Grailblazers (22 page)

Air swelled up out of the box like the biggest extrusion of bubble-gum you could possibly visualise, and whacked the hackers and Turquine smack up against the wall. Oddly enough, it didn't seem to affect Bedevere. Perhaps that was because he was still holding on to the box.

Time ... You want to know what Time looks like? Time that's been trapped inside a one-time baked-bean carton ever since prehistory, and which is then suddenly released into an atmosphere rich in carbon dioxide, looks rather like a very expensive Roman candle. Having burnt out, it leaves behind a floating, sparkling yellowy-red ash, rather like gold dust.

Time is money.

Time is, of course, also of the essence. It is the first, the only pure element. Everything else is made up of Time, in one form or another. When Time burns in carbon dioxide, however, it precipitates deposits of that extremely rare and highly volatile element known as Gold 337. Which is why the fax machine suddenly started to glow, steamed, melted and changed shape. It became a jar.

Bedevere, kneeling beside the box and wondering what on earth was going on, slowly began to understand. Gosh, he said to himself, as simple as that...

He turned back to the box, which contained a heavy metal seal, a sheaf of share certificates and some old-fashioned ledgers. He picked out a ledger at random, opened it, and began to read. From time to time he smiled knowingly.

‘Excuse me,' Turquine said, ‘but when you've quite finished, some of us are being squashed to death over here.'

Bedevere looked up. ‘Sorry,' he said, ‘I was miles away. It's not here.'

‘What isn't here?'

‘That personal organiser thing,' Bedevere replied. ‘All we've got here is the statutory books of Lyonesse Ltd. Tremendously interesting stuff, all of this, but not what we're actually after. Shall we be getting along?' He stopped talking and lifted his head, with an expression on his face like Archimedes seeing the pattern of the universe in a damp bath-mat. ‘Oh,' he muttered to himself, ‘I think I see.'

Turquine tried to reach out a leg and kick Bedevere, but a lot of air got in the way. ‘Look,' he said.

‘All right,' replied Bedevere, engaged in the ledgers once more, ‘you lot go on ahead and I'll catch you up.'

Exercising more self-control than he ever imagined he possessed, Turquine replied, ‘How?'

‘Sorry?' said Bedevere. ‘Oh, yes. Why not try going out of the door and turning left? If I've got my bearings right, that should bring us out—'

‘What door?'

Bedevere pointed to where the fax machine had been.

‘Excuse me,' Turquine answered, ‘but that is not a door.'

Bedevere grinned. ‘Bit slow today, aren't we, Turkey old man? Correct, that is not a door. When is a door not a door?'

‘Oh I
see...'

As if by magic; or rather, by magic, the air pressure dropped away to normal, and Turquine slid himself off the wall, squared his shoulders, took a brief run-up and gave the jar one hell of a kick.

‘Happy?'

‘Yes,' replied Turquine from the corridor. ‘Coming?'

Bedevere smiled. ‘In a minute,' he said.

 

The main thing to remember if you are ever offered tea by the Queen of Atlantis is that you should accept, without question or hesitation. Never mind if you can't take the tannin or if you'd rather have coffee; when the Queen offers you tea, you have tea.

Six of the seven PAs knew this. The seventh had no objection to tea, but didn't quite understand where it was going to come from, seeing as how they were standing in a bare, deserted corridor that extended as far as the eye could see. In the grip of what, with hindsight, he identified as a subconscious urge to self-annihilation, he pointed this out.

The Queen smiled.

‘Gosh,' she said, ‘aren't you the clever one. You're quite right, we'll have to improvise.' She closed her eyes, clenched her elegant white hands and said:

‘Let there be tea.'

And tea there was, in Snoopy mugs, with a matching milk jug, sugar bowl and biscuit jar.

‘There,' said the Queen, ‘it's surprisingly easy so long as you aren't too ambitious to start with.'

Closer inspection revealed that there were seven mugs for eight people. That, as even the PA could recognise, was a Hint.

