Harry Cavendish (24 page)

He ran with his charge down the long corridors searching for a sign that would lead them to Cormack.

The throne room was empty and easily accessed when Cormack, Proton, Bernard, and the Archbishop came upon it. The Archbishop was still not cooperating, so they kept him wrapped in the blanket from which he seemed unwilling to escape. It appeared to have an anaesthetizing effect, like swaddling clothes on a baby, or perhaps he had suffocated. Proton pulled the gag around his mouth down a little to check for sure, but he couldn’t be certain. He thought he felt breath when he held out his hand, but it could have been a movement of air from the heat inside the bindings to the colder air outside.

‘Well, I suppose we would want him over there,’ said Bernard, pointing above the throne.

‘Archbishop,’ he said loudly, as though he were speaking to somebody quite deaf. ‘We will place you above the throne, in your accustomed position.’

The Archbishop did not respond and Bernard turned to Proton.

‘He will have to come out of the blanket. He’s not going to be able to perform the ceremony with it wrapped around him.’

‘Archbishop,’ said Proton. ‘You must cooperate. This is the Negus. The real Negus. Bernard, the Sibyl, has the papers for you. Show him the scroll, Bernard.’

The scroll was produced from the Sibyl’s habit and held in front of the Archbishop.

Bernard moved it up and down so he could read it from top to bottom.

‘Are you satisfied, Archbishop? Will you cooperate?’

Once again, they could detect no signs of life from within the blanket, so Bernard insisted he be released.

Proton did the honours and it was almost exactly the opposite of a mummification, the body being unbound bit by bit to reveal something lifeless. The Archbishop was given a poke with Proton’s laser gun and he reanimated, as though he had awakened from a trance, with a burbling sound in the back of his throat.

‘I wish to return to my room,’ he said in a whisper.

‘Yes, but first things first, Archbishop,’ said Proton. ‘The Negus is here. Cormack, come forward.’

Cormack had been skulking in the back of the room, wondering whether to make a break for it. The idea of making a break for it had been continuously occurring to him since the day of his abduction, but it had always occurred to him with an associated idea, that of being from Rochdale, and adrift, so that he had never quite felt able to act on it. Now with the cow dead, or so he thought, he had even fewer options.

He moved to stand next to Proton.

‘Cormack, sit on the throne!’

‘The throne is not for anyone to sit on except the Emperor!’ said the Archbishop, who had gained volume and become declamatory.

‘Cormack, do as I say! Sit on the throne!’

It was a large, stone construction, in the manner of the golden throne of King Tutankhamen, but lined with a velvet fabric that gave a silvery sheen as though it was rubbed through with cobwebs. The back was studded with hundreds of glistening gems of all different colours, and there was a place to put one’s feet. Cormack tried it for size, chiefly because Proton was waving his gun at him, and thought it quite comfortable.

‘Good,’ said Proton. ‘Let us begin.’

He looked towards the Archbishop who was unmoved.

‘Where is the hive-mind?’ said Proton.

The Archbishop spoke slowly and carefully.

‘Guard, where have you been these last few weeks? Are you not aware that the hive-mind was destroyed in the terrorist attack that killed the Emperor?’

‘Is that true?’ said Bernard.

‘Oh my Lord!’ said Proton. ‘I think it might be.’ He was ducting furiously, trying to access the archived news feed of the Emperor’s death.

‘Bit of a bugger then,’ said Bernard.

‘There must have been something planned for the new Emperor’s coronation. Don’t you have a replacement?’

‘The new hive-mind is being prepared in the nursery,’ said the Archbishop. ‘But progress is slow and it is not ready. Some of the science has been lost, I’m afraid. The previous hive-mind was used for both the Emperor and his father, if you remember, over three hundred years in all, and we’re missing information that would help in the construction of a replacement.’

‘Cormack, get off the throne!’ said Proton. ‘A little respect, mate!’

‘In any case, to attach the hive-mind to a Negus through a throat cable requires surgery.’

‘I thought that’s what you did. I thought that was your role.’

‘Certainly, it is. But as I said, the new hive-mind is not completed. In any case, a coronation is not a straightforward affair. The attachment of the throat cable requires tools. I fear whatever plans you might have had were misconceived.’

‘Look,’ said Proton. ‘Archbishop, please. We come to you in good faith.’

‘May I remind you that you are under religious obligation, Archbishop?’ said Bernard. ‘I am the Sibyl and he bears the scroll.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Will you accompany us to the nursery?’ said Proton and waggled his laser gun.

‘I fear I have little choice,’ said the Archbishop.

When Stanton Bosch and the cow arrived at the throne room, they found it unexpectedly empty.

‘He does want the mock Negus crowned, don’t he?’ said Stanton Bosch.

‘I thought that was the whole purpose of bringing him to the Palace,’ said the cow.

‘So why ain’t he in the throne room then?’

‘Perhaps they’ve finished.’

‘And nothing on the uniSwarm? They ain’t get here yet, that’s all. See.’ Stanton Bosch was fiddling with the throne that Cormack had sat in just a little while before. ‘The new hive-mind still sits in its compartment, ready for application.’

He had found a small notch in the seat back, and by turning one of the jewels on the front, it had come loose, and a door had opened up. A black box was within, attached to a long thin cable. It buzzed ominously.

‘Ooooo,’ said the cow. ‘You could try it on. You are the real Negus and the rightful Emperor after all.’

‘Aye, but now ain’t the time. You need an Archbishop to fit one of those. And I don’t see one around here.’

‘Maybe that’s where they went.’

‘Where?’

‘To fetch the Archbishop.’

‘Aye, you’re right cow. They would have to get an Archbishop to perform the surgery.’

‘The Archbishop of Kantleberry lives within the Palace.’

‘We should check his quarters. But one of us will need to stay here in the throne room. In case they come here.’

‘I will stay,’ said the cow.

‘All right,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘I ain’t planning to be long anyhow. I’ll just check out his room and come right back.’

When Stanton Bosch had gone, the cow approached the throne.

She had seen how he had opened the compartment to get at the hive-mind, but it was tricky for her without her full limbs. After much effort, she had a purchase on the notch with the fist of her right fore-stump and she pushed the jewel with her tongue. It came away nicely in one movement.

Carefully, she slid the new hive-mind from its resting place, so that it fell to the seat of the throne, and she bent herself double to pull out the screwdriver that she had kept hidden, tight in her secret place, ready for this moment.

Proton was getting very annoyed with the Archbishop.

He had an idea where the nursery was, but the Archbishop seemed to be leading them in the opposite direction.

‘Are you sure this is the way?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ said the Archbishop.

They were using the servants’ corridors as before, and Proton wondered how they could be in the least bit familiar to an Archbishop.

‘One makes nocturnal visits from time to time,’ was all he would volunteer.

‘This is the way to the Guardroom,’ said Proton.

‘Is it now?’

‘Are you playing games with us, Archbishop?’

‘Of course not,’ he said, but he seemed to have developed a tic that was at its most pronounced whenever they encountered a servant girl or pageboy, of which there were a few, carrying plates and laundry and linen to the various parts of the Palace.

Bernard was the first to announce he had had enough.

‘I don’t think you have a clue where you are going,’ he said.

‘How dare you!’ said the Archbishop. But when they reached the end of another long corridor, he made a bolt for a double door that was flush to one side, and would have been through it, except that Proton got a hand to the elastic in his pyjamas and pulled him back hard so that he had him sprawled on the floor.

‘Naughty, naughty Archbishop,’ said Proton. ‘What were you thinking?’

The Archbishop was spluttering, wheezing, and trying to get up.

Proton gave him a kick.

‘Where were you taking us?’

The Archbishop could only groan, and Proton kicked him again.

‘I say, is that really necessary?’ said Bernard feebly, but Proton kicked him again and then again.

‘Where is the hive-mind, Archbishop?’ he said. ‘Is it in the nursery?’

The Archbishop groaned.

‘No, no, no. Please stop. Please stop kicking me. If you stop kicking me, I will talk.’

‘Tell me where the hive-mind is.’

‘It is within the throne. In the throne room. It is ready for the coronation,’ he croaked.

Proton gave him one final kick for good measure, and then dragged him all the way back to the throne room by his pyjama bottoms.

The cow was recalling Eliot and the lines about the ‘burnished throne’. She sat upright within its frame and rubbed her back deliciously on the studded struts, waiting for Stanton Bosch.

