Grailblazers (35 page)

There was a splash. Turquine had found a lake all right.

 

The ghost read back what he'd written and knew that it was good. You get that feeling sometimes, when you're a ghost.

He looked at the clock, which was now keeping perfect time, and saw that it was just on half past nine. Just time to fax it through before everyone at the Manchester studios went home.

As the ghost strolled through the abandoned house, he wondered to himself what he'd found so difficult. As soon as he'd cottoned on to the idea of having Mike Baldwin start off the scene, it had just come; as if someone somewhere had been feeding it directly into his head. He'd just sat down, grabbed the paper, never blotted a line.

For the first time, he noticed what he'd been writing on; it was that funny piece of parchment he'd found in the clock. Without thinking he'd pumiced away the pictures and the initial capitals, but he hadn't touched all that silly Latin writing. Still, too late to do anything about it now.

A brief spasm of curiosity took hold of him, and he sat down on the lid of a chest and squinted at the manuscript. Years now since he'd tried to read any Latin, thank God - bloody silly language, anyway, with half the words ending in -us and the rest ending -o. The handwriting was small and cramped, too, which didn't help.

... A very true history of the holy something or other, which Simon the Magician, a
monachus,
that's monk, yes, monk of Glastonbury something-ed to Latin; the verb's at the end of the line; containing, containing, oh yes, containing the things done of horsemen and magicians and the opprobria, opprobrious things of somethings,
argentariorum,
people who have something to do with money...

Load of old cod. As soon as I've faxed my copy in, the ghost promised himself, I'll take the pumice to this lot, and then maybe I can write something worth reading on it. Opprobrious things of people who have to do with money indeed! Who on earth would want to read about that?

He went into the office, dialled the number into the fax machine and fed the sheet of parchment into the automatic feed. There were the usual strangled-duck noises, and the parchment started to twitch spasmodically into the little plastic jaws. When it had finished transmitting, he pulled it out, carefully removed the little record slip, and went in search of pumice.

 

‘Boamund.'

‘Yes?'

‘I don't want to appear personal, but you know that leather book thing, you know, the one we got back from Atlantis?'

‘Yes?'

‘There's a ruddy great piece of paper coming out of it.'

 

 

Danny Bennett yawned, reached for his coffee cup, found it empty, and swore.

Nine thirty. It had been a long day. Still, the new documentary was coming along, the ideas were flowing, the adrenaline was starting to move. Now, if only he could find some way to connect the Highland and Islands Development Board in with the Massacre of Glencoe, he'd really have something here.

He pulled the diagram towards him and gave it a good long stare. Like all his conspiracy charts, it was drawn out in at least seven different colours - blue for the CIA, green for the FBI, red for MI6, purple for the English National Opera, and so on. There was a pleasingly kaleidoscopic nexus round the escape of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and a straight orange line linking that with the North Sea oil franchises; all it needed now was some frilly pink bits up in the top right-hand corner. What was pink? Oh yes, the Public Lending Rights people. There was definitely something going on there. But what?

Down the corridor, in the part of the building where the soap opera people lived, he could hear a fax quietly chuntering away. Soaps! The scum of the earth. Opium of the masses. Why didn't
he
ever get any faxes, anyway?

Still, you had to say this for commercial television, they had a better class of felt-tip pen than he'd been used to at the BBC. If you inadvertently bit into the stem of one of these little babies during the throes of composition, you didn't go around for the next three days with a bright green tongue.

Something was disturbing his concentration. He tried to block it out of his mind, but it wouldn't go away; a persistent whining noise, like a machine in pain. It was that fax down the corridor, he realised; jammed, probably, and all those lazy sods in Soap Opera had gone home long since. Reluctantly - for he had seen a way to get the pink to join up with the yellow without crossing the blue - he got up and went down the corridor to sort the blasted thing out.

Predictably enough, the paper feed had jammed. A few sharp blows with the side of his hand soon put the thing out of its misery, and he pulled the paper out, dumped it down on the desk and turned to leave. Then he frowned and turned back.