When they had finished their tea, the Queen beamed at them, vanished the mugs (‘Saves washing up,' she explained) and rapped hard on the biscuit jar with her sceptre. There was the necessary quantity of blue light and burning sulphur, and the jar turned into a door in the wall.

‘Explanations wanted, anyone?' she said sweetly. Silence. ‘Fine,' she said, nodding in approval, and loosed off a small but powerful burst of personality at the doubting PA. ‘After you,' she said.

Some are born brave, others achieve bravery and some are forced into acts of great courage by the unimaginable terror of what might happen to them if they refuse. The PA closed his eyes, reached for the door handle, turned it and pushed.

Nothing. Wouldn't budge.

‘I think you'll find it opens better if you pull,' said the Queen.

The number of native-born Atlanteans who have been inside the registered office is small, but not nearly as minute as the number who've ever wanted to be inside it. As to the number of those who have ever got out again, there are no reliable statistics. The PA smiled sheepishly at the Queen, mumbled something about a far, far better thing and preferring to be in Philadelphia, and stumbled in.

 

‘Name.'

‘John Wilkinson.'

‘Occupation.'

‘Tax inspector.'

‘Thank you, please take a seat over there, we'll get back to you in just a moment. Right then, next, please. Name.'

‘Stanislaw Sobieski.'

‘Occupation.'

‘Revenue official.'

‘Thank you, please take a seat over there, we'll get back to you in just a moment. Right then, next, please. Name.'

‘Li Chang-Tseng.'

‘Occupation.'

‘Customs officer.'

‘Thank you, please take a seat over there, we'll get back to you in just a moment. Right then, next, please. Name.'

‘François Dubois.'

‘Occupation.'

‘Revenue official.'

‘Thank you, please take a seat over there, we'll get back to you in just a moment. Right then, next, please. Name.'

The fourth man smirked.

‘Guess,' he said.

The desk clerk didn't look up. She had another twelve thousand, five hundred and seventeen more management trainees to deal with, and already she could feel a headache coming on. ‘I don't guess,' she said. ‘People tell me. Name.'

‘Weinacht,' said the fourth man. ‘My name is Klaus von Weinacht.'

‘Occupation.'

Von Weinacht laughed. He laughed so loud you could hear him all over the reception area, and twelve thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine revenue officials looked up and stared. What they saw took them back an average of thirty years ...

... To a child, half-delighted, half-terrified, peeping out from under the blanket at the knife-blade of light under the door. To the sound of silence audible, darkness visible, stillness palpable; and a half-imagined clattering of hooves and clashing of bells in the unspeakable enigma of the night.

‘Well now,' von Weinacht said, throwing back his hood, ‘how about delivery man?'

 

The Queen stood in the doorway and stared.

‘You!' she said.

Bedevere looked up and smiled vaguely. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘Long time no see.'

For a moment, the Queen hesitated; then she turned and yelled for the guard. Bedevere shook his head.

‘Sorry,' he said, ‘but it isn't going to work. You know your trouble? Bloody awful management relations.' He indicated the stunned PA curled up by the door. ‘All the rest have scarpered,' he said, ‘and I don't think he's in a fit state to be of much use to you. I hit him,' he added, ‘with the door.'

The Queen looked down and saw a few shards of smashed porcelain. Then she smiled.

‘Never mind,' she said, ‘plenty more where that came from.'

‘Doors or heavies?'

‘Both,' replied the Queen, ‘although I was thinking more of the jar. Actually, I was rather fond of that one. Been in the family for ages and...'

Bedevere was impressed. ‘That old, huh?' he said. ‘Oh well, never mind. You can't make an omelette, as they say.'

The Queen laughed lightly. ‘Very true,' she said, and sat down on the cardboard box. ‘Now then,' she went on, ‘what can I do for you?'

Bedevere looked at her, and his face seemed to have undergone something of a transformation. Gone was the slightly sheepish look that always reminded Turquine of the last thing but one he saw in his mind's eye before going to sleep; in its place was an expression of gentle but hard determination, such as you might find on the face of someone who will break both your arms if necessary, but with a fitting sense of gravity and decorum.

‘I want my money back,' he said.

