Grailblazers (21 page)

‘Otherwise,' the Queen said at last, ‘everything seems to be in order and running nicely. Good. Perhaps now we can get down to some work. My briefcase please, someone.'

She had just started dictating a long memo about unit costings when the door flew open and the PAs reappeared. In defiance of some of the leading laws of physics, they all seemed to be trying to stand behind each other. The Queen looked up.

‘Well, boys?' she said, smiling at them over the top of her reading glasses. ‘Any luck?'

‘Um.' The PAs had had an informal ballot, and the loser had been elected spokesman. ‘Not as such,' he said. ‘At least, we do seem to have found out who the intruders are, but not where they are. Not,' he said, and his voice withered like a daffodil in a furnace, ‘strictly speaking, that is. Or at least, we think there's a chance they may be ...' He gulped and pointed at the floor.

The Queen took off her glasses and nibbled one earpiece thoughtfully. ‘Go on,' she said. ‘You were saying who these people might be.'

‘Um.' A small globe of sweat bounced down the PA's nose. ‘We, um, did a credit search on them while they were on deposit, and they seem to be a couple of, ah, knights.'

‘Knights?'

‘Um.'

‘Knights,' enquired the Queen, ‘as in Arabian, or knights as in shining armour?'

‘Knights as in shining armour, ma'am. Bedevere and Turquine, Your Ma—'

There was a tiny brittle sound, caused by the snapping of the earpiece of a pair of dainty gold-framed spectacles. ‘Dear me,' said the Queen, ‘how extremely tiresome.'

‘Yes, Your M—'

‘Drat.'

‘Yes, Your—'

‘And in the ... in Thing, you say?'

‘Yes, um ...'

The smile, bright as the oncoming headlights to a dazzled rabbit, flicked from one pale, drawn face to another and finally came to rest.

‘Be an absolute sweetheart, one of you,' said the Queen, ‘and go and fetch them.'

 

‘It's not fair.'

By way of emphasis, the lantern swayed violently, revealing a narrow spiral stone staircase. A worn brown chain running up the central column provided the only handgrip. It was spooky.

‘Shut up.'

‘Yes,' replied Iphicrates, senior assistant Assistant to the Queen of Atlantis, but why's it always us, for crying out loud? It's not as if she hasn't got about fifty thousand other bloody gophers who could—'

‘Shut up.'

The lantern wobbled violently. ‘Don't you tell me to shut up, you crawler,' Iphicrates snapped. Above his head, something whirred, and if this was a hotel rather than the bowels of Atlantis City, you'd have sworn someone had just had a bath. ‘Oh hell. Freeze, everybody.'

The staircase disappeared, only to rematerialise a moment or so later three feet to the right. The lantern, which had gone out, lit up again as several million confused photons groped their way through the stone-work towards it.

‘And that,' said Iphicrates firmly, ‘doesn't help matters, does it? I mean, how the hell are you supposed to keep a sense of direction around here when the whole place keeps going walkabout? I mean, how do we know this staircase still goes anywhere, for a start? We could spend the rest of our lives—'

‘Look.' A hand tightened on Iphicrates' ear. ‘For the last time, be quiet.'

Iphicrates shook himself free. ‘No,' he said angrily. ‘The hell with you, Androcles. This is a lousy, dangerous job and I'm damned if I'm going to go chasing around in the basement among the hackers for a bunch of lunatic burglars, just because Madam's got her knickers in a twist again. Bloody good luck to them, I say.'

‘Shut—'

‘No,' said Iphicrates, firmly, and there was a grating sound as he put the lantern down. ‘Go on, you tell me, why should I?'

‘Because,' hissed a voice in his ear, ‘Her Majesty is just behind us on the stairs. All right?'

‘But don't mind me,' sang the proverbial silvery voice from the darkness. ‘You boys just carry on with what you were doing and pretend I'm not here.'

There was a profound silence; then the sound of a lantern being picked up and somebody nervously humming the national anthem. The procession continued on its way.

It was a very long staircase.

‘Er, chaps...'

The lantern stopped. ‘What's up?'

‘Have you, sort of, noticed something?'

‘Like what?'

