Snow White & the Seven Samurai Tom Holt

by Snow White

  The queen pulled aside a curtain of lank reeds, shook her head and let it fall back. ‘My accountant,’ she said.

  ‘Your accountant?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She turned her attention to a dead tree, its heart eaten out by time and some indeterminate form of blight. ‘Hello? Anybody home? Oh well.’

  ‘Your accountant.’

  ‘You seem surprised.’

  ‘Sorry. It just seems a bit unlikely, that’s all.’

  The queen raised an eyebrow. ‘Not a bit of it. Oh, your heroes and dragonslayers and knights in shining armour are all right for fetching and carrying and basic pest control, but when you’re in serious trouble what you need is sensible, level-headed professional help. And this chap we’re going to meet is so level-headed you could play snooker on his hat. Given a choice between him and your average heavily armed leather fetishist—’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Sis replied. ‘It’s just that my uncle Terry’s an accountant, and his office is over a chemist’s shop in a suburban high street. This doesn’t look...’

  ‘Different strokes, girl,’ the queen said patiently. ‘In these parts, this is a suburban high street. I wish you’d said you were an accountant’s niece. I’d have taken you a bit more seriously if I’d known that.’

  ‘I—’ Sis would undoubtedly have said something worthy of her ancestry if she hadn’t chosen that moment to step on a chunk of green, slimy log and topple over. There was a horrible-sounding glop! noise, and she disappeared into the mud.

  ‘Oh God,’ the queen said, hauling her out, ‘the bucket...’

  She looked round. Being lighter than a fairly well-nourished adolescent girl, the bucket hadn’t sunk into the mire; it was sitting, or floating, on the scummy surface at an angle of about forty-five degrees. There was a newt swim­ming in it.

  ‘Hell,’ the queen said. ‘That’s another chunk of data we’ve lost. Much more of this and we might as well forget the whole thing. Why couldn’t you look where you were going, instead of...?’

  Sis wasn’t listening. Rather, she was staring at something behind the queen’s back and pointing. ‘Over there,’ she said.

  ‘Hm? Oh good Lord, right under our noses and we didn’t see.’

  The base of the dead tree had swung open, revealing a carpeted staircase apparently leading down into a tunnel under the mud. Having carefully unglued the bucket, the queen waded across, looked in vain for something to wipe her feet on, then squelched down the stairs and out of sight, leaving Sis to follow as best she could.

  The staircase was long, narrow and dark, and the slippery condition of her shoes made the journey an interesting one. When she finally emerged into light and air, she found herself in what looked unnervingly like a warm, bright, enchantingly dull waiting-room. There were the usual plastic chairs, the usual table with dog-eared copies of ancient magazines, the usual gaunt-looking avocado plant in a too-small pot; and behind the absolutely standard receptionist’s desk sat a nice, cosy-looking middle-aged —‘Hello,’ the leprechaun was saying to the wicked queen.

  ‘Have you got an appointment?’

  “Fraid not,’ the queen replied. ‘If he could spare me a minute or so, it’d be greatly appreciated.’

  The leprechaun beamed. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here,’ she said, and pressed a button on her desk.

  ‘I’ll regret asking this,’ Sis muttered while the receptionist was making her call, ‘but isn’t that—?’

  The queen nodded. ‘They all are. Logical choice of pro­fession, given their experience in hiding pots of gold under rainbows. Don’t stare, it’s rude. She’s not staring, and you’re a whole lot weirder in these parts than she is.’

  By the time Sis had thought that one through, the con­necting door had opened and a — dammit, yes, a funny little man with sparkling eyes behind round spectacles and a long white beard was shaking hands with the wicked queen and asking after the health of some carefully memorised relative. Sis felt better; that proved he was an accountant, for all that he was four feet tall and dressed in red and yellow slippers with bells on the toes. Any minute now, she thought, he’ll press the tips of his fingers together and say ‘Let’s just run through those figures again, shall we?’ and then she’d know.

