The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny n-10 Page 7

  I was tired, my head hurt, and I could still taste blood in my mouth, but I needed my gift again. If only so I could stop Screech killing people who might yet be salvaged. So I concentrated, forced open my reluctant inner eye, and fixed my Sight on Dr Fell. Everyone has a secret fault, a hidden weakness, a spiritual Achilles' heel, and it didn't take long to find Dr. Fell's. I reached out in a direction I sensed as much as Saw, and found the mirror that Dr. Fell had stored there; the original mirror he'd looked into, with his new Sight. I brought the mirror to his court, and placed it right beside him, a tall, standing mirror in a simple wooden frame. Dr. Fell's head turned slowly, almost reluctantly, to face the mirror; then he screamed shrilly as he Saw again the thing that had made him burn out his own eyes and banish the mirror rather than See it again. He stood up sharply, the bone chair falling backwards as he faced his reflection. Everyone in the court stood very still, watching him with their own eyes.

  I could see Dr. Fell's reflection looking back at him, and it took me a moment to realise what was different about it. The Dr. Fell in the mirror still had his eyes. And as we all watched, the reflected image reached out of the mirror and grabbed Dr. Fell. He shrieked horribly as the long arms wrapped around him, and he kicked and struggled with all his strength as the reflection dragged him slowly, lovingly, into the mirror. In a moment he was gone, his screams suddenly shut off, and all that remained on the raised marble dais was an overturned chair and a mirror-with no-one reflected in it.

  All around, men and women shook their heads tentatively, as though to assure themselves there was no longer anybody else in there with them. Some looked scared, some delighted; most looked lost, as though they no longer knew what to do without someone else to tell them. The six naked body-guards sat together on the dais, hugging each other and crying. Some of the foot-soldiers looked at me angrily through Ms. Fate's slowly dispersing smoke. A few even started forward, but I waggled a finger at them, and they stopped. Lord Screech sniggered beside me.

  "It's over," I said loudly. "Go home. Get your lives back. But… if I hear any nonsense about reinstating the tolls and the tribute, I will come back and find a mirror big enough to hold every damned one of you."

  No-one tried to stop us as we left.

  We were all the way through what used to be Dr. Fell's territory and out the other side before the flying carpets came after us. Walker had picked up our trail. A whole fleet of the things came swooping down, brightly coloured, rippling fluidly as their riders steered them expertly in and out of the traffic that once more filled the road. The carpets could have flown right over them, but where was the fun in that? Riders fly carpets because they're dangerous, and even in the midst of an important mission, they couldn't resist a chance to show off their skills. This bunch were so cocky they weren't even wearing helmets.

  They crouched proudly on their flapping carpets, riding the updrafts, holding all kinds of weapons. It appeared Walker wasn't interested in simply stopping us any more.

  Ms. Fate put the pedal to the metal, and the Fatemobile leapt forward as though it had been goosed, but the carpets shot after us at impossible speed. And since they were entirely magical, their riders weren't even bothered by the slip-stream. They shot in and out of the traffic lanes, weaving in and out of the paths of the slower-moving vehicles, closing in on us with loud hunting cries.

  The first few pressed in close behind us, and bullets rico cheted from the Fatemobile's reinforced pink exterior. Two riders swept down low to cut at our tyres with long, curved scimitars, only to recoil, baffled by the fluffy wheels. They fell back as they lost concentration, and slipped in behind us. Ms. Fate snapped a toggle on the dashboard, and the Fatemobile's afterburner roared into life. A jet of flame incinerated both carpets in a moment, and the burning riders fell screaming to the road, swiftly put out of their misery by the following traffic. I looked at Ms. Fate.

  "Hardcore."

  "No-one messes with my ride," she sniffed. "And can I just point out that you will be paying for all repairs out of what the elf's paying you?"

  I thought of what the elf was paying me. "You'll get your fair share," I said. "Though you may have to take it in kind."

  Ms. Fate looked at me suspiciously, then concentrated on her driving. The afterburner had given us an extra burst of speed, but the carpets were already catching up, and more gunfire raked the rear of the car, which shuddered under the impact. Somebody back there had a really big gun.

