by Mike Ashley
And what had Smarasderagd said, as though to himself, and evidently overheard only by Peregrine over the noise of the shoutings and the beatings of leathern wings? – it was . . . was it not? . . . “Ephtland, Alfland, which will be the next land?”
Peregrine said aloud, “It would be a good thing, in pursuing after him, were we to have with us a sprig or even a leaf of dragonbane.”
King Alf’s head snapped back up, his swollen small eyes surveyed his younger guest from head to buskin-covered toe. “ ‘Pursue after im,’ the lad says.— Ah, me boy, you’re the true son of a king, lawfully hillegitimate though yer be, hand proper fit for dragon unting, too, for, ah, wasn’t yer brought back to human form by means h’of dragon’s hegg?”
Buck’s face turned red with pleasure and his teeth shone in his mouth. “That’s it, Da!” he exclaimed. “We’ll hunt him down, the gurt squamous beasty-thief! And not go running off like—”
Again, though, his mother “had summat to say”. And said it. Did Alf think that she and her daughters were going to traipse, like common camp followers, in the train of the Grand Army, whilst he and it went coursing a dragon? (“Hand a mad, crack-brain scheme that be, too!”) Did Alf, on the other hand, intend that she and her precious daughters should attempt to make their own way to the court of Count Witenagamote, regardless of all perils and dangers along the way, and unprotected?
Her husband’s reply commenced with a grunt. Then he turned a second time to his older guest, who had been standing first upon one leg and then upon the other. “Bert,” he said, “Hi commends me wife and me datters hunto yer mercy, care, and custody, hentreating that ye keeps ’em safe huntil arriving safe at sanctuary, the court of Count Wit. Does yer haccept this charge?”
“Hac-cepted!” said the King of Bertland. “Ave no fear.”
Queen Clara’s mouth opened, closed. Before it could open again, the two pettikings were already drawing maps in the sawdust of the kitchen floor with a pair of roasting spits. “Now, Alf, one spot on rowt as yer mussn’t homit, is ere—” he made a squiggle. “ ‘Whussat?’ why, that’s Place Where The Dragons Dance—”
“Right chew are!” exclaimed King Alf. “For e’ll be a-prancin is trihumph there for sure (Buck, my boy, never trust no reptyle).”
“Likewise,” King Bert warmed to the matter, “don’t forgit e’ll ave to be returning ither,” he made another scrawl, “to is aerie-nest at Ormesthorpe, for e’ve a clutch o’ new-laid heggs—”
Peregrine, puzzled, repeated, with altered accent, “He’s got a clutch of – what?”
“Come, come, young man,” said King Bert, a trifle testily, “Hi asn’t the time ter be givin yer lessons hin nat’ral istory: suffice ter say that hall pie-skiverous dragons his hambisextuous, the darty beasts!”
Something flashed in Peregrine’s mind, and he laid his hand upon King Bert’s shoulder. “It seems destined that I be a party to this quest for the Treasury carried off by gurt dragon Smarasderagd,” he said, slowly. “And . . . as King Alf has pointed out, it was a dragon’s egg that helped restore me to human form . . . a dragon’s egg which, I have been informed, is now in your own and rightful custody: now therefore, O King of Bertland, I, Peregrine, youngest son of the left hand of Paladrine King of Sapodilla, do solemnly entreat of you your kindness and favor in lending me the aforesaid dragon’s egg for the duration of the aforesaid quest; how about it?”
Sundry expressions rippled over King Bert’s craggy face. He was evidently pleased by the ceremonial manner of the request. He was evidently not so pleased about the nature of it. He swallowed. “What? . . . Wants the mimworms, too, does yer? . . . Mmmm.”
“No, no. Just the egg, and purely for purposes of matching it with any other eggs as I might be finding; a pretty fool I’d look, wouldn’t I, were I to waste time standing watch and ward over some nest or other merely because it had eggs in it? – and then have them turn out to be, say, a bustard’s . . . or a crocodile’s . . .”