  She followed them through into the leprechaun’s office, which was even more reassuring. There was the desk; one comfy chair behind it, two chair-shaped instruments of torture in front. There were the filing cabinet, the rows of loose-leaf reference books, the files neatly stacked on the floor with Dictaphone tapes balanced on them ready for the typists, the obligatory framed photograph on the desktop with picture of generic wife, small child and dog (look closely at some of those framed photos; wherever you go, sooner or later you’ll notice they’re all of the same woman, child and dog). The only thing missing was the VDU and where it should have been there was a free-standing grey-plastic-framed mirror.

  ‘So,’ the leprechaun said, nodding them into the punters’ chairs, ‘what can I do for you?’

  The wicked queen settled her face into that expression of charming helplessness that can sometimes draw the fangs of even the most hard-bitten professional adviser. ‘I’m afraid I’ve done something awfully silly,’ she said, ‘and I was wondering if you could possibly help me.’

  The leprechaun smiled. ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure it can’t be as bad as you make out.’

  The queen simpered back; Sis had done enough pocket-money work for Uncle Terry during the school holidays to know it was tactically quite sound, but that didn’t stop her wanting to be noisily sick. ‘It’s like this,’ she said. ‘We — that’s her and me — we’ve managed to crash the Mirrors network for the whole kingdom and all that’s left is what’s in this bucket, and we’ve spilt quite a lot of that. Also, her two brothers are missing out there somewhere, nothing seems to work at all, and we haven’t a clue how to put it right. Do you think you could suggest something?’

  ‘Um,’ the leprechaun replied, looking as if he’d just found a sea-serpent coiled round his soup spoon. ‘All due respect, but that doesn’t really sound like an accountancy problem. I’m sorry if that sounds negative,’ he added quickly, as the queen’s face fell like share prices after a spring election, ‘but the tax advantages of a total systems wipe-out aren’t all that great. Of course,’ he went on, ‘it’s all a bit of a grey area, and I’d need to take another look at the figures—’

  (Ah, whispered Sis to herself. I believe.)

  ‘Actually,’ the queen interrupted, ‘the tax thing isn’t abso­lutely uppermost in my mind right now.’

  The leprechaun looked at her and blinked. ‘It isn’t?’ he said.

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘Oh.’ Something in his manner suggested that where he came from, people had been burnt at the stake for less. ‘So how can I help?’

  The queen smiled and pointed at the mirror. ‘I seem to remember you saying that your, um, one of those ran off an independent network, and I was just wondering if I might possibly—’

  The leprechaun looked at her gravely, as if she’d just asked if she might borrow his mother for a little experiment. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said guardedly. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Nothing drastic,’ the queen assured him. ‘For starters, I was wondering if we could use your mirror to translate my, um, bucket. You see, it’s all jumbles of silly letters and symbols and things, and I haven’t the faintest idea what that’s all about. It certainly isn’t any use, how it is. If we could somehow load it on to yours, we might be able to get things running again.’

  The leprechaun leaned back in his chair and fiddled with the stem of his spectacles. ‘Of course I’d love to help in any way I can, you know that,’ he said. ‘But there are sensitive personal files relating to my clients’ financial affairs—’

  ‘I won’t peek, honest,’ the queen cooed.

  ‘Quite so.’ The leprechaun hesitated, patently torn between his obligations
to his paying customers and his loyalty to his queen. ‘Unfortunately, the rules of the profession are very strict. After all,’ he added, sensing that he’d hit on a winning argument, ‘you wouldn’t want me letting all and sundry look at your file.’

  For some reason, the queen suddenly looked thoughtful. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘You do it, then. You probably know far more about these gadgets than I do anyway. Don’t sup­pose it’d take you more than a minute or so.’

  It was the accountant’s turn to look thoughtful. On the one hand, he was saying to himself, my mother didn’t raise me to be no systems analyst; on the other hand, for his usual hourly charge, paid cash, quite likely in advance, he’d cheer­fully do handstands in the street, sing serenades under young girls’ windows while accompanying himself on the mandolin (hire of mandolin extra), escort inconvenient female relatives to social functions or clean out a blocked sink. ‘Certainly,’ he said, plastering a smile onto his face and then wiping it away before it set hard. ‘I shall do my best.’

  ‘Oh good,’ the queen said. ‘That’s a weight off my mind. Here’s the bucket.’ She hauled it up and placed it carefully on the desk; she didn’t spill a drop, but the mud on the bottom made an awful mess of a thick wodge of paperwork. ‘Do you want us to wait in the waiting room, or shall we go away and come back, or what?’

  The leprechaun peered down into the bucket, wiggled his ears, and sat down in the general direction of his chair. When he spoke next, there was a curiously shell-shocked tone to his voice.

  ‘This may, ah, take some time,’ he croaked. ‘Perhaps you’d better go away and come back later. Better still, I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

  The wicked queen raised an eyebrow; it was a gesture that suited her, and she knew it. ‘How?’ she asked sweetly. ‘With everything being offline all over the kingdom.’

  ‘Oh.’ The leprechaun looked up, his mind clearly else­where. ‘I’ll, er, send a messenger. You’re going back to the palace, presumably.’

  The queen nodded. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said. ‘I feel ever so much better now.’

  Once the door had closed and the sound of footsteps on the stairs had died away, the accountant got up, drew the curtains, checked under the mat and behind the picture frames, took off his red and yellow stripy jacket and loosened the staid, demure tie he wore hidden under the vestments of his trade. Then he looked into the bucket again. Then he grinned.

  ‘Hold all calls,’ he barked into the intercom, ‘and cancel all my appointments for the day. Something’s come up.’

  ‘Well?’ Julian demanded.

  ‘Nearly finished,’ Eugene replied, his mouth full of bolts. ‘Just got to tighten up this last nut and ... There, all done. What d’you think?’

  Julian looked up and saw a dear little cottage, with roses around the door and chocolate-box windows curtained in flowery chintz, suspended twenty feet in the air from the belly of a huge balloon. ‘I see the logic behind it,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m just not sure about how you’ve put it into practice.’

  ‘What’s there to see?’ Eugene shouted back. ‘It’s pretty simple, really. The next time the bastard starts huffing and puffing, all we do is cut the anchor cable and then just ride out the blast. Okay, so perhaps we end up a hundred miles away, but I’ve fitted a couple of rocket-powered motors, so we’ll be back home within the hour. It’d damn well better work,’ he added with feeling. ‘I got a carrier pigeon from the insurance company while you were out, and they’re not happy. Somehow I feel that threatening to take our business elsewhere isn’t keeping them awake at nights any more.’

  ‘Come down,’ Julian said. ‘Sorry to sound downbeat, but I don’t think that thing’s safe.’

  Eugene gazed up at the balloon. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘But I’m coming down anyway. Press that red button on the instrument panel, would you? It works the elevator.’

  ‘Which red button? There’s two of them.’

  Far away in the distance a dish and a spoon, each carrying two suitcases, a flight bag and a yellow duty-free carrier that clinked as they moved, paused to look up at the strange grey sausage that seemed to have a house hanging from it. A passing cat started to play ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ on the violin.

  ‘The one marked Lift,’ Eugene shouted back.

  ‘Lift-off?’

  ‘No, Liiiiiift!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Julian yelled, as the balloon abruptly tore away from its moorings, wrenched loose by the explosive force of the rocket motors. ‘I think I may have pressed the wrong button.’

  On the distant hillside, the cat lifted the bow clear of the strings and corrugated her brows into a pensive frown. ‘I thought it was meant to be a cow,’ she said.

  “Scuse me?’

  ‘Taking part in the moon shot,’ the cat explained. ‘I read about it in the paper, Daisy Set To Be First Cow In Space. And that thing hanging out of the upstairs window is either a very small pink cow, or it’s a pig.’

  ‘Don’t ask us,’ replied the spoon, ‘we’re tableware.’

  *

  Snow White threw open the quaint old leaded window of her bedroom, leaned out over the sill, took a deep breath of crisp morning air and thought, Yes!

  Most of the time, life’s hard for a girl living on her wits in the Big Forest. The dividing line between predator and prey blurs. Wolves wear sheepskin, fashionable sheep wouldn’t be seen dead in anything but one hundred per cent pure wolf, three quarters of the lucky breaks turn out to be menacing cracks, and come Happy-Ever-After time, you’re only ever as good as your last scam.