What in God's name were the soap people doing getting faxes in Latin?

Sure, it started off in English - and whoever had written it was truly awful at spelling - some sort of rubbishy drama script about people called Alf and Deirdre. But then, where the handwriting finished, there were ten or so paragraphs of tiny handwriting in what Danny was sure was Latin, if only he could make it out. Odd, to say the least. Very odd.

It was - oh, fifteen years, twenty even, since they'd stopped trying to teach him Latin at school; but Danny's mind was like the boot of the family car. Things that nobody wanted and which they were certain they'd chucked out ages ago tended to congregate there, hiding, waiting to pop out when nobody expected them. To his surprise, he found he could just about make it out...

Without realising what he was doing, he sat down on the desk and began to read.

 

‘What's it doing, Bedders?' Boamund demanded.

‘Printing out,' Bedevere replied, startled. ‘Gosh, Bo, it looks like that thing's got a built-in miniature fax in it, Clever!'

‘What's a ...?'

Bedevere was examining the narrow strip of paper emerging steadily from the side of the Personal Organiser of Wisdom. ‘It's a magic thing,' he said. ‘It means you can send letters and documents and things right across the world in a matter of seconds.'

‘Oh, one of
those,'
Boamund said, relieved. ‘Only, where's its wings?'

Bedevere raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean, wings?' he asked.

‘In my day,' Boamund replied, ‘when you wanted to send a letter from one end of the world to another in a matter of seconds, you used a magic raven. Where's its wings?'

‘They've improved it,' Bedevere said, his attention on the paper in his hands. ‘All done with electricity now. That's why they call it wingless telegraphy. You know, this could be interesting. We've got a crossed line here, and...'

In spite of themselves, the knights gathered round and peered over his shoulder; all except Turquine, who was too busy wringing out his shirt and shivering. The small group fell silent.

‘Well well,' said Lamorak at last. ‘Interesting's putting it mildly, I should say. Fancy that, Ken Barlow and Liz McDonald...'

‘Not that bit,' Bedevere said. ‘The bit after that. My God ...'

‘But it's in Latin, Bedders. I was always useless at Latin.'

Bedevere was a quick reader, and his finger had already arrived at the foot of the page.

‘Hell,' he said, ‘The rest of it's missing. Still, it's a start. How the devil did that come to be passing across the airwaves, I wonder?'

Boamund interrupted him impatiently. ‘What does it say, Bedders?' he demanded. ‘And if it hasn't got wings, then how come...?'

Bedevere, however, wasn't listening. Instead, he was smiling.

‘I see,' he said, slowly. ‘Oh, very clever, very clever indeed. So that's what this thing was for all along.' Then he seemed to notice the rest of the knights, and turned to face them. ‘What we've got here,' he said, ‘is the first part of a contemporary account - well, near as dammit contemporary - of the losing of the Holy Grail.' His face melted suddenly into an enormous grin. ‘And you're never going to guess,' he added, ‘who it's written by.'

 

They were going to be absolutely livid, Simon Magus told himself, especially Mahaud. Still, he had warned them, and one can't make an omelette, et cetera. He'd probably be better off on his own, anyway.

He glanced down at the map on the seat beside him, but it was too dark to see. He'd have to rely on memory, and it must be at least eight hundred years since he'd been this way last. Luckily, he had a good sense of direction.

‘Coventry,' he said aloud. Good idea, these newfangled road signs; saved you all that stopping and asking the way from gnarled old rustics. He leant forward and switched on the radio.
Round Britain Quiz;
oh good. He liked that. Mildly entertaining, didn't have Robert Robinson in it.

Quite understandable that he was feeling slightly nervous. This job had been a long time coming to fruition, and a lot of work had gone into it. He glanced at the speedometer and eased his foot off the accelerator. No need to rush, and it would be stupid to be stopped for speeding.

