Grailblazers. Part 24

Simon Magus grinned. 'It wasn't entirely scientific a couple of months back,' he said, 'when you made us have the telly on all day in the Senior Common Room for Wimbledon. I distinctly remember you standing on the table waving a b.l.o.o.d.y great flag round your head and chanting There's only one Boris Becker every time the other one fell over. It was embarra.s.sing.'

'Research,' Aristotle mumbled through a mouthful of toast. 'Just research, that's all.'

'Or what about that time after the World Cup when you made that big statue out of wax, and you called it Maradona and threw teacups at it? You can still see the marks an the wall.'

'One has to try and enter into the spirit . . .'

'Spirit, maybe,' Simon Magus replied, 'but there was no need to throw a brick through Dante's study window just because he supports Italy.'

Little red spots appeared in the corners of Aristotle's cheeks. 'It was offside,' he snarled. 'I've got it on video, you can see if you like. And Dante had the . . . the infernal nerve to suggest . . .'

Simon Magus chuckled. 'I'll say this for you,' he said, 'I do believe you've got into the spirit of the thing. Have some mare coffee?'

Aristotle, offended, waved the pot away and returned to his newspaper. Still chuckling, Simon Magus leant back in this chair and called to the small, wizened figure sitting on the other side of Aristotle.

'Merlin,' he said. 'More coffee?'

'Sorry?'

'Would you like some more coffee?'

'I do beg your pardon, I was miles away. No, no more coffee for me, thank you. Two cups are quite sufficient.'

Simon Magus nodded and turned back to his letter. He had read it seven times already, but he wasn't bored with it yet, not by a long way .

. . . Such a charming young man, though inclined to be a little bit hot-headed. Sir Bedevere also wishes to be remembered to you. You always did have a very high opinion of him.

And now I must close, dear heart, and trust that it will not be too much longer before we are together again. All my love, and do remember to wrap up warm!

Your very own, P .S. I almost forgot. While I was talking to him, young Bedevere happened to mention that he had seen the Graf von Weinacht while he was in Atlantis! Such a coincidence, don't you think! I wonder how the poor dear Graf is these days. They say that they can do wonders with drugs and leeches and things nowadays, but perhaps he is beyond help.

As he read the final paragraph, Simon Magus's brows gathered in a slight frown. Perhaps it was indeed all a coincidence, but perhaps not.

He lifted his head and looked out of the window - easy enough, since all the walls, floors and ceilings of the Gla.s.s Mountain are windows of a sort. Far away, he could see the earth, twirling gracefully and apparently aimlessly on its axis like an enchanted and very stout ballerina. He looked at his watch. Only another two hours to go . . .

To keep himself from being impatient, Simon Magus turned his thoughts to the Graf von Weinacht. A sad case, certainly; understandable, too, very understandable. In his position, anyone would probably react the same way. And a brilliant man, too, before it happened, although even then people were saying some very strange things about him.

The hall steward removed his plate and he sat for a moment, letting his mind relax. Nice to know that young Bedevere had finally made something of himself. Always a lot of promise there, he had often thought, just waiting for an opportunity to get out. No, that's not quite right; waiting for a situation in which he would be forced to take charge and make sure the job got done. Without that extra little bit of pressure, he could never achieve anything. Well, then.

He pushed back his chair, nodded affably at Nostradamus and Dio Chysostom, and strolled through into the library in search of the latest issue of the Philatelic Monthly. Instead, he found himself stopping in the Astrotheology section and taking down a very big, extremely dusty book that n.o.body had moved for quite some time.

Simon Magus pulled up a chair, crossed his legs and began to read.

Klaus von Weinacht knelt in the snow and howled at the sky.

Five hundred and twenty miles north of Nordaustlandet, in the middle of the bleakest, wildest, most inhospitable of all the desert places of the earth, is no place to break down. The nearest telephone box is in Hammerfest, five hundred miles the other way, and it's usually out of order. Besides, the chances of getting a garage to come out this far on a Sunday are practically nil.

Having vented his rage on the howling winds, von Weinacht opened the toolbox, took out a cold chisel, a wrench and a very big hammer, and set to work on the broken runner.

'b.l.o.o.d.y - cheapskate - Far - Eastern - gimcrack = he snarled in time to the hammer-blows. 'Ouch,' he added. He paused, sucked his throbbing thumb and calmed hirriself down. Now then, Klaus, he could hear his mother saving, you'll only make things worse if you lose your temper.

He picked up the wrench and set to work. Last time he allowed himself to be talked into buying a stinking j.a.panese sleigh. No idea of craftsmanship, just thrown together any old how, Friday afternoon job. Anger surged up inside him, and he stripped a thread.

'Sod!' he roared at the flat horizon. Then he hurled the wrench to the ground and jumped on it.