  A carpet rider spotted a gap in the traffic and shot forward to fly alongside. He grinned at me through my window and produced a gun. Ms. Fate tapped the brake, and he shot on ahead for a moment. While he was busy controlling his speed, I lowered my window, reached out, and grabbed a trailing thread I'd spotted hanging from the rear of the carpet. I pulled on the thread until I had a decent length, then lassoed it around a handy lamp-post. The thread spun around the steel post often enough to hold it firm, and I gave the signal to Ms. Fate. She accelerated, and the carpet poured on the speed to keep up with us; the rider didn't notice that his carpet was unravelling until there wasn't enough left under his feet to support him, and he crashed to the road with a very satisfying look of surprise on his face. And was immediately run over by a horse and cart.

  Two carpets descended from above, and landed on the Fatemobile's roof. Lord Screech kicked open the rear door and swung lithely out. He steadied himself on the door rim with one hand, reached up, seized an ankle with his other hand, and threw the guy off into the traffic. Screech then pulled himself up onto the roof Ms. Fate hit another toggle on her high-tech dashboard, and the whole roof became transparent. I didn't know it could do that. Lord Screech had acquired a long, blazing sword from somewhere. The remaining carpet rider looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, but he met the elf with a long blade of his own. The two of them duelled back and forth across the roof while Ms. Fate sent the car sweeping rapidly back and forth from one lane to the next. More carpets closed in, heading for the car's roof. Screech ran his opponent through with a casually elegant thrust, kicked the dying man off the roof, and loudly challenged all comers to come and do something about their murdered colleague.

  One of the carpet riders took the sensible approach and opened up on the elf with a machine-gun. But somehow none of the bullets could find Lord Screech. He laughed in the rider's face, extended a single finger, and the rider's carpet caught fire. He was still alive when his length of burning cloth hit the road; but the on-coming traffic took care of that.

  There were still dozens of carpets coming up behind us and closing in fast.

  I had no choice but to raise my gift again. It was like trying to lift a murderously heavy weight that got heavier with every attempt, but I did it. I reached out with my gift, searching for the spell that kept the carpets flying; only to find there was no individual magic involved, but rather a complex web of spells that would take me ages to understand and undo. So instead, I did what I should have done at the beginning, and used my gift to find the nearest Timeslip that could transport us directly to the far side of the Nightside and the Osterman Gate. I'd put off doing it because there were so many dangers involved. Timeslips don't always go where you think they do; the time differentials are so complex you could come out the other end days or even weeks in the future. Worse still, there are all kinds of things that live inside Timeslips and prey on those who pass through. Only damned fools, certain extreme sportsmen, and truly desperate people ever enter a Timeslip by choice; but I needed this road trip to end, and end soon, before my gift burned me up completely.

  I yelled a warning to Ms. Fate at the wheel, and Lord Screech on the roof, concentrated all my remaining strength; and a Timeslip opened up before us. Nothing subtle or complex about this one, only a great rip in space and time, and a huge glowing tunnel for Ms. Fate to steer into. The Fatemobile roared forward into the savage rotating energies, and, just like that, the Nightside and the pursuing carpets were gone, and we were hurtling down a shimmering corridor with
no beginning and no end. Screech swung down from the roof and dropped into the back seat. Even elves have enough sense to be cautious when it comes to Timeslips. Great bells were ringing all around us, voices screeched and howled, and from somewhere came the sound of huge engines straining, fighting to hold back some incomprehensible threat.

  And then the Fatemobile shot out the other end of the Timeslip, and Ms. Fate swore harshly and slammed on all the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, stopping only a few yards short of the massive barricade blocking the street before us. It rocked to a complete halt, amidst the unpleasant smell of scorched fluffy tyres, while I glared through the cracked windscreen at the man standing so elegantly before us. He raised his bowler hat to us, politely and entirely without irony, and smiled complacently.

  "Nice try, John," said Walker. "Everyone out, please. End of the line."

  Ms. Fate looked at me, but I shook my head tiredly. No point in fighting any more. We'd done all we could. The three of us stepped out of the Fatemobile. The car looked like it had been through hell, but it had held together and got us here safely. I patted the scarred pink bonnet fondly, as if it were a horse that had run a good race. Ms. Fate, Lord Screech, and I formed a stubborn silent line before the Fatemobile, and waited for Walker to come to us. As always, he gave every appearance of being the perfect city gent, in a neat suit, complete with bowler hat and umbrella. Only those of us who found it necessary to deal with him on a regular basis knew exactly how devious and deadly he could be. A hundred or more of his shock-and-awe troopers were lined up by the barricade, covering us with their guns.

  "Any ideas?" said Ms. Fate. "I'm feeling rather out of my depth, and distinctly outgunned."

  "Relax," said Lord Screech. "They're only human. Except possibly Walker; we've never been too sure about him."

  "He's human," I said. "The best and the worst of us, wrapped up in one underhanded package."

  "Ah, John," Walker murmured. "You know me so well."

  "You could have taken us at any time," I said, too tired even to be properly outraged. "You let us exhaust ourselves fighting your proxies, waiting for me to be dumb enough to use a Timeslip, all of which you'd interfered with to deliver us here. Of course. It's what I would have done." I looked at Screech. "If you've got any explodos left in your finger, feel free…"

  "If I did, I wouldn't be foolish enough to use it on Walker," said the elf. "He's protected."

  "Can we at least try talking reasonably?" I said to Walker. "I know the odds are against it, but we have been able to find common ground in the past."

  "That's right, John," said Ms. Fate. "You talk reasonably to Walker, and I'll be right behind you. So I can use you as a human shield when the shooting starts."

  Lord Screech stepped forward, suddenly seeming more arrogant, noble, and inhuman than ever. All the troopers' guns moved to follow him. Walker leaned on his umbrella and gave Screech his full attention.

  "Hold hard and stand amazed," said the elf, in a carrying, sonorous voice. "I hold all answers here, and it is I who must bar confusion. Let it be known by all that I am not Lord Screech, Pale Prince of Owls, but yet still an elf of great renown and vital importance."

  "You're not who you claimed to be?" said Walker. "Really, you do amaze me. An elf who lies-who would have thought it? I don't give a damn who you really are; just give me the damned Peace Treaty. Or we can take it from your cold dead fingers, if you prefer. Guess which I'd enjoy most?"

  I looked at Screech. "Who are you? And why do I know I'm not going to like the answer?"

  "Maybe you're psychic," said the elf, with a smile and a wink.

  His glamour disappeared like a cut-off song, and the whole world seemed to shake and reassemble itself, as Lord Screech gave way to the real elf, and his true form. I think we all gaped, just a little. In place of the typically tall and slender Lord Screech, we were now faced with an elf almost twice as tall as any of us, but bent over by a hunched back that pulled one shoulder down and forward, ending in a withered arm and a clawed hand. The rest of his form was smooth and supple as a dancer, but his hair was grey, his flesh was the colour of old bone, and two elegant horns thrust up from his heavy brow. He wore a pelt of some animal fur that blended into his own hairy torso, and his legs ended in cloven hooves. He was noble and elegant and almost unbearably inhuman. He grinned widely, his deep-set eyes full of mischief.

  "Of course," I said. "I should have known. The only elf that is not perfect. Puck."

  "Indeed," he said, in a cold, lilting voice. "Who else but I, that wild rover of the speckled night, could pass freely between two elven Courts and yet pay allegiance to none? Loved by both, trusted by neither, able to speak and hear the things no other elf could be suffered to know? I am Puck, that merry wanderer of the Nightside, and I have led you all in a sweet and merry dance, to suit mine own purposes. I do not have the Peace Treaty, Lord Walker. I never did. Another elf has it, one of lesser renown but great craft, and he has passed quietly and unobserved through the Nightside, hidden and protected behind a most powerful glamour, while I have been so very visible, alongside the infamous John Taylor, holding your attention all this while. That other elf has now gone through the Osterman Gate with the Peace Treaty, and my part in this game is done. Be a good loser, good Walker."

  Walker considered this for a long moment, while I reminded myself, yet again, Never trust an elf.

  "I could still have you shot," said Walker. "If only on general principles."