This argument was so persuasive to the other king that he even, as he unwrapped the object from its wad of scarlet-dyed tow, bethought himself of other reasons – “ ‘Like cleaves hunto like,’ has Aristottle says, may it bring yer hall good luck, ar, be sure as it will” – and rewrapping it, placed it in his very own privy pouch. He then had Peregrine remove his own tunic, slung pouch and contents so that it hung under the left (or shield) arm. “There. Cover hup, now, lad,” he said.
Matters suddenly began to move more rapidly after that, as though it had suddenly occurred to everyone that they didn’t have forever. Provisions were hastily packed, arms quickly and grimly sorted and selected. The Grand Army of the Alves was also remustered, and four of its nine members found fit for active duty in the field. Of these, however, one – a young spearman – was exempted because of his being in the first month of his first marriage; and a second, an archer, proved to have a painful felon or whitlow on his arrow thumb. This left one other archer, a short bowman whose slight stature and swart complexion declared more than a drop or two of autochthonous blood, and a very slightly feeble-minded staff slinger, said to be quite capable of doubling as spearman in close-in fighting. (“Moreover e’s the wust poacher in the kingdom and so should damn well be able to spot dragon spoor – d’ye hear, ye clod?” “Har har! – Yus, Mighty Monarch.”)
The procession was obliged to pause momentarily in the open space before the cathedral church (indeed, the only church), where the apostolic vicar had suddenly become very visible. As usual, he had absented himself from the dragon ceremony on the ground of dragons being essentially pagan creatures which had not received the approbation of any church council; he was uncertain if he should pronounce a ritual gloat at the dragon’s having been the cause of the king’s discomfiture, or if he should give the king the church’s blessing for being about to go and hunt the heathen thing; and he had summoned his catechumens, doorkeepers, deacons, subdeacons, acolytes and excorcists to help him in whichever task he hoped right now to be moved by the Spirit to decide.
A small boy who had climbed the immemorial elm abaft the cathedral church to get a good view, suddenly skinnied down and came running. Peregrine’s was the first face he encountered and recognized as being noteworthy; so, “Eh, Meyster!” he exclaimed. “There come three men on great horses towards th’ Eastern Gate, and one on ’em bears a pennon with a mailed fist—”
King Alf whirled around. “Kyrie eleison!” he exclaimed. “ ’Tis Lord Grumpit, the High King’s brutal brother-in-law and ex officio Guardian of the Gunny Sacks (Treasury Division) – what brings him here so untimely? – he’ll slay me, he’ll flay me—”
Peregrine said, “Take the Western Gate. See you soonly,” – and gave the king’s mount a hearty slap on the rump. The clatter of its hooves still in his ears, he strode up to the ecclesiast on the church steps, the vicar regarding him so sternly that one might almost have thought he was able to discern that the waters of baptism had never yet been sprinkled, poured, or ladled upon Peregrine’s still-pagan skin.
“Your Apostolic Grace,” Peregrine asked, in urgent tones, “it is surely not true – is it? – that one presbyter may ordain another presbyter?”
The hierarch beat the butt of his crosier on the church step with such vehemence that the catechumens, doorkeepers, deacons, subdeacons, acolytes and excorcists came a-running.
“It is false!” he cried, in a stentorian voice. “Cursed be who declares the contrarity! Where is he, the heretic dog?”
Peregrine gestured. “Coming through the Eastern Gate even now,” he said. “And one of them bears the pennon of a mailed fist, alleged to be the very sign and symbol of presbytocentrism!”
The apostolic vicar placed two fingers in his mouth, gave a piercing whistle, hoisted his crosier with the other, beckoned those in minor orders – and in none – “All hands fall to to repel heretics!” he bellowed. He had long formerly been chaplain with the Imperial Fleet. The throng, swelling on all sides, poured after him towards the Ea
stern Gate.
Peregrine mounted the wiry Brythonic pony which had been assigned him, smote its flanks, whooped in its ears, and passed out through the Western Gate with deliberate speed. The dragon egg nestled safe beneath his arm.