Pause.

‘Like,' said the voice from the back- and if there had been any light it would have been possible to see the speaker looking extremely self-conscious - ‘put me straight if I'm not on the right lines, but we are going down the stairs, aren't we?'

‘So?'

‘So, why are the stairs going
upwards?'

Pause.

‘Not that I'm the slightest bit bothered myself, one way or the other,' the voice continued. ‘All the same to me, really. Just thought I'd...'

Grating sound of grounded lantern. A distant scraping sound, which could be a man scratching his head.

‘You know,' said Iphicrates, ‘he's got a point there, hasn't he?'

Shuffling of footsteps, and the sound of seven people waiting for somebody else to be the first one to say something. Eventually—

‘Excuse me.'

‘Yes, Your Majesty?'

‘Someone be terribly sweet and pass me the lantern. Ah yes, got it, thanks ever so much. Now then, let's just have a quick look, shall we?'

The lantern flickered and then started to blaze out light like a beacon. It showed up seven very nervous men, a composed but frowning woman with golden hair, and a spiral staircase. Going up.

‘Perhaps,' suggested Iphicrates, ‘it would help if we all turned round. Then surely...'

Then the world disappeared. As the perceptible parameters of reality faded away, there was an audible sigh of relief. The lantern went out.

‘Has anybody got a match or something?'

Fumbling in pockets noise. Scraping sound. The hiss of flaring sulphur.

‘Oh look,' said the Queen, ‘we would appear to be in a corridor. Now, anyone, how did that happen?'

Before the light died, it had a chance to explore a patch of what looked like a straight, flat passageway with tiled sides. Perfectly normal looking for, say, a walkway in an Underground station; but a bit counter-intuitive for a staircase, unless you're very heavily into lateral thinking.

Pause.

‘Oh well, everybody, looks like we're here. Anybody mind if I lead the way?'

There was a muffled chorus of Fines and Greats and, rather more accurately, Right behind you, Your Majestys, and then a sparkling flash of yellow light as the Queen of Atlantis lit the end of her sceptre and walked purposefully down the corridor.

 

Transmitting ...

There was a grinding noise, rather like a crate of milk bottles being run over by a road roller, and then a bleep. Turquine, Bedevere and ten hackers fell out of the fax machine and on to a plain rough plank floor.

The fax machine whirred on for a moment, gave its customary hiccup, and wound out its little slip of paper. Then it realised what it had done, and whimpered.

‘Well,' said Bedevere, picking himself up and brushing a fair quantity of dust off his knees. ‘It worked, then.'

Nobody seemed to be listening. The hackers were staring with open mouths and eyes like compact discs at this small, unfurnished, bare-walled, scruffy room. Turquine was feeling in his pocket for something.

‘Got it,' he said, producing a rather grubby peppermint. ‘Knew I'd lost one in there a while back.' He popped it in his mouth and crunched it.

‘So this is it,' Bedevere was saying. He was aware that, for all intents and purposes, he was talking to himself; but what else could you do if you wanted an intelligent conversation around here? ‘Pretty smart thinking on my part, that, I thought. Yes,' he agreed, ‘a neat piece of detection, though I say it myself as shouldn't. Now then.'

He looked around. Apart from the fax machine, himself, eleven men, an empty styrofoam milkshake carton and a small cardboard box, the room was empty.

‘The way I saw it,' Bedevere went on, ‘it was all down to relativity. Relativity? Yes, relativity. Because although you could say that the world stays still and the registered office moves about, you could also say that it's the registered office that stays still and ...'

Turquine had picked up the milkshake carton. He looked into it, turned green and dropped it.

‘And then you said,' Bedevere went on, turning to one of the hackers, who wasn't listening, ‘that nobody had ever found the door to the registered office. They'd looked hard enough, you said, but never actually found it. Almost, you reckoned, as if it only existed on the outside, not the inside. And it was that, you see, that set me thinking.'

Turquine drew a finger along a wall until the build-up of dust grew too thick to be ploughed any further. ‘This place could do with a good clean,' he observed. ‘Not like any office I've ever been in before, really. No phones, for a start.'