  "You could try," said Puck. "But even if you did somehow succeed, you would but provide the one common cause that could unite all elves to go to war with the Nightside. I may not be perfect, but I am still royal; and an insult done to me is an insult to all the Fae."

  "Oh, get out of here," said Walker, smiling just a little. "Before I run you all in for loitering with intent."

  He turned his back and strode away, waving at his troopers to accompany him. I felt like shouting after them as to who was going to dismantle their bloody big barricade; but I thought I'd pushed my luck enough for one day. I turned to Puck.

  "I really don't like elves," I said.

  "You're not supposed to," said Puck. "Merely marvel at our cunning and be dazzled by our brilliance."

  "You want a slap?" I said.

  "Never trust an elf," said Ms. Fate. "They always have their own agenda."

  "Well, quite," said Puck.

  "That's it," said Ms. Fate. "I am out of here. I let my lovely car be ruined because of you! I risked my life for you!"

  "Of course," said Puck. "That's what humans are for."

  I really thought I was going to have to stand between them, for a moment. Ms. Fate glared at me.

  "I'll be waiting for my cut of your fee. And the next time you need a ride, call somebody else."

  She stomped back to the Fatemobile, threw herself through the space where the door used to be to slip behind the steering wheel, fired up the engines, and roared away. I considered Puck thoughtfully.

  "So," I said. "Here we are. Mission accomplished, more or less. Now tell me what you promised I need to know."

  "Something bad is coming to the Nightside," said Puck, and there was something in his eyes, in his voice. If he hadn't been an elf, I would have said he was afraid. "Something very old, and very powerful. You'll know the name when I say it, but in this at least, trust me when I tell you that it is not what you think it is, and never was. You must find it and make it yours, John Taylor. Or everything you have done will have been for nothing."

  "Why?" I said. "What's coming? What is it, damn you?"

  He leaned forward, to whisper the name.

  "Excalibur."

  THREE

  Familiar Faces, Come Round Again I headed for home, via the Underground. I must have been looking more than usually grumpy, because everyone gave me lots of room. A few of Walker's security people were still hanging around the station entrance, but they made a point of looking the other way. I ended up sitting in a carriage on my
own, indulging myself in a quiet brood. At least the trains are always on time in the Nightside. Supposedly because if a train does arrive late, the System Controller takes it out the back and shoots it, to put all the other trains in a properly motivated frame of mind.

  I still didn't feel like going home, so I went to Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world; where everybody knows your game. Not actually the sleaziest bar in creation, but pretty damned close. It was just another night in Strangefellows. The Witches of Woking were out on a hen night, getting tipsy on Mother Superior's Ruin and reanimating the bar snacks so that they scampered back and forth on the table before them. Someone had got the Water Witch of Harpenden drunk by sneaking up behind her liquid form and injecting it with a horse hypodermic full of neat gin. You could actually see the ripples running up and down her as she giggled, lurching splashily between the tables, watering everyone's drinks in passing. At another table, two vaguely humanoid robots from some future time-line were sucking on batteries and farting static.

  A young woman wearing far too much make-up was wailing for her demon lover, because he'd just dumped her and gone off with her best friend. A stone cherub from a nearby graveyard was checking its investments in the Financial Times, and frowning a lot. A newly reborn vampire was sitting sadly at a side-table, staring at the glass of wine before him, wine that he'd ordered but couldn't drink. He was telling anyone who'd listen that he hadn't wanted to come back as a vampire, that he'd tried so hard not to come back… but he got so bored just lying in his coffin. So here he was now, with gravedirt still clinging to the good suit they'd buried him in, trying to come to terms with all the normal, everyday things he'd never be able to do again.

  He didn't need to worry. If he kept up the self-pity routine long enough, someone would ram a stake through him if only to shut him up.

  I leaned on the bar, and waited for the barman to get around to serving me. Alex Morrisey owned and ran Strangefellows, and didn't believe in being hurried. He was currently busy with a minor Norse deity at the other end of the long bar and was putting a lot of effort into ignoring me, but I was used to that. It was his little way of reminding me that I still hadn't paid off my bar tab.