(‘Rivet rivet rivet,' croaked a frog on the hard shoulder as the van swished by.)

As he drove, he went over in his mind the various things that still remained to be done. There was plenty that could still go wrong, but that was always the way. There came a time when you just had to sit back and let them get on with it. They were a pretty sound bunch of lads, if you didn't expect too much out of them, and they had the dwarf to make sure they didn't get themselves into too much trouble.

After
Round Britain Quiz
came the weather forecast - remarkably accurate, Simon Magus noted with approval; they do a good job, considering how abysmally primitive their technology is - followed by a repeat of a gardening programme. Simon Magus yawned and switched the thing off. Should be nearly there by now, anyway.

The shape of the country was definitely familiar, and Simon Magus turned off the motorway on to the A45. He could almost hear it, calling to him ...

‘Magus!'

He looked up, and saw Aristotle's face in the rear-view mirror. Blast! He'd forgotten to switch the damn thing off.

‘Hello, Ari,' he replied. ‘I warned you. Three minutes, I said.'

‘How could you?' Aristotle said, white with rage. ‘Just leave us here, I mean, in the middle of nowhere...'

‘I'll pick you up on my way back,' Simon Magus replied. ‘Look, why don't you just go and have a cup of tea and a go on the electronic games, there's a good lad. And, er, tell Mrs Magus I was called away suddenly or something, will you? Thanks.'

He reached up and flicked a little switch behind the mirror. Aristotle disappeared, and was replaced by the distant prospect of a Daf truck.

Well. If he'd forgotten anything, it was too late now.

 

The knights were getting wet.

‘So,' Bedevere was saying, ‘it's all very straightforward, really. Albion isn't Albion at all, it's a sort of...' He racked his brains for the right term. ‘It's what you might call a financial institution,' he said, lamely. He knew it was all wrong, but never mind. There was no point in trying to understand; all they had to do was get on with it, and everything would be fine.

‘I see,' Boamund lied. ‘So what do we do now, then?'

‘I've got a travelling backgammon set,' said Lamorak.

Boamund considered that. ‘All right,' he said. ‘And then what?'

‘Well, by then someone will have turned up and we'll know what we're meant to do, I suppose. You heard what Bedders said, Bo. We've got to be patient.'

It turned out, rather inevitably, that Lamorak had mislaid the dice, so in the end they sat down under the intermittent shelter of a tree and played Twenty Questions. It was pitch dark by now, and the mist was starting to swirl round them in clouds.

‘Your turn, Bo. Think of something.'

Boamund knitted his brows for a moment. When he said ‘Ready,' there was something in his voice which made Bedevere wonder; but he kept his thoughts to himself.

‘Two words,' said Boamund. ‘And it's mineral.'

‘Mineral,' Galahaut repeated. ‘Is it something you'd expect to find about the house?'

Boamund considered for a moment; it was almost as if he was listening to a voice telling him the answer. ‘Yes,' he said, and he sounded rather surprised. ‘That's one.'

‘Bigger or smaller than a football?' Turquine asked.

‘Bigger,' Boamund replied. ‘Gosh,' he added. ‘Two.'

‘Is it made of metal?'

‘Yes,' Boamund said, and then frowned. ‘No,' he corrected. ‘No, it's not, actually. Three.'

‘A household object, not made of metal, bigger than a football,' Pertelope mused. ‘Is it mechanical?'

‘No. Four.'

‘Not mechanical, right. Would you expect to find it in the kitchen?'

Boamund waited for the answer. When it came, it seemed to amaze him. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘Five.'

‘Right,' Galahaut said. ‘Mineral, not metal, bigger than a football, not mechanical, you'd find it in the kitchen. Dustbin?'

‘No. Six.'

‘Vegetable rack?'

‘No. Seven.'

‘Is it,' asked Lamorak, ‘made of plastic?'

Boamund listened, and his mouth opened for a moment in wonder. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘Eight.'