A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (97 page)

“Excuse me,” said the dormouse who was sitting closest to Rochester, “would you sign my slate, please?”

Rochester gave a dour half smile, took the stylus and said, “Name?”

“Geoffrey.”

Rochester signed and returned the slate and was instantly handed eleven more, all wiped clean of their carefully written notes.

“Enough!” roared the King. “I will not have my court turned into a haven for autograph hunters! We pursue the truth here, not celebrities!”

There was dead silence.

“But if you wouldn't mind. . . ,” said the King, passing down his notebook to Rochester and adding quietly, “It's for my daughter.”

“And your daughter's name?” asked Rochester, pen poised.

“Rupert.”

Rochester signed the book and passed it back.

“Mr. Rochester,” said the Gryphon, “I wonder if you might expound in your own words what Miss Next's actions have done for you?”

The court fell silent. Even the King and Queen were interested to see what Mr. Rochester had to say.

“To me alone?” replied Rochester slowly. “Nothing. For
us,
my own dear sweet Jane and I—everything!”

He clenched the hand that carried his wedding ring, rubbing the band of gold with his thumb, trying to turn his feelings into words.

“What has Miss Next
not
done for us?” he intoned quietly. “She has given us everything we could want. She has released us both from a prison that was not of our making, a dungeon of depression from which we thought we should never be free. Miss Next gave us the opportunity to love and be loved—I can think of no greater gift anyone could have been given, no word in my head can express the thanks that is ours, for her.”

There was silence in the courtroom. Even the Queen had fallen quiet and was staring—quite like a fish, I thought—at Rochester.

The Gryphon's voice broke the silence: “Your witness.”

“Ah!” said Hopkins, gathering his thoughts. “Tell me, Mr. Rochester, just to confirm one point: Did Miss Next change the end of your novel?”

“Although I am now, as you see, maimed,” replied Rochester, “no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut tree in Thornfield orchard, I am happier than I have ever been. Yes, sir, Miss Next changed the ending, and I thank her every evening for it!”

Hopkins smiled. “No further questions.”

“Well,” said the Gryphon after the court had been adjourned for the King to consider what form the sentence should take. The Queen, unusually for her, had called for acquittal. The word sounded alien on her lips and everyone stared at her with shock and surprise when she said it—Bill the lizard almost choked and had to be slapped on the back.

“The outcome was a foregone conclusion,” said the Gryphon, nodding his respect to Hopkins, who was organizing some notes
with the White Rabbit, “but I knew Rochester would put on a good show for you. The King and Queen of Hearts may be the stupidest couple to ever preside upon a court, but they are, after all,
Hearts,
and since you were undeniably guilty, we needed a court to show a bit of compassion when it came to sentencing.”

“Compassion?” I echoed with some surprise. “With the Queen of ‘Off with her head'?”

“It's just her little way,” replied the Gryphon, “she never actually executes anyone. I was just worried for a moment that they might try to hold you on remand until the sentencing, but fortunately the King isn't very up on legal terminology.”

“What do you think I'll get?”

“Do you know, I have absolutely no idea. Time will tell. I'll see you around, Next!”

I made my way slowly back to the Jurisfiction offices, where I found Miss Havisham.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Bad luck. When's the sentencing?”

“Not a clue.”

“Might not be for years, Thursday. I've got something for you.”

She passed me across the report I had written for her regarding
Shadow the Sheepdog
. I read the mark on the cover, then read it again, then looked at Havisham.

“A-plus-plus Hons?” I echoed incredulously.

“Think I'm being overgenerous?”

“Well, yes,” I said, feeling confused. “I was forcibly married and then nearly murdered!”

“Marriage by force is not recognized, Next. But bear this in mind: we've given that particular assignment to every new Jurisfiction apprentice for the past thirty-two years and every single one has failed.”

I gaped at her.

“Even Harris Tweed.”

“Tweed was married to Mr. Townsperson?”

“Apart from that bit. He didn't even manage to buy the pigs—let alone fool the vet. You did well, Next. Your cause-and-effect technique is good. Needs work, but good.”

“Oh!” I said, kind of relieved, then added after a moment's reflection, “But I could have been killed!”

“You wouldn't have been killed. Jurisfiction has eyes and ears everywhere—we're not that reckless with our apprentices. Your multiple-choice mark was ninety-three percent. Congratulations. Pending final submissions to the Council of Genres, you're made.”

I thought about this and felt some pride in it, despite knowing in my heart of hearts that this would not be a long appointment—as soon as I could return to the Outland, I would.

“Did you find out anything about Perkins?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “Any news of Vernham Deane?”

“Vanished without trace. The Bellman's going to talk to us about it.”

“Could the two be related?”

“Perhaps,” she said slightly mysteriously. “I'll have to make further inquiries. Ask me again tomorrow.”

Echolocator:
An artisan who will enter a book close to publication and locate and destroy echoed words in the work. As a general rule, identical words (with exceptions such as names, small words and modified repetitions) cannot be repeated within fifteen words as it interrupts the smooth transfer of images into the reader's mind. (See
Imagino TransferenceDevice User's Manual
, page 782.) Although echoes can be jarring to the eye, they are more jarring when read out loud, which belies their origin from the first OralTrad Operating System. (See also
OralTradPlus
,
Operating Systems, History of
.)

CAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CHESHIRE
,
Guide to the Great Library

A
H
!”
SAID GRAN
as I walked in the door. “There you are! How were things at work today?”

“Good and bad,” I told her, sitting on a sofa and undoing the top button of my trousers. “The good news is I passed the Jurisfiction practical; the bad news is that I was found guilty of my Fiction Infraction.”

“Did they tell you the sentence?”

“I'll have to wait for that.”

“Waiting's the worst part,” she murmured. “I was up for murder once and the worst part of it all was waiting for the jury to come back with their verdict. Longest eight hours of my life.”

“I believe you. Did you go home today?”

She nodded. “I brought you a few bits and bobs. I notice there
is no chocolate here in the WOLP—nothing worth eating, anyway.”

“Did you find out anything about Yorrick Kaine?”

“Not much,” replied Gran, eating the chocolate she had brought for me, “but he's not in hiding or anything. He's bought another publishing house and at the same time trying to rebuild his political career after that
Cardenio
debacle.”

“Ah. Where are Lola and Randolph?”

“At a party, I think. You look all done in—why don't you get an early night?”

“And have what's-her-name pester me?”

Gran looked at me seriously through her large-framed spectacles. “Aornis. It's Aornis. Remember?”

“Yes. Who was my husband again?”

“Landen. He was eradicated by the ChronoGuard, yes?”

I remembered and my heart sank. “Yes,” I said in a quiet voice. I had been happy in my nonremembering state, but now I could feel the anger rising again.

“Sometimes I think it would be better if I just forgot, Gran.”

“
Never
say that, Thursday!” said Gran so sharply I jumped, and she had to rest for a moment to get her breath back and eat a few more chocolates. “Aornis has no right to take that which does not belong to her, and you must be strong with her, and yourself—retake your memories!”

“Easier said than done, Gran.” I tried to grab a chocolate as they were pulled out of my reach. “I want to dream about—”

“Landen.”

“—Landen, yes—I want to dream about him again. He's there but we don't talk like we used to.”

The door banged open and Randolph walked in. He ignored us both and hung up his coat.

“Randolph?” I said. “You okay?”

“Me?” he said, not looking at either of us. “I'm fine—it's that little tarty little bitchlet who's going to come to a sticky end—she can't talk to a man without wanting to add him to her collection!”

And he walked out.

“Is she all right?” I called after him, but all we heard was the door to their bedroom slam shut. We looked at each other and shrugged.

“Where were we?”

“I was telling you how I never dream about Landen the way I used to. We used to go to the really great memories we shared. We never got to—you know—but it was wonderful—at least I had
some
control of where I went when the ‘Sable Goddess' laid down her cloak.”

Gran looked at me and patted my hand reassuringly. “You need to make her feel she's winning, Thursday. Lull her into a trap. She might
think
she is in command, but she's only in your mind and
you
are the one that controls what you think. Our memories are precious and should never be sullied by an outside agent.”