‘And what I thought was,' Bedevere continued, staring hard at the cardboard box, ‘if nobody's ever seen the door, maybe there isn't a door. And what do you know,' he concluded triumphantly, ‘there isn't a door.'

Nobody was listening; but that didn't mean to say he wasn't right. There was no door. No window, no ventilation shaft, no cat-flap, nothing. Just four walls of immaculate integrity.

Bedevere knelt down and felt in his pocket for a penknife to cut the string which held down the lid of the cardboard box. ‘Like the man said,' he muttered, ‘eliminate the impossible and you're left with the truth. I wonder where the light's coming from, in that case.'

The room went suddenly dark.

 

‘The map, somebody.'

In the corridor, it went very quiet.

‘One of you,' said the Queen, sweetly, ‘did remember to bring a map, didn't you?'

 

‘Did you say something, Bedders?'

Bedevere, who couldn't find his penknife, grunted. It was that strong nylon string that burns your hands if you try and break it.

‘Something,' Turquine went on, ‘about the light.'

Around him, Turquine could hear strange, soft noises coming from the hackers. At the back of his mind, he could understand why; after all, they were in the registered office, the holy of holies of all Atlanteans. And they'd just found out that it didn't have a door. And it was dark.

‘Odd,' Turquine went on, thinking aloud as much as anything, ‘the way there's no way in or out of here, just walls. Makes you think, really.' He passed his tongue round his mouth, searching for a tiny residual taste of peppermint. Nothing. ‘Not surprising nobody's dusted it in yonks, I mean, how'd they get in, let alone get a hoover up here as well. In fact,' he added, ‘makes you wonder how the air gets in. I mean, those walls look pretty airtight to me ...'

In the darkness, a hacker choked.

 

‘Well, then, a compass maybe. Any of you boys got such a thing as a compass on you?'

No answer. The Queen tutted briskly.

‘Well really,' she said, ‘no offence, but isn't that a bit feeble on somebody's part?'

In a dead straight, level, tiled corridor that stretches away for miles in either direction, there is only one place to hide; behind somebody. Without apparent movement, the rest of the PAs formed an orderly queue behind Iphicrates.

‘Sorry,' he said. The Queen looked at him and smiled until he could feel the skin start to peel on his cheeks.

‘That's all right,' she said. ‘We all make mistakes. Well, anybody, what do we do now? Any bright ideas?'

The Queen waited for a moment, tapping her nails very gently against the tiled wall of the corridor, until you could find yourself believing that the whole place was vibrating like a drumskin.

‘Nobody? Pity.' she licked her lips. ‘Well,' she said, ‘it's just as well I'm here, then, isn't it?'

The PAs relaxed slightly. Terrifying she undoubtedly was, and nobody much liked the idea of having her along - why was she here, by the way? - but there was no question that Madam would get them out of the tunnel somehow. The dodgy bit was what would happen afterwards.

You can get to like it down a tunnel.

‘How would it be,' the Queen said, ‘if we all had a cup of tea?'

 

Bedevere's teeth were in remarkably good shape, considering.

At school, of course, they'd made fun of him. Hidden his toothbrush. Put chalk in his dental floss. But he'd stuck to it - he'd promised his mother - and now he understood why she'd been so insistent.

‘Gotcha!' he said, and spat out a few strands of nylon thread. A moment later, he found the lid of the box, and opened it.

This is not going to be easy to describe.

At the root of the problem are the lingering effects of the catastrophic outbreak of Adjective Blight which hit the Albionese-speaking world shortly after King Arthur was deposed. Remarkably little known, the blight (later found to be transmitted by fleas carried on the back of the Lesser or Journalistic Cliché) did to descriptive prose what phylloxera did to the French vineyards. Whole classes of similes were wiped out. Generations of authors have been left poking awkwardly at raw wounds in the collective subconscious where extinct metaphors once grew.

Anyway, here goes. As the lid folded back, something like light in that it was bright and insubstantial and assisted vision, but unlike light in that it jumped out and rushed around the room banging into people, hopped out and whirred through the air like a released balloon. Wherever it made contact with anything it left a big orange phosphorescent glow. It smelt awful.