Ross Lawhead (40 page)

“You obviously have something in mind. Let's hear what it is without the whole drama.”

The merchant smiled. “Ah, you see through me. I see I have misjudged your cleverness. Forgive me, I meant no insult, it is just that sometimes a softer touch is needed with clients. No matter. We will talk as equals and lay everything on the table before us. Yes, there are things I can do to help, but they are expensive. In short, it means loading you up with some of my wares, which I have appropriated from your own world. These will act as forces to draw you closer your destination—all things wish to return to their place of origin. However, you cannot buy them, as you have no money. Nor can I just give them to you, as that would make you beholden to me and increase your ties here. No, you will need to earn them.”

“How?”

“By doing a job for me—working for me, in short, like you work for the collier. I do not wish to trap or ensnare you—remember, it's in my interest to see you safely home. But the type of work will be determined by the value of the objects you need.”

“Alright, let's see these objects, then,” Daniel said, not too happy to be dealing like this, but if it meant he could get home faster, it would be worth it.

“Of course. Please, take a seat,” he said, rising and arranging a few cushions opposite his own pile. Daniel settled on these as the merchant waddled over to a display cabinet. “Think of yourself as a magnet—and the more things you possess from your own world, the greater your pull back to that world will be.” He fiddled around behind the cabinet and took out a drawer, carrying it carefully—almost reverently—and laying it on the floor between them. “The objects that are most recent will have the strongest pull and will be more worth carrying. The oldest ones will be almost useless to you.”

Daniel laughed when he saw what the drawer from the cabinet contained—it was just full of junk. There was a bundle of pencils of varying lengths and sharpness—some even bore teeth marks— all tied up in a silk ribbon. There was a gardening fork lying inside a glass case. A jar containing coins, bottle caps, ring pulls, paper clips, and brass tacks. There was a pair of binoculars, something that looked like an oven knob, a bottle of ink, and more besides.

“It is up to you to choose the most recent or valuable to you.

Tell me, do you recognise any of these items?” the merchant asked.

“I recognise all of them. How did you find them?”

“I have my sources,” the merchant said guardedly. “Tell me, this manuscript, what is its nature?” The merchant reverently handed him a bundle of decaying papers.

“This is a comic book.”

“I have studied it closely but do not understand the writing. Is it a history of one of your heroes?”

“It's a story—none of this really happened.” He handed it back. “It's not so old. It was printed about twenty years ago.”

“What about this?”

“That's more recent—it's a video cassette tape.”

“What is it used for?”

“Amusement. You stick it in a machine and it plays a story for you. We have lots of them where I come from. This one is
Doctor Who
.”

The merchant looked at him blankly.

“It's a science fiction TV show. That would probably help me out, if I had it. As would this, I suppose.” He picked up liner notes from a CD and flicked through it. “And that, definitely.” He pointed to a cell phone charger.

“So, these three items, the . . .
vidosette tape
, the small booklet, the wire with the weight on it . . . and the manuscript as well?”

Daniel shrugged. “Sure, the comic book as well. Why not?”

“What about these? Can you tell what they are?” He handed Daniel a rectangular red box made out of thin cardboard. It had “.38 SPECIAL 130 GRAIN FULL METAL JACKET” printed on its side.

“These are bullets,” he said, turning the box around in his hands so that they were the right way up. He opened the box—it was full. “They can be quite dangerous.”

“Would you take those?”

“I'd rather not.”

“So,” the merchant said, businesslike again. “Four items from your world, and valuable ones at that.”

“And if I have these, I can go back tomorrow night?”

“Very likely.”

“Can you guarantee it?”

“Not absolutely, but with my experience as a traveler between worlds, I can offer you
near
certainty. As certain as anyone can be in these matters.”

“Okay, what do I have to do?”

“That moneylender,” the merchant said, nodding at the tent flap, “Agrid Fiall, is a vile and detestable creature who has the throat of this nation in his grasp. He is a disgusting leech who holds entire cities to debt and squeezes them as dry as if they were in a vice. Families starve because of him, and yet he blithely carries on, squeezing and squeezing every debtor as dry as a bone. Due to his power, he has risen to a high position in court and as a shameless flatterer to the princely brothers. He is here in attendance with Prince Lhiam-Lhiat at this Fayre.”

“I've heard of him already. What do you want me to do?”

Daniel asked, already having an inkling.

“Kill him.”

Daniel considered. “Would that be hard?”

“I have already devised a plan that will put you at minimum risk—one blow, and an easy escape. I must protect my investment, after all.”

Daniel thought a little longer and then said, “Very well, I'll do it. But I'll need those bullets after all. And also,” he said, pointing to a black, metallic object in the centre of the tray, “I'll need
that
to put them in.”

“Are you sure you are up to this?” Lokkich asked. “Can I really count on you to complete this task?”

“It's not the first time I've assassinated an evildoer.”

3

She lay in bed, tired, weak, and confused. Her body felt . . . wrong. It was almost too much of an effort to move. So many things felt . . . wrong. It was hard to think. There was something important she had to do. She had to rescue someone? Who? Herself?

Professor Stowe—Felix—was sleeping next to her. She could see his back and arm—pale, flabby, and it disgusted her. Repulsed, but still with a tremendous effort of will, she pushed herself up and swung her feet out of bed—dizzy, and she wasn't even standing up yet.

