The Outsorcerer's Apprentice (27 page)

“
Y
ou’ve got it?” asked John the Lawyer breathlessly.

The Elf scowled at him, then made a slight beckoning gesture with her head. He followed her, out of the newsroom, down some stairs, out through a window onto a broad, tapering branch. John suddenly realised he was a hundred and twenty feet off the ground, standing on a tree branch, in the rain. “Well?” he said.

“It’s all in here.” The Elf tapped a brown manila envelope. “Everything you asked for. Though what you want with that stuff I really can’t begin to guess. It’s
disgusting
.”

“Let me see.”

The Elf gave him a shrivelling look. “We are the Elder Folk,” she said. “Logically, therefore, it follows that we weren’t born yesterday. You first.” A strange pale light suddenly glowed in her harsh grey eyes. “Have
you
got it?”

A hundred and twenty feet up a tree is solitude enough for most purposes. On this occasion, however, John felt the need to look carefully all round, up and finally down (
oooh!
) before reaching into his pocket and bringing out a small iron box. “Of course.”

“Let me—”

“Ah-ha,” John rebuked her, lifting the box out of her
reach, “no grabbing. You have no idea how much aggravation it cost me, getting you this.”

“So what?” The Elf edged an inch or two closer, and it occurred to him that humans aren’t nearly as comfortable in trees as Elves are, and nobody would be in the least surprised if a human fell to his death off a slippery branch, in spite of a nearby Elf’s valiant efforts to save him. Well, they might not believe the second part, but the inquest would accept the first bit without question. “Give it to me.
Now
.”

“Just a moment,” John squeaked. He held the box out at arm’s length. Directly underneath the tree, he’d noticed, was a dense patch of brambles. Elves despise getting scratched. “Let’s just both calm down a bit, shall we? You’ll get your box when I get my file.”

“Humans,” snarled the Elf. “Can’t wipe their arses without
melodrama
.”

“Your box,” John said. “My file. Give me the file and I’ll give you the box. Simple as that.”

The Elf gave him a look that would’ve liquefied nitrogen. “Here,” she said, and held out the envelope. At the last moment, she snatched it clear of his closing fingers. “Box.”

He looked at her. He didn’t trust her one little bit. Just as well, then, that he was smart. “Here you go.” He held out the box and she snatched it. “It’s locked, of course.”

She froze. “Bastard.”

“I’m a lawyer,” John replied. “Now give me the envelope.”

He could see her doing calculations in her head; assessing probabilities, risk factors; a wooden box she could smash open with a stone, but an iron box takes specialist tools, appropriate to trades that Elves don’t sully their hands with. She could try bashing it open with a
big
rock, but what would that do to the contents?
I’m smarter than you
, he thought, and the revelation filled him with a special kind of dark joy.

“Fine,” the Elf spat, and thrust the envelope into his hands. “Now,
give me the key
.”

“Well obviously it’s not
here
,” John said sweetly. “I’d have to be really stupid to have it on me, so you could take it from my dead body after you’ve pushed me off this tree. It’s down below, hidden under something. Now, let’s have a look in here.”

He opened the envelope and saw the crest of the Elf & Safety Executive. His heart leapt, and he nearly lost his balance. “Looks all right,” he said, trying in vain to be casual. “Right, down you go. I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

Five minutes later, they both stood at the foot of the mighty
marshmellorn
tree that housed the offices of
Sneer!
magazine. By now she was literally trembling with rage; by contrast, oddly enough, John had never felt more serene in his life. He’d tucked the envelope deep down inside his shirt, under his woolly vest. Three Elves went past, on their way back from lunch. He was safe.

“
The key
.”

He smiled at her. “Actually, it’s not locked. I was lying.”

With a snarl like tearing cloth, she scrabbled at the lid of the box, found the catch, pressed it and flipped the lid open. Inside, she saw, nestling in red velvet, a single Cheerio. She gasped, and slammed the box shut.

“Well?” John asked.

“It’ll do,” she whispered. “Are there–any more?”

He grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Five. But nothing on earth would induce me to get them for you.” He edged away just a little. “Well, I think we’re all done. I’d like to say what a pleasure it’s been—”

Her eyes were filled with hate and yearning. “Please,” she said. “Just one—”

“—But I’m not such a big liar as all that, so I’ll just say
ciao
for now and thank you. Goodbye.”

As soon as he was out of her sight he started to run, and he didn’t stop until he was safely back at the mouth of the cave where he lived. There he paused, to make sure the leaf he’d wedged in the doorframe when he’d left home that morning was still there. Yes, it was; same leaf, too (he’d pricked six holes in it with a pin) He fished out his key, let himself in, lit the candle and triple-bolted the door. The room was too small to hide an intruder, but he checked anyway. Only then did he haul out the envelope and drop it on the table.

He didn’t open it straight away. Instead, he kicked off his shoes and sprawled in the chair, suddenly realising how utterly drained and exhausted he was, and how much he disliked Elves. Other species terrified him–dwarves, goblins, trolls–but at least their horribleness was a secondary function, ancillary to their main purpose of staying alive and reproducing. For Elves, by contrast, being thoroughly unpleasant was their prime imperative. Survival of the snarkiest. Hell of a way to run a species.

Now, to business. He picked up the envelope, turned it over in his hands a couple of times. Opening it, he knew, was likely to prove to be one of those axes, or should that be fulcra, around which the world turns, or balances, or loses its balance and goes crashing down. It seemed ludicrous to him that it was in his power to delay such a moment, at whim; but he could. He could put the envelope down, go and fix himself a drink and a cheese and tomato sandwich–such arrogant power, he thought, of the kind ascribed to gods by people whose intensity of faith verges on blasphemy. Shouldn’t be that way. History should turn on battles, riots, assassinations, peace treaties, coronations. It shouldn’t wait patiently while a trivial, scruffy individual has lunch.

And it won’t have to, John decided, because I’m going to open this envelope
now
, and the hell with the consequences.
Amend that, slightly; hooray for the consequences, because while the world crashes in ruins (see above) and all our preconceptions come plunging down around our ears, I shall be filing the biggest damages claim ever, and that’s all I care about.

Pause. Is it?

John hesitated, peered right down into the very deepest recesses of his soul and decided that yes, it was. So that was all right. He stuck a finger behind the flap, flipped it out, and slid a sheaf of papers into his hand.

A report from the Elf & Safety Executive; sworn affidavits from the Elvenhome Genealogical Institute, the Academy of Science, the College of Heralds; copies of original manuscripts from the Central Intelligence Archive, certified and notarised; other certified copies of translations of diplomatic documents and records, some of them translated from Goblin and Dwarvish. He read them. Then he put them carefully on the table in a neat stack and sat back in his chair, paralysed.

Oh my God, he thought. Oh my
God
.

I was right, though.

And small comfort he found it. There’s an infinity of difference between suspecting and knowing, something of the order of magnitude of the difference between sleep and death. He suddenly realised that, all along, he’d been expecting to be proved wrong.
What have I done
? he asked himself, but the question didn’t need to be asked. He’d changed everything, was what he’d done. Well. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

A thought struck him, and he jumped up. His table looked like it was just a few planks scrounged from broken-up pallets and nailed together, just the sort of thing you’d expect to find in a human dwelling in Elvenhome. But he knelt down and by feel alone located a couple of hidden catches; the table top
came loose and he lifted it away to reveal a shallow rectangular recess, a good size and shape for storing documents. He put the papers back in the envelope, put the envelope in the slot and replaced the table top, pressing firmly until the catches clicked. In the country of the half-witted, the paranoid man is king, or, even better, still alive tomorrow.

As if on cue, the door flew open–the bolts held but the hinges didn’t–and at least a dozen armed Elves, all in black, burst into the room. John froze. At least 70 per cent of his recurring nightmares featured a scene like this, proving that wishing upon a star isn’t obligatory. They hauled him up out of his chair, searched and handcuffed him, and then the boss Elf said, “Where is it?”

“Ah.” John said. “Presumably you mean you want the toilet. Out the way you came, on your left there’s a little wooden shed—”

That got him a punch in the stomach. It’s a very odd feeling, having your body completely drained of air.

“Funny human,” said the boss Elf. “Where is it?”

You can’t do smartass convincingly if you haven’t got any breath. “Where’s what?” John gasped.

Oddly enough, it didn’t hurt quite so much the second time. “Where is it?” asked the Elf.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” the Elf snapped. “Search the place.”

Which they did; and the methods they employed made the expression
search and destroy
into a tautology. The only thing they didn’t smash into little bits, in fact, was the table.

“Oh come
on
,” the Elf said wearily. “All right, if you insist. We’re taking you in.”

Three Elves grabbed him and John started to move, though his feet were still. “Just a second,” he said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about, I have the right to remain silent—”

“Yes, that’s true, you do. And if I were you I’d exercise it, all the way to the interrogation centre. Oh, while we’re on the subject, you have the right to a lawyer.” He grinned. “A
real
one, not just some uppity human. Right, move it out, we’re on the clock here.”

As his heels bumped across the floor, John suddenly realised what was wrong. The uniforms. No lapels on the jackets, and
suede shoes
.

“Hey,” he yelled, as they dragged him through the door. “You aren’t real policemen.”

“Never said we were,” replied the Elf, and hit him over the head.

G
ordon was taking a call.

“Absolutely,” he said, wedging the phone between his cheek and his collarbone so he could use his hands. “I guarantee it. Whatever you’re paying right now for disposing of contaminated dental waste, I’ll halve it. The same quality of service, fifty per cent less cost to you. Yes, I’m serious. Yes, that’s right. Well, yes, there is what you might loosely call an extra-natural or transnatural element involved, but, I promise you, there’ll be no impact at your end, honestly, you won’t know the difference… Well, yes, actually the Tooth Fairy, but I can assure you, there’s no danger whatsoever of anyone ever finding out, and even if they did, who the hell would ever—Yes, we can issue a safe disposal certificate, we’re fully registered and compliant… Well, yes, he was, rather, but I bought him a bloody good lunch afterwards and he quickly came to see it my way, it’s amazing how sensible people can be sometimes, when something’s so obviously in everybody’s interests. Yes, well, if the Romanians can beat my price, you go ahead and sign up with them, but I don’t think that’s going to happen, do you? I mean, fair play to them, but they’re only human… All right then, you have your people draft something and we’ll
take it from there. Yes, a pleasure doing business with you, too. Bye now.”

He killed the call and leaned back in his chair. Bloody cheapskates, he thought. You give them fifty per cent off, and still they want to haggle. Tyre-kickers, the lot of them. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered.

A soft cough made him look up, and he saw a tall, gaunt Elf with a folder under her arm. “Nioreth,” he said. “Talk to me.”

“Latest figures from the dragonmeat plant,” she said, handing him a sheet of parchment. “Production up six per cent.”

He frowned. “Is that all?”

She shrugged. “We can’t process it if the knights don’t bring it in,” she said.

“Well, quite.” Honestly, unless you spoon-fed these people every minute of the day. “So what you do is, you get out there, you kick some steel-plated arse, you get those knights out of the taverns and into the woods, killing dragons. That’s if you want to carry on working for me.” He grinned at her. “You do, don’t you?”

She didn’t actually yawn. “Indeed,” she said. “Very well, I’ll see to it.”

Oh dear. “No.” he shook his head. “Don’t
see to it
. Get out there and
do it yourself
, got that? I don’t know, you people and delegation. You’d get someone to do your breathing for you if you could.”

Actually, he mused, examining the figures in detail after she’d gone, six per cent wasn’t bad, considering the volume they were already doing. But it wasn’t enough. His keen commercial instincts told him that dragonmeat was going to get very big quite soon, especially since government laboratories didn’t test for the DNA of entirely mythical creatures. It’d come, of course, nothing good lasts for ever. But until
then, the sun was shining on the hay meadow and everything was good—

He remembered and frowned. Almost everything.

He sighed, and rang the bell. Another Elf.

“Get me Glubfangel.”

Sorry, Glubfangel’s at lunch. Well, that’s good, it’ll make him easy to find.
Go
.

Ten minutes later, Gordon’s chief of security appeared in the doorway, looking decidedly put out. “You wanted to see me?”

Gordon nodded. “Why haven’t you found Prince Florizel yet?”

Shrug. “Because we haven’t found him.”

“But you are looking?”

“Oh yes.”

“No you bloody well aren’t. Either you’re proofreading your latest slim volume or you’re at lunch. Here’s some background data for you, it might help. Prince Florizel is not a typographical error. Nor is he likely to be hiding under a sprig of rocket on a bed of wild bloody rice.”

Absolutely no effect. Might as well try putting out the Sun by pissing on it. “My people are looking for him,” the Elf said. “I am coordinating.”

“Of course you are.” Gordon sighed. The truly sad thing was, Glubfangel stood head and shoulders above all the other Elves of his generation for dedication, single-mindedness and tireless effort. “What about that lawyer and that rogue knight, Turquine?”

“Both in custody,” Glubfangel replied. “And we expect to pick up King Mordak within the hour. I’ve sent a full tactical unit.”

Alarm bells. “Now hold on a second.” Gordon frowned. “I thought I told you, I don’t want you sending a bunch of your precious bloody hothouse flowers to pick a fight with the
goblins. I thought we agreed you’d use a specialist.”

The Elf nodded. “We did. But that didn’t work, so I
used my initiative
and committed two platoons of elite forces. As I said, I expect them to report in any minute now.”

“Elite forces,” Gordon repeated. Then the penny dropped. “Oh, you mean—”

“Yes.”

Gordon’s first instinct was to be angry. Dragons’ teeth didn’t grow on trees. Worse still, they grew on dragons, which meant they were expensive to procure and extremely limited in supply. On the other hand, there was a distinct element of two birds, one stone; before he launched what could prove to be his most profitable line yet on the real-world market, it made a lot of sense to ensure they were properly field-tested and debugged first. Instant mercenary soldiers, smart, ruthless and entirely expendable–sow and forget–could prove to be his iPod moment, but if the product was unreliable in some way, it could do a great deal of damage, possibly prove to be his Deepwater Horizon. Looked at from that perspective, trying out a few jawfuls against King Mordak’s goblins wasn’t a bad idea at all. “Fine,” he said. “And I want a full report on how they perform.”

“Thought you would,” Glubfangel replied, not quite smirking. “Meanwhile, I’ll double the search parties for Florizel. All right?”

Gordon sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Carry on.”

Glubfangel nodded, clicked his heels–“Please don’t do that,” Gordon said–and withdrew, leaving Gordon alone with the last person in the multiverse he wanted to have a conversation with at that particular moment. He picked up the latest cost efficiency analysis on the Orinoco shipping and distribution centre–as he’d thought, efficiency was up 9 per cent, ever since he’d broken them of the habit of floating
customers’ orders downstream, lashed together to form a rudimentary raft–but his mind couldn’t get any traction. Instead, all he could think of was his sister’s mild, annoying voice, bleating
You will look after Benny for me, won’t you?

Well, he’d done that. God only knew, he’d done that. Anyone else in his shoes would probably have buried the problem under a pile of money–sent the boy away to boarding school, then built some distant university a new library on condition that they kept him amused and entertained for the rest of his life. But that, to Gordon’s mind, wasn’t looking after, not in the sense his sister had intended it. In that context,
look after
was a dialect form of
love
, which was something quite other. And somehow, against all the odds, he’d done it, after a fashion, give or take a bit, close enough for jazz–he’d let the annoying, common-sense deficient, ludicrously over-tall waste of oxygen crawl in through the cat flap of his affection and curl up in front of the radiator of his priorities. Ever since then the argument had run; Benny is gormless–more than that, he’s a black hole into which gorm falls and is utterly consumed–so he’ll never be able to cope after I’m gone unless he’s cushioned from reality by lots and lots and
lots
of money. Therefore, in order to fulfil my sacred obligations, I must go forth and make lots and lots and
lots
of money, by any means necessary.

So he’d done that; and now, when everything was going, if not swimmingly, then not actively drowningly, Benny goes and buggers it all up. Retrieving him and sending him back Realside would not, he trusted, pose an insurmountable problem. He had people for that, even if their ears were sharper than he’d have liked. Dealing with Benny on his return, by contrast, would almost certainly be an unmitigated pain. There’d be questions, objections, moral qualms, the whinings of his tender little conscience–sorry, but I’m a busy man, I haven’t got
time
for all that. Yes, but if you’re
doing it all for Benny, shouldn’t he have a say in how it’s done, no matter how fatuous? In other words, what if Benny were to decide to hate him? That wouldn’t be good at all.

Not for the first time, Gordon wished he’d been an only child. Too late, though, for that. The Elves would scoop Benny up and shoot him through the doughnut portal back to Orpington; and the joy of it was, thanks to the real-time discrepancy effect, he’d be able to stay this side long enough to sort out these tedious issues and resolve on a plan of action, no matter how long it took, and still be back on the other side a fraction of a second behind Benny.

Put like that, it wasn’t such a daunting prospect after all, and he offered a few silent words of thanksgiving to the late professor Van Goyen, inventor of the YouSpace device, for loading it with such eminently practical features. Anybody else, he reckoned, would’ve made do with a stopwatch, FM radio and a camera, but Van Goyen had clearly been the sort of man who thinks things through. My sort of guy, Gordon thought. Maybe he’d had a nephew.

Meanwhile, some good, solid R & D to look forward to. Someone once said that the only bits of a dragon that are wasted are the wing sheaths, the flame and the squeal; that was what made it the ideal form of livestock for the small to medium producer. Let’s see, he thought, an average of ninety-six teeth per jaw, two jaws per dragon, so if these figures aren’t just a blip in the curve, we could be in serious production pretty soon, and then we can follow up the contacts we’ve already made and do some serious marketing. An image of himself giving the spiel to assorted generals and heads of state flashed across his mind, and he wondered: will they really go for it? Well, of course they would. That was what was so wonderful about this business. Strip away the more unorthodox aspects, and it all came down to money, like everything in this life. And when it came down to money,
he was always going to win. Simple as that.

Then he thought; if Benny finds out about the soldiers, he’s not going to like it.

Well, he thought, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. He yawned. Even thinking about Benny made him feel tired.

His phone rang. He picked it up, heard a familiar voice, smiled. “Mr President,” he said. “I was just thinking about you.”