  Not this time, Snow White reflected, giving thanks to the patron goddess of her vocation. Just this once, she’d fallen on her feet instead of her head or her butt. She had the house, in a neighbourhood where there was no chance of bumping into any of her old associates. She had the story, perfect in every detail. Most of all, she had the marks; a prime set, all complete, first editions, collector’s items every one. Seven dreamy otherworldly Orientals, gentlemen and scholars all, already eating out of her hand and doing precisely what they were told, automatically and without question. It went without saying that they were wealthy; all Japanese were. Give it just a few weeks more, time enough to reel them in without any risk of arousing the slightest suspicion, and then it’d be time for the first fleeting hints about the gold mine her poor dead uncle had just left to her and the wonderful investment opportunity it offered. Hell, fish in a barrel were the Viet Cong compared to these poor fools. It was perfect; raining Schrodinger’s cats and Pavlov’s dogs.

  She left the window, with its heart-stoppingly lovely view of the glade, the clearing and the mist-wrapped treetops, and inspected the contents of her wardrobe. There was the plain white frock, the homely cute gingham with the designer patch on the left knee, the blouse-bodice-skirt combo she’d arrived in and the black leather jumpsuit that represented the last resort when the going got really tough. Not going to need that on this job, she reassured herself smugly, which was good; it was hot as hell in that thing, and wearing it always made her feel like toothpaste in a hostile tube.

  She decided on the gingham, as being most appropriate for what was on the day’s agenda. So far she’d won their sym­pathy, their trust and their affection; now she had to launch Phase II and convert that useful groundwork into the fierce avuncular protectiveness that experience had taught her was the best preparation for the sting. When they’ve rescued you from death and Fates Worse Than a couple of times, hung around your bedside waiting for you to open your pretty little eyes and look up at them with love and trust, all that really remains is to administer the final coup de gráce while making shortlists of what to spend the money on.

  She adjusted the dress in front of the mirror, straightened the neckline, lifted her skirt and tucked into her garter elastic the dainty little nickel-plated .25 automatic that had more than once proved to be a girl’s best friend in a tight spot. Not that she saw herself having any need of it here; God, bu
t these marks were a joy to work with, so much easier than the riverboat gamblers and treacle miners she’d cut her teeth on back in the old days...

  She frowned. She could remember the old days quite vividly, but only as a sort of big screen memory, all perfectly lit, beautifully framed and in needle-sharp focus. It was almost too vivid to be real, because surely memory doesn’t work that way, in sweeping panoramic shots of atmospheric saloons and archetypal levees beside a cobalt blue river. Too perfect, too perfect by half. She had the feeling that if she were to be fatally injured and have her past life flash before her eyes, there’d be an usherette with a torch to show her to her seat.

  She unclenched the muscles that shaped the frown and ordered herself to quit being so damn paranoid. Everything was going to be just fine; fairytale ending.

  There was a knock at her door. Quickly she shut the ward­robe, checked the line of her skirt, knocked her voice back into little-girl mode and chirped, ‘Come in.

  She relaxed. It was only nice Mr Akira, with her break­fast tray: toasted muffins, fresh milk, apple, this morning’s Financial Times. She smiled; he blushed, bowed low, nutted himself on the rustic latch and withdrew.

  Once she’d had something to eat and had run her eye down the closing prices, she composed her thoughts and began to formulate her plan. In order to tighten her grip the last few essential degrees, she needed to be saved by the marks from some awful fate, preferably an aggressive act by an outside agency. Rescued from wolves? Worth a try, except that she’d never had much luck with wolves in the past; they tended to steer clear of her, though whether from fear or pro­fessional courtesy she’d never worked out. A human assailant would be better, if she could find one. Wicked stepmother? Jealous rival?

  Wicked queen...

  Perfect. Just the right overtones of sex and politics. No bother at all to cook up a tale about being a dispossessed orphan princess on the lam; it’d appeal to the rich vein of aristocratic snobbery that these great feudal lords undoubtedly indulged towards mere parvenu royalty. All that remained was to find one at short notice. That might present problems; wicked queens aren’t something you can express-order from the Inno­vations catalogue. But in a place like this, there was bound to be one within a small radius. At least one; which meant she’d be able to take advantage of good healthy commercial com­petition and shop around for the best deal. Even at the best of times, the wicked queen racket’s a cut-throat business.