Then she heard a commotion in the corridor that couldn’t have been him, or if it was, he had company, so she moved carefully to the dark corner on the farthest side of the room where she was hidden by a table, and waited for the handle of the door to turn.

Proton came in first, leading Cormack by the handcuffs on his left hand, and the Archbishop by the pyjama cord in his right. Bernard followed closely behind.

‘Now,’ said Proton authoritatively. ‘Enough of this foolishness. Let us get this show on the road.

Archbishop, are you quite ready?’

‘You can’t expect me to cooperate.’

‘I do expect you to cooperate or I will kill you.’

‘Oh, very well…’

Cormack was pulled to the throne the cow had just vacated, and was surprised to find it warm.

‘Bernard, set yourself up over there and see if you can get a good shot,’ said Proton.

Bernard arranged himself near the door and pointed a small camera that Proton had given him towards Cormack – they were streaming to the uniSwarm.

‘Now, get me the hive-mind, Archbishop,’ said Proton.

The Archbishop reached for the compartment in the same way that Stanton Bosch and the cow had before him, turned the studded jewel, and the secret door popped open.

He removed the hive-mind carefully and held it above Cormack’s head.

‘One moment, Archbishop!’ came a strange voice.

They turned to where it came from and saw it was the cow with a gun glinting in her mouth.

‘Put the hive-mind down, Archbishop,’ she said. ‘There will be a coronation today but it won’t be of the mock Negus!’

‘Cow?’ said Cormack, thinking that he recognized the voice, and then when he saw it really was her, he shouted, ‘Oh my goodness! I thought you were dead!’

She had the gun pointed at Proton, who hadn’t had time to reach for his.

‘Put the gun down, cow!’ he said.

‘Never! You don’t frighten me, Captain Proton! Move your mock Negus from the throne!’

‘Cow, what has happened to you?’ said Cormack.

‘Stanton Bosch is coming to be crowned. Move from the throne!’

‘Let me see you in the light!’

‘Move from the throne, towards the door!’

‘Cow, it’s me! It’s Cormack!’

‘I said move from the throne, mock Negus!’

There was a bang as the door was slammed open. Stanton Bosch stood silhouetted in the frame.

‘Do as she says, Captain,’ he said. ‘You have served your purpose. It’s our time now.’

‘Archbishop,’ said the cow. ‘It is time for you to perform the coronation.’

‘Whom am I crowning?’ asked the Archbishop. ‘This old man?’

‘Exactly so!’

‘But I thought the other chap was the Negus. He even had a certificate.’

‘Mock Negus!’ said the cow to Cormack. ‘Now is the time to tell the truth!’

‘The truth about what?’ said Cormack.

‘The truth about the Ordeals.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Proton.

‘Let me tell you the truth about the Ordeals, Captain. Seeing as your little pale friend is too frightened to,’

said the cow. ‘It wasn’t Cormack that survived the drop down the waterfall - it was Stanton Bosch! It wasn’t Cormack who drank twenty-seven gallons of sap from the Fractious Jub-Jub tree - it was Stanton Bosch! It wasn’t Cormack who was boiled in lava, down in the volcano - it was Stanton Bosch!

Cormack is just one big fraud. Stanton Bosch, step forward!’

The Bosch moved to the throne.

‘I give you the true Negus,’ said the cow quietly.

‘Stanton Bosch?’ said Bernard. ‘Stanton Bosch? I thought you looked like a Bosch. What on Earth are you doing on Zargon 8?’

‘Yes, Sibyl. It’s me. A Bosch.’

‘You know this man, Bernard?’

‘Oh yes! The Boschs run around Foul Ball calling themselves Pantheistic Syllogists or some such drivel.

They’re an absolute bother.’

‘It’s not drivel,’ said the cow.

‘The cow’s in it with me,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘We’ve gone international.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Bernard. ‘I quite forgot. You have recently teamed up with some farmyard animals. My brother had the news.’

‘We are not farmyard animals,’ said the cow. ‘Well, not all. The Opikarp is a freshwater fish from the Gallatians. The Prison Whale is a Minka whale. The Shamanic Throat, a frog. It is only me and the chicken that is farmyard. And give us our proper name - we are sentients. We are animals, evolved of huge intelligence. But you’re right; we have allied ourselves with the Boschs.’