“Of course—but how?”

“Well,” said Gran, passing me a chocolate she didn't like, “it isn't Aornis up there, my dear, it's only your
memory
of her. She's alone and afraid, too. Without the real Aornis here in the BookWorld she doesn't have so much power; all she can do is try and—”

The door burst open again. This time it was Lola. She looked as though she had been crying. She stopped dead when she saw us.

“Ah!” she said. “Is rat-face shit-for-brains in?”

“Do you mean Randolph?”

“Who else?”

“Then, yes, he is.”

“Right!” she announced. “I'll go and sleep over at Nemo's.”

She started to leave.

“Wait!” I said. “What's going on?”

She stopped and put her hands on her hips. Her bag slid down and hung off her elbow, which spoiled the illusion, but Lola was past caring.

“I went to meet him for coffee after college, and blow me if
he's not talking to that little D-2 runt—you know, the one with the squinty eyes and the stupid, snorty laugh?”

“Lola,” I said quietly, “they were probably just talking.”

She looked at her hands for a moment. “You're right. And what do I care anyway? They clearly deserve one another!”

“I heard that!” said a voice from the back of the flying boat. Randolph strode into the room and waved a finger at Lola, who glared back angrily.

“You've got a nerve accusing me of being with another woman when you've slept with almost everyone at school!”

“And so what if I have?” screamed Lola. “Who are you, my father? Have you been spying on me?”

“Even the worst spy in the genre couldn't fail to notice what you're up to—don't you know the meaning of the word
discretion
?”

“One-dimensional!”

“Cardboard!”

“Stereotype!”

“Predictable!”

“Jerkoff!”

“Arsehole!”

“Duck, Gran,” I whispered as Lola picked up a vase and threw it at Randolph. It missed and went sailing over the top of our heads to shatter on the far wall.

“Okay,” I said loudly, using my best and most assertive voice, “any more crap out of you two and you can live somewhere else. Randolph. You can sleep on the sofa. Lola, you can go to your room—and if I hear a peep out of either of you, I'll have you both allocated to knitting patterns—
get it?
”

They went quiet, mumbled something about being sorry and walked slowly from the room.

“Oh, that was good, balls-for-brains,” muttered Lola as they moved off, “get us both into trouble, why don't you?”

“Me?” he returned angrily. “Your knickers are off so often I'm amazed you bother with them at all.”

“Did you hear me?”
I yelled after them, and there was quiet.

I sat down next to Gran again, who was picking bits of broken vase from the tabletop.

“Where were we?” she asked

“Er . . . retaking my memories?”

“Exactly so. She'll be wanting to try and break you down, so things are going to get worse before they get better—only when she thinks she has defeated you can we go on the offensive.”

“What do you mean by getting worse? Hades? Landen's eradication? Darren? How far do I have to go?”

“Back to the worst time of all—the truth about what happened during the charge.”

“Anton.” I groaned and rubbed my face. “I don't want to go back there, Gran, I can't!”

“Then she'll pick away at your memory until there is nothing left; she doesn't want that—she's after revenge. You
have
to go back to the Crimea, Thursday. Face up to the worst and grow stronger from it.”

“No, I won't go back there and you can't make me.”

I got up without a word and went to have a bath, trying to soak away the worries. Aornis, Landen, Goliath, the ChronoGuard and now Perkins's and Snell's murders here in the BookWorld; I'd need a bath the size of Windermere to soak those away. I had come to
Caversham Heights
to stay away from crisis and conflict—but they seemed to follow me around like a stray dodo.

I stayed in the bath long enough to need to top it up with hot water twice and, when I came out, found Gran sitting on the laundry basket outside the door.

“Ready?” she asked softly.

“Yes, I'm ready.”

I slept in my own bed—Gran said she would sit in the armchair and wake me if things looked as though they were getting out of hand. I stared at the ceiling, the gentle curve of the wooden paneling and the single domed ceiling light. I stayed awake for hours, long after Gran had fallen asleep and dropped her copy of
Tristram Shandy
on the floor. Night and sleep had once been a
time of joyous reunion with Landen, a collection of moments that I treasured: tea and hot buttered crumpets, curled up in front of a crackling log fire, or golden moments on the beach, cavorting in slow motion as the sun went down. But no longer. With Aornis about, my memory was now a battleground. And with the whistle of an artillery shell, I was back where I least wanted to be—the Crimea.

“So there you are!” cried Aornis, grinning at me from her seat in the armored personnel carrier as the wounded were removed. I had returned from the lines to the forward dressing station where the disaster had generated a sustained and highly controlled panic. Cries of “Medic!” and swearing punctuated the air while less than three miles away we could still hear the sound of the Russian guns pummeling the remains of the Wessex Light Tank. Sergeant Tozer stepped from the back of the APC with his hand still inside the leg of a soldier as he tried to staunch the bleeding; another soldier blinded by splinters was jabbering on about some girl he had left back home in Bradford-on-Avon.

“You haven't dreamt for a few nights,” said Aornis as we watched the casualties being unloaded. “Have you missed me?”

“Not even an atom,” I replied, adding, “Are we done?” to the medics unloading the APC.

“We're done!” came back the reply, and with my foot I flicked the switch that raised the rear door.

“Where do you think you're going?” asked a red-faced officer I didn't recognize.

“To pick up the rest, sir!”

“The hell you are! We're sending in Red Cross trucks under a flag of truce!”

It would take too long and we both knew it. I dropped back into the carrier, revved the engine and was soon heading back into the fray. The amount of dust thrown up might screen me—as long as the guns kept firing. Even so, I still felt the whine of a near miss, and once an explosion went off close by, the concussion shattering the glass in the instrument panel.

“Disobeying a direct order, Thursday?” said Aornis scathingly. “They'll court-martial you!”

“But they didn't. They gave me a medal instead.”

“But you didn't go back for a gong, did you?”

“It was my duty. What do you want me to say?”

The noise grew louder as I drove towards the front line. I felt something large pluck at my vehicle and the roof opened up, revealing a shaft of sunlight in the dust that was curiously beautiful. The same unseen hand picked up the carrier and threw it in the air. It ran along on one track for a few yards and then fell back upright. The engine was still functioning, the controls still felt right; I carried on, oblivious to the damage. Only when I reached up for the wireless switch did I realize the roof had been partially blown off, and only later did I discover an inch-long gash in my chin.

“It was your duty, all right, Thursday, but it was not for the army, regiment, brigade or platoon—certainly not English interests in the Crimea. You went back for Anton, didn't you?”

Everything stopped. The noise, the explosions, everything. My brother Anton. Why did she have to bring him up?

“Anton,” I whispered.

“Your dear brother Anton,” replied Aornis. “Yes. You worshiped him. From the time he built you a tree house in the back garden. You joined the army to be like him, didn't you?”

I said nothing. It was true, all true. Tears started to course down my cheeks. Anton had, quite simply, been the best elder brother a girl could have. He always had time for me and always included me in whatever he got up to. My anger at losing him had been driving me for longer than I cared to remember.

“I brought you here so you can remember what it's like to lose a brother. If you could find the man that killed Anton, what would you do to him?”

“Losing Anton was
not
the moral equivalent of killing Acheron,” I shouted. “Hades deserved to die—Anton was just doing his misguided patriotic duty!”

We had arrived outside the remains of Anton's APC. The guns
were firing more sporadically now, picking their targets more carefully; I could hear the sound of small arms as the Russian infantry advanced to retake the lost ground. I released the rear door. It was jammed but it didn't matter; the side door had vanished with the roof and I rapidly packed twenty-two wounded soldiers into an APC designed to carry eight. I closed my eyes and started to cry. It was like seeing a car accident about to happen, the futility of knowing something is about to occur but being unable to do anything about it.

“Hey, Thuzzy!” said Anton in the voice I knew so well. Only he had ever called me that; it was the last word he would speak. I opened my eyes and there he was, as large as life and despite the obvious danger, smiling.

“No!” I shouted, knowing full well what was going to happen next. “Stop! Don't come over here!”

But he did, as he had done all those years before. He stepped out from behind cover and ran across to me. The side of my APC was blown open and I could see him clearly.