Permafrost may be thick, but there are limits. There was a cracking sound, like the earth's crust yawning, and the Graf jumped clear just in time to avoid going down a ravine. The wrench, however, was gone for good.

'Right,' said the Graf. 'Let's all keep absolutely icy calm, shall we?' He went back to the toolbox, found another wrench, and continued with the job.

He ached all over. If ever he caught up with that misbegotten b.l.o.o.d.y knight - what was the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's name? Something sounding like turquoise. Any b.l.o.o.d.y knight, come to that. They're all the same, knights. Sc.u.m, the lot of them. Without realising it, he picked up the hammer and started to beat the h.e.l.l out of the oilcan.

An hour later, he had managed to destroy a complete set of tools, smash the sleigh quite beyond repair, and frighten fifteen heavy-duty Trials reindeer into a stupefied trance. He threw down the hammer, lay on the ground and beat the ice with his fists.

Then he got up and pulled the walkie-talkie out of the saddlebags.

'Radulf,' he shouted. 'Beam me up.'

'Gosh!'

'Yes, miss,' said Toenail automatically. His head swivelled from side to side, looking for somewhere safe. Optimism is another dwarfish characteristic.

'What's that funny ringing noise?' asked Galahaut.

'That's the alarm,' the girl replied. 'Do you think somebody could have broken in?' She shivered a little.

Brill, said Toenail to himself. 'I'm already lumbered with two idiots, now it looks like I've got a third one to look after as well. Any more, while I'm at it? Bring out your idiots.

He nudged Boamund in the ribs.

'Boss,' he said, 'don't you think we ought to be, well, getting along? You know . . .'

Boamund looked at him blankly for a moment. 'What?' he said. 'Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, good idea.' He remained where he was. In fact, the dwarf noticed, the three of them together looked remarkably like the legs of a table.

It was, in fact, the girl who broke the spell.

'Do excuse me,' she said, 'I'm completely forgetting my manners. Would any of you care for some tea?'

The early history of the Grail is surrounded by legends, most of which were put about by the PR department of Lyonesse back in the tenth century to create artificial runs on Byzantine long-dated government stock.

When the emperors of Byzantium ran into financial difficulties, they raised money by hocking sacred relics - the Crown of Thorns, the True Cross, the shin-bone of St Athanasius, and so forth. The record of the Empire in those days is not so much history as p.a.w.nography.

The value of these relics was determined by the market, which in turn was influenced by supply and demand. So complete, however, was the Empire's collection of holy bits and bobs that it very nearly const.i.tuted a full set. There was only one worthwhile relic missing; but it was also the big one. So long as it was unaccounted for, the market could never crystallise, for fear of what might happen if it should ever reappear.

Clearly, as far as the market-makers were concerned, this was a situation that had to continue, if they were to have any hope at all of controlling the market. And in order that the Grail should stay missing, it stood to reason that they had to find it themselves, quickly. Then they could arrange for it to get permanently and definitively lost.

The result was the ma.s.sive outburst of knightly energy which swept Christendom, playing a major part in the fall of Albion. In due course, Atlantis did indeed find the Grail, and relose it so thoroughly that it has stayed lost ever since. Just in case, however, the Chief Clerk made a secret note of its whereabouts, which he then put in a safe place; to be precise, in the library of Glas...o...b..ry Abbey.

After the Dissolution of the Monasteries, however, the library was dispersed; and a certain ma.n.u.script found its way into the hands of one Gabriel Townsend, bookseller of Stratfordupon-Avon. When Townsend fell into debt and was sold up by the bailiffs, a local man called John Shakespeare was attracted by the picture of naked angels illuminated on the flyleaf and bought it. To prevent his wife finding it, he wrapped it round the pendulum of his clock.

Where, of course, it has remained to this day.

It's all right for them, Toenail muttered to himself. They can sit there stuffing themselves with Bakewell tart and digestive biscuits, because they've got no imagination. They can't see what's going to happen when we get caught.

He gritted his teeth and returned to the job in hand, which was sewing a b.u.t.ton back on Galahaut's pyjama jacket.

'Are you sure you won't have another biscuit?' the girl was saying. 'Go on, there's plenty.'

Boamund, who had eaten seven biscuits, three slices of fruit cake and a scone, all washed down with four cups of tea, shook his head politely and subconsciously longed for a nice slab of cold roast ox. Galahaut, who had a digestion like a cement mixer, helped himself to a coconut pyramid.

The girl tried to think of something to say. In her dreams, of course, it had all been much simpler; it always is. All her life she had known that one day, a handsome young knight would call in on this gloomy old castle on his way somewhere, and Father would happen to be out, and she would offer the knight tea, and they would talk . . . She had insisted on having this room converted from a subsidiary boiling-oil store into a nice little sitting room with flowery pink curtains and frilly cushions. She had spent hours - thousands of hours - baking and icing, so that when the moment came there would be plenty of fresh, home-made things to eat to go with the tea. She had thought of everything; except, of course, what she was going to say. That, she had somehow a.s.sumed, would come naturally.