She pulled the covers off and hoisted herself to her feet. Gripping the side of the bed to steady herself, she made her way to the door. Catching sight of her reflection in a full-length mirror, she halted. She looked old. Much older than she used to look. Her face was gaunt and eyes sunken. Her lips were thinner—even her hair looked tired. It no longer displayed the black sheen that she was secretly proud of. She shut her eyes. This wasn't her. She was someone else.

A soft squeal from the corner of the room made her jump. The baby. She needed to escape. Should she take that with her? It didn't seem right to leave the child, and anyway, the crying might wake the professor.

Gathering strength from she didn't know where, she crossed the room and took the baby from a small white cot. Holding it against herself, she rocked it gently and staggered out of the room.

She was in the hallway. The air was cold and through the window, she could see it was snowing. Should she make her escape now? In this weather?

She was so hungry. Instead of going out of the flat front door, she went into the kitchen.

The place was spotlessly clean. Still shouldering the child, she opened the refrigerator and recoiled. It was stocked with food, but everything was rotten or overgrown with mold. A head of lettuce had partially turned to sludge. Milk had separated in its plastic container that showed only a whitish-blue fuzz through its transparent lid. She swung the door closed. There must be something in the cupboards. She opened the one nearest to her—empty. The next was full of drinking glasses. Finally, in the third cupboard, she found some tinned food. She grabbed some baked beans down and put them on the counter. She put the baby on the centre of the kitchen table. Amused, bewildered, it gazed beatifically up at the ceiling.

She pulled open a drawer and grabbed a can opener. Working frantically, she managed to get the lid off of the tin.

It was empty. Or at least, not completely empty, for there were dried streaks of bean juice clinging to the sides of the tin, as if it had once contained beans, but a long time ago.

She reached for a can of pineapple slices and opened that. It was empty as well, except for the sickly sweet smell of old fruit.

This was too weird. She picked up the baby, turned to leave, and immediately halted. There was a small girl in the doorway.

“Mum? Is breakfast ready?”

“S-Sophia?” she stammered.

“Mum, I'm hungry,” the girl—she must be about seven years old—said primly.

“No time, come on, we're leaving.”

“Where?”

Grabbing Sophia's hand, she dragged the girl down the hallway and out of the door of the flat.

“Mummy,” the little girl said as they started down the stairs.

“I don't want to go outside. It's cold and snowy.”

“It'll be fine,” Freya said, not at all convinced of this herself.

She felt the girl's hand pull away from hers as they reached the bottom of the steps. “I have to put my wellies on.”

Freya tried the door handle, but it was locked. She pulled it harder and frantically looked around for the key. “Where is it? Where is it?” she muttered under her breath.

“It's on the windowsill,” Sophia said, pointing.

Snatching up the key, she thrust it into the lock. It turned and in another moment, she had the door open. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground and she was barefoot, but she couldn't stay any longer. She pulled the key out of the keyhole.

The baby started crying. “Come on,” Freya called over her shoulder.

“I need my coat.”

“No time!” she snapped.

“Freya, darling?” came a voice from above her. “What are you doing?”

“Come on,” she whispered, holding out her hand to Sophia.

“I don't want to go!”

The baby howled.

“Freya, where are you going? Come up and have some breakfast.”

There was a rush of wind that slammed the door shut. Frantically, she flung it open again. Then with her foot outstretched to prevent the door from closing, she reached in and grabbed Sophia's arm. She heaved herself through the doorway and into the snow-filled front yard.

Only there wasn't any snow. And, suddenly, there wasn't a Sophia anymore. She stumbled and fell. She found herself lying on . . . grass. In the whole garden, there wasn't a flake of snow to be seen.

Freya looked down at herself and let out a long, strange cry of surprise and relief—she was dressed in the same pink blouse and jeans that she had been wearing when she first visited the Old Observatory.

Her head was clear now.

It hadn't been years after all, it had been . . . what? Days? She started laughing—it was all a dream, or an illusion. There were no children—she was now just clutching a dirty tea towel against her shoulder. There was no important work she was doing, translating that strange gobbledegook. All of it, since she met that weird little group—the militant Gerrard Cross, the odd Leigh Sinton, the rotund Brent Wood. She paused. She had an aunt who used to live in a town called Brent Wood. And the Reverend Peter Borough?

Peterborough?
And Felix. Felixstowe—that was a harbor town on the west coast. She'd caught a ferry there once. Those were names of towns, not people. But why? Were they illusions too? And her tutor . . . what did it mean?

Daniel. It had something to do with Daniel's disappearance.

Freya heard her name being called from inside. Stowe's legs could be seen at the top of the stairs. Scrambling to her feet, she flew to the door and pulled it closed. She still had the key, which she used to lock it.

Stowe's shape appeared dark in the frosted glass and he gave it a bang with his fist. Then, swift as a thought, he turned and dashed back up the stairs.

Freya needed no further prompting. She spun around and, as fast as her weak and malnourished body could move, she pushed open the front gate and ran out into the street.

4

Feeling uncomfortable in the fine Elfin clothes that the merchant Lokkich gave him, Daniel nonetheless tried to look natural. His sword was at his side, and a leather pouch, which seemed heavier than the weight it contained, bounced against his thigh.

He had become lost in his thoughts and had fallen behind Awin Kaayn, the musician he had met on the road. That was a stroke of luck. The merchant's plan had been a good one, but Daniel was able to refine it. To enter the feast hall as the minstrel's assistant was his idea and would remove much risk and attention from the operation.