The Queen's mouth fell open, and for the first time since the groat was demonetised she couldn't think what to say. ‘I'm sorry?' was the best she could do.

‘So you should be,' replied Bedevere sternly. He was silent for a moment, and then added, ‘You don't remember, do you?'

The Queen shook her head. ‘Frankly,' she replied, ‘no.'

Bedevere frowned. ‘A castle,' he said, ‘in the middle of a waste and desolate plain, somewhere in the middle of Benwick. A dark and stormy night, with the rain lashing down and lightning playing about the battlements. A young and innocent knight, hopelessly lost on his quest to pay the month's takings from the family dye works into the bank in Rhydychen. The knight sees the castle, murmurs “Thank God!” and craves the right of hospitality. The chatelaine of the castle invites him in, makes him welcome. There is light, and warmth, and food. And then...'

A brief spasm of pain shot across Bedevere's face and then his jaw set, as firm as a join in a superglue advertisement.

‘In the morning,' he said, ‘the castle has gone. So has the money. The knight awakes on the cold fell, with nothing but his armour and a share certificate for twenty thousand Lyonesse Goldfields plc three-mark ordinary shares. He returns home. He explains as best he can. Stunned silence; then the reproaches, the recriminations, how could you do such a thing...?'

Bedevere shook his head and sighed. There were tears in the corners ofhis eyes, but his face remained as grim as death.

‘The young knight was me, of course,' he said. ‘Of course, you don't remember, how could you? Another day, another sucker. But we were different. We couldn't afford it. Dammit, it was hard enough being in trade as it was. God, when I think how they scrimped and saved just so that I could go to the Ecole des Chevaliers! It ruined us, you realise, completely ruined. My father had to get a job as a fencing master. My mother had to go out posing for illuminated manuscripts.
And kindly have the courtesy not to powder your nose when I'm talking to you
!'

The Queen closed her compact with a firm click and looked up. ‘Sorry,' she said, ‘I was miles away. Did you say something about wanting some money back?'

Unable to trust himself to speak, Bedevere reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded paper, which he tossed contemptuously on the ground. The Queen leant forward and picked it up.

‘Gosh,' she said, ‘haven't seen one of these for years.

Twenty thousand shares!' She giggled, then composed herself rapidly. ‘At the time,' she said, ‘a greatly fancied investment. I believe they tried to put together a rescue package.'

‘Be that as it may,' Bedevere growled. ‘My money back, please. Now.'

The Queen raised an eyebrow. ‘Terribly sorry,' she said, ‘no can do. It's this thing - terrible bore, but a fact of life nevertheless - called limited liability. It means that—'

‘I know what it means, thank you very much,' said Bedevere, his voice ominously soft. ‘It means you can do something and get away with it scot free.'

The Queen nodded brightly. ‘Exactly,' she said. ‘Keystone of the enterprise economy, that is.'

‘Because the company has ceased to exist.'

‘That's right.'

‘Fine.' Bedevere stood up. ‘Now then,' he said quietly, ‘on the same principle, how would it be if this company of yours ceased to exist? For the sake of argument,' he added, picking up the ledgers he'd been sitting on. ‘Unlikely, but possible. If, for example, all the statutory books went missing? No, that wouldn't work. How about if the company secretary and majority shareholder took it into her head to wind the whole thing up, just like that?'

The Queen laughed shrilly. ‘Now, then,' she said, ‘why on earth would I want to—'

‘And if she did,' Bedevere went on, ‘I wonder what would happen to all this?' He made a sweeping gesture with his free hand. ‘This ... this
remarkable
set-up you've got here? The registered office that nobody can find, and which keeps dodging about, so that it's never in any one jurisdiction long enough for the courts to dissolve the company. Or the strong magical field that keeps the whole enterprise hidden, so that the only way to get into it is by fax? All it would take is one special resolution of the shareholders, with a straight seventy-five per cent majority vote.' He held the register of shareholders open. ‘I notice,' he said, ‘that you hold ninety-nine per cent of the shares, so all you need to do is vote yes, and that's that.'