PIZZA TO GO
Tom Holt
Tom Holt (b. 1961) has produced a stream of humorous and anarchic fantasy since he turned to the field with Expecting Someone Taller in 1987. There was some evidence of his wit in his continuations of E.F. Benson’s Mapp and Lucia books, Lucia in Wartime (1985) and Lucia Triumphant (1986), but it is for books like Who’s Afraid of Beowulf? (1988), Flying Dutch (1991), Ye Gods! (1992), Grailblazers (1994), Faust Among Equals (1994), Odds and Gods (1995), Paint Your Dragon (1996), My Hero (1996) and Open Sesame (1997) that he has become best known. Here’s a brand-new story written especially for this collection.
“I see,” said Jesus Christ. “You forgot to tell them to bring sandwiches.”
The green valley was full of people, as far as the eye could see: men and women of all ages sitting or reclining on the grass, children chasing and hiding and splashing in the shallow water of the little stream that ran down from the rocky crest above. There were thousands of them.
“It’s Peter’s fault,” said Barnabas pre-emptively. “I asked him what we were going to do about catering, and he said no worries, he had a mate who could give us a really special price—”
“I never said that,” Peter replied. “I said if we were going to organize caterers, then I might be able to get us a good deal, provided—”
Five thousand eager new converts, filled with the grace of God and not much else, hummed in the valley like a hive of bees. A nice walk in the desert, a jolly good show with lots of parables, followed by a slap-up feed and home in plenty of time for Gladiators; who could ask for a better way to spend a bank holiday Monday?
“We’re going to get lynched,” John groaned. “There’ll be little bits of us scattered about all the way to Caesarea.”
“Don’t be silly,” said the Messiah. “Leave this to me. Honestly, if it wasn’t for me, I don’t know what you’d do.”
From his sleeve he took a mobile phone and a small piece of card, on which was written:
PIZZA TO GO
We deliver
Any time
Anywhere.
The kitchen is an inferno. Can’t take the heat? Stay out. Even if you can survive in temperatures well in excess of 60°C, don’t go in there unless you know exactly what you’re supposed to be doing, and can do it faster and more efficiently than the most sophisticated machine. The penalty for getting under Zelda’s feet is getting spoken to by Zelda. Being eaten alive by termites would be infinitely preferable.
Because this is Zelda’s kitchen, possibly the most extraordinary place in spacetime. From this small prefabricated industrial unit perched in the cleft of an anomalous singularity in the heart of the interface between the weirdest outposts of science and the credible end of magic, there flows a never-ending stream of wide, flat styrofoam trays, whisked away by the delivery guys through fissures and wormholes to every part of everywhere and everywhen. Because Zelda’s kitchen exists simultaneously in every moment of time, from the theoretical Beginning to the presumably inevitable End, all the countless billions of pizzas and dips and side-salads and portions of garlic bread ever sold by Pizza to Go, the greatest and most successful delivery service in the universe, have to be cooked and prepared at the same time. A certain degree of efficiency is, therefore, essential.
When asked how she copes, Zelda shrugs. “It’s a family business,” she says. “We manage.”
There’s Rocco and Tony, who make the bases; Freddy and Mike, who do the toppings; Carlo, who minds the ovens; Rosa and Vito, who chop the vegetables and deal with the side-orders; Frankie, Ennio and young Gino, who do the deliveries; and then there’s Zelda, who takes the orders, writes out the tickets and does everything. In the far corner sits Poppa Joe, grunting and mumbling in his sleep, very occasionally waking up and being allowed to slice pepperoni or fetch a new jar of olives. As soon as the rush is over, they’re going to take a break and sort out the physics of it all. But the rush is never over, because it hasn’t even started yet. And never will.
“We’re nearly out of mozzarella,” Mike warned, not looking up from what he was doing. Nobody took any notice. There wasn’t time to run out of mozzarella, and so they never would.
“Three Margeritas and a Seafood,” Zelda shouted, her hand over the mouthpiece, “and two garlic breads. Frankie, you still here? You shouldn’t be here. Get going.”
“I been and came back,” Freddie replied calmly. “What’s next?”
Zelda pointed to a stack of trays. “That lot for the seventeenth century,” she said, “and one for 1862; you can do it on your way back. Carlo, where’s that Double Pepperoni, hold the onion? There’s customers waiting.”
Carlo, a bald, black-bearded giant with sweat pouring down his face, nodded and muttered “Inna minute.” The searing heat of the controlled fusion reactor, shielded by 70 ft of pure zephronite crystal, had long since roasted his skin into pink leather, but he didn’t have time to worry about things like that, not when customers were waiting.
The mathematics were quite simple, when you thought about it. When you don’t have time, there is no time. When there is no time, you have all the time in the world. Or, as Zelda puts it, if you want something done, ask a busy woman.
“Hello, Pizza to Go?” Zelda stuffed a finger in her other ear, the receiver cradled in the slot it had long ago worn between her shoulder and her jaw, while she wrote the ticket. “Two Neptunos extra sweetcorn and a salad, and where’s that for? Okay, I got it, that’ll be with you in twenty minutes.” She covered the mouthpiece, relayed the order and put the ticket on the spike. “Gino,” she called out, “instead of just standing there, do something. Address is on the ticket.”
Gino had just got back from delivering six Quattro Stagioni to a bunker in the middle of the decisive battle of World War VI; he was glowing bright blue and whenever he touched anything, it crackled. That was okay; you got used to stuff like that when you delivered. He glanced at the ticket, nodded and grabbed the pile of trays.
“On my way,” he said.
“I don’t know where they could have got to,” said Lady Macbeth apologetically. “The woman who gave me their card said they were very reliable.”
Typical, she thought. Unexpected guests, nothing in the larder, the obvious thing to do was to send out for pizza. Now she had twenty-six ravenous thanes sitting round her table looking as if they were ready to eat the wall-hangings. She caught her husband’s eye and gave him a savage look. Serve him right for bringing people home without telling her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a slight movement. She was about to look round and investigate when her husband suddenly jumped up, knocking his chair over. He was pointing at an empty place at the table, and his eyes were as round as cartwheels.
“Which of you has done this?” he croaked. “Thou canst not say I did it: never shake your gory locks at me.” He stepped back and trod on the cat’s tail.
Everybody was staring; not at the empty place, but at King Macbeth, who was starting to froth at the mouth a bit, and at the cat, which was half-way up the arras and going like a train. If they’d looked to where he was pointing, some of them might just have made out a pale blue shimmer, in the shape of a human figure holding a stack of trays.
“Excuse me?” Gino repeated. “Six tuna and anchovy and a meat feast?” Nobody was paying any attention, the host was having hysterics and a footman with a jug of water had just walked straight through him. He recognised the symptoms. Not again!
It happened, sometimes. When the batteries in the interface frequency modulator started running down, or a bit of dirt got on the points of the symbionic condenser, there were these awkward moments when he wasn’t 100 per cent there. Either people couldn’t see him at all, or they saw something whic
h wasn’t actually him; it had given rise to all kinds of problems, including a widespread belief in ghosts and a surprising number of successful religions, and it was bad for business. Carlo had promised to take a look at the equipment as soon as the rush was over.
“Hello?” he said. “Can anybody hear me? Six tuna and anchovy and a meat feast?”
There had been that awful time when King Belshazzar had ordered a jumbo Four Cheeses and dips for 108. Gino never had worked out what had gone wrong there; as far as he could tell, the words ‘Service Not Included’ had come out as ‘Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin’, and there’d been some kind of minor war . . . Zelda was going to call them up and explain as soon as she had a spare moment. Gino pulled a face. He hoped this wasn’t going to turn out to be one of those deliveries.
“Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,” the man was shrieking, “the armed rhinoceros or the Hyrcan tiger—” The guests were at the carefully-looking-the-other-way stage, and his wife had deliberately annihilated two napkins and a small floral ornament. And the pizzas were going cold. He put them down on the table with the ticket on top of the boxes, muttered something about coming back later for the money, and stepped back into the anomaly.
“Yeah, sure,” Zelda muttered, when he got back. “I’ll tell Carlo, soon as the rush is over. Meanwhile, there’s pizzas waiting. You think they deliver themselves?”