolly. “Sir Robin and your father, as members of the Underground and the Council of the Choosing, conducted the Looking and found a Candidate. Despite the escape of their colleagues initially, I soon apprehended all the members of the Council except Sir Robin. Of course, as you know, those captured included your father ...”

  A long, long pause to let the gravity of what he was saying sink in.

  “Unfortunately, despite my best persuasive entreaties, none of them were kind enough to share the Candidate’s identity with me before they died.”

  Oh Arnold no. Not that.

  The Pan’s legs felt distinctly wobbly. It wasn’t only the Truth Serum, it was that phrase: ‘persuasive entreaties’.

  It meant Lord Vernon must have beaten and tortured them to try and make them confess. It meant his father had been in this very situation, only probably worse. It meant he was going to keel over unless he concentrated very hard on standing upright.

  The Pan’s mind was foggy, he felt sick and angry, but for the first time since he was eight years old, he also felt he shared a common bond with his father. He didn’t know whether to be elated at the idea or to cry for what he must have suffered.

  “Doubtless even a creature as lacking in drive as you, can appreciate that I am ambitious. I was no more content then with being a sergeant, than I am with being Lord Protector of K’Barth, now. If I am Architrave though, the people will accept my rule as law.”

  A horrible thought which made The Pan wince.

  “You think I can never be Architrave because I am not the Candidate? You are correct, for the moment, but I am a great believer in the maxim ‘knowledge is power’. I have studied Nimmism. You see these objects here?” He gestured to the stuff on the desk. Even with a brief glance, The Pan could see him checking them, and was glad he hadn’t palmed his keys. “These are not ordinary things, these are the tools used in the Looking.”

  Not all of them, thought The Pan. He reckoned two of them were fake and he knew for sure that wasn’t the real box.

  “Long ago,” Lord Vernon continued, “there was a constitutional crisis when the Architrave was killed in an accident before his time and a Candidate was not found. In order to ensure continuity, the Nimmist priests were able to establish a false Candidate, one who showed some, though not all, of the signs. This woman was Head of State for twenty years until a real Candidate was found and the true order of things restored. I believe you may know this.”

  The Pan remembered the old man telling him the same story. Oh dear, Lord Vernon was remarkably well-informed.

  “Here we are, a few short years after the untimely death of the last Architrave with a Candidate who, if he does exist—and I believe he does—is unknown to his people and dare not come forward. And here am I, with the information and the skill to establish myself artificially as Candidate in his place. The situation is quite simple: if he challenges my authority, I will kill him. If he does not challenge me soon, I will be established in his stead and the thread will be broken forever. There will be no more Candidates. I will be Architrave and I will choose my successor.”

  The Pan shook his head.

  “You disagree?”

  Mutely, The Pan nodded.

  “Because you think the thread will never be broken? Because you think the people will never believe? Oh they may hate me, but they are malleable enough and they have no stomach for a fight, if they see the right signs, they will convince themselves.”

  Surely not; The Pan was ready to admit that people in groups are often dim, but believing Lord Vernon was the Candidate would be a step too far for the lobotomised – or would it? The Pan remembered another part of his conversation with the old man, about how conservative people are, how they tend to prefer the world they are used to even when offered the prospect of a better one. But Lord Vernon as Candidate? No-one would buy that.

  “I’m a little—” Lord Vernon glanced sharply at him. The Pan stopped himself and shook his head.

  “I think you underestimate the passivity of this nation’s populace. The people will believe and, if you are alive to witness it, you will see them elect me Architrave and obey my word. In time, my remarkable success will be noted in Grongolia, and having proved myself here, my rise to power, there, shall be inevitable. I will own this planet and everything on it.”

  World domination. It figured. Lord Vernon was, after all, a power-hungry psychopath, everyone knew that.

  Even so, thought The Pan, surely people would have to realise. In forty generations the Architraves had sometimes been eccentric – there was that one with the thing about chickens – but none of them had ever been evil. The Pan glanced up at the Lord Protector’s grey eyes, the colour of lead and cold as marble. Human eyes yet lacking any shred of humanity.

  “You seem unconvinced,” there was an underlying hint of glee to Lord Vernon’s tone, “true, while any bona fide Candidate lives, even after my installation as Architrave, there is a negligible risk he could lead a revolt,” he snorted, “why, there is an even smaller risk that it might be successful. But as I have explained to you, even now the thread is weak; when I have found and killed him it will be broken,” that casual wave of the hand again, “the people will believe, and K’Barth will belong to me.”

  Had Lord Vernon told his father this? The Pan wondered.

  “Sir Robin is the last person alive who knows the identity of the Candidate. So, you will return to his side and you will ingratiate yourself with him.”

  The Pan raised a sceptical eyebrow.
The old boy was smarter than that.

  “If he is here in K’Barth then he will, doubtless, need a chauffeur. Your skills in that direction are undeniably impressive and he will not pass up the chance to utilise them. Thus, when you have won his trust—which you will—and discovered the whereabouts of the Candidate, you will inform me; I will remove this impediment from my path and assume my rightful place.”

  The Pan shook his head.

  “Perhaps you misunderstand me. You do not have a choice. You know what this is?” He picked up The Pan’s thimble and looked into it for a moment. Then he placed it on the table and made a complicated set of hand movements over it. The Pan took a careful note, he might find them useful in future. Yeh right, what future? This was Lord Vernon ...

  Once finished Lord Vernon held it up again.

  “This is a portal. A very useful item, it can be used for travel or viewing pleasure.” He pointed the open end towards The Pan, more or less at eye level. “It is a quantum mechanical device powered by the imagination or desires of the owner. By holding it, you establish a connection to your mind. Thus, by imagining the place to which you are travelling or the items you wish to see, you allow the portal to reveal them. Insert your thumb to travel, and if required you can be transported many thousands of miles, immediately. This you understand, yes?”

  The Pan nodded.

  “Then, look and see for yourself. Do not touch it or you will interfere with the connection and see what you wish to see rather than the view I have prepared for you.”