'It must be wonderfully exciting,' she said, 'being on a quest.'

'Oh, it's not as wonderful as all that,' Galahaut drawled, leaning back in his chair and hoping the light through the arrow-slit would catch his profile. 'Most of it's just plain, hard slog. Hours in the saddle, out in all weathers, nights under canvas or just huddled under a blanket against the rain . . ..'

Toenail snorted, but n.o.body heard him. Had the girl chosen to ask him, he could have pointed out that the Haut Prince refused to spend the night anywhere that didn't have at least two stars and a southerly aspect, and insisted orb his own private bathroom. And the fuss he made if the bed wasn't properly aired . . .

The girl nodded eagerly. It was hard to decide which of them was the more romantic, really; the world-weary thin one with the pimple, or the strong, silent one with the pink face. On the whole, probably the pink one; but it was too early in the story to choose.

'This quest,' she said, 'I bet it's terribly dangerous.'

'Um,' said Boamund. 'Hope not.'

The girl laughed prettily. 'Oh, you're so modest,' she replied. 'I'm sure you're not the least bit scared.'

Boamund fidgeted with the tablecloth, while Galahaut broke in and said that without fear you can't have courage. That did for the conversation what a damp towel does for a burning chip-pan, and the girl offered them another cake.

'That bell's still ringing,' the girl observed. 'I wonder what on earth it can be.'

The two knights glanced at each other. 'Probably just a loose connection in the wiring,' Galahaut said. 'Always going wrong, burglar alarms. We used to have one at the Castle, but next-door's cat was always setting it off so we took it down again. n.o.body ever takes any notice of them, anyway.'

The girl looked surprised. 'Don't they?' she said.

Galahaut shook his head. 'Not usually. This is delicious angel cake, by the way. Did you make it yourself?'

Inside Boamund's heart, a great coiled spring of anger was being compressed, slowly and painfully, until he felt sure that he could stand it no longer. d.a.m.n tally, he thought. I never liked him. Why did I bring him with me? Why couldn't it have been Lamorak or Turquine or one of the others? Old Turkey would have wandered off to look for the socks by now, and I could have . . .

'Actually,' he said - it was the first thing he'd said for ages - 'I think it's time we were going. Come on, tally.'

Galahaut raised his eyebrows. 'What's the rush?' he said.

'You know perfectly well.'

'No I don't', Galahaut replied. 'You must excuse my friend,' he said to the girl. 'So impatient.'

Boamund had gone bright red. 'Thank you, Sir Galahaut,' he said, as stiff as a newly-laundered shirt. 'I don't need you to make my apologies for me.'

'Someone's got to do it,' Galahaut replied, grinning. 'Pretty nearly a full-time job it can be, sometimes.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'You understand plain Albionese, I take it.'

The girl's heart beat faster. They were going to fight! And because of her - yes, of course it was, knights only ever fight among themselves because of a lady. How marvellously, unspeakably thrilling!

Toenail edged across to the coal-scuttle, climbed in and shut the lid firmly.

'By G.o.d,' Boamund was saying, 'if there wasn't a lady present, I'd have a good mind to jolly well . . .'

'Jolly well what?'

'Jolly well ask you what you meant by that.'

'Well then, I'll save you the trouble of asking. I mean you're a liability, young Boamund. Can't take you anywhere, never could. Do excuse him,' he said to the girl. 'He always gets a bit over-excited if he eats too much chocolate. I remember once at school-'

'Sir Galahaut!'

'Sir Boamund. If only you could see how ridiculous you look.'

Boamund reached slowly into his pocket and drew out a glove. Actually, it was a woolly mitten with the fingers cut off, but it would have to do.

'My gage,' said Boamund. 'If you will do me the honour...'

'What do you want me to do with your glove, Bo? You lost the other one again, have you?'

'Sir Galahaut...'

'Always were a terror for losing gloves. At school Matron made you tie them round your neck with a bit of string.'

'Very well.' Boamund picked up the glove and slapped the Haut Prince across the cheek. 'Now, sir . . .'

'Don't do that, Bo, it tickles.'

Oh G.o.d, thought Toenail. I suppose I'd better do something, before they hammer each other into quick-fry steak. Carefully, he raised the lid of the scuttle and lifted himself out. Then he tiptoed across the room to the door, opened it, and left.

'Don't pretend you don't understand,' Boamund was saying. 'That is unworthy of you.'

'Honestly, Bo, I haven't the faintest idea what you think you're talking about. Please stop drivelling, you're upsetting the lady.'

'I . . .' Boamund was lost for words. All he could think to do was to take out the other mitten and dash it in the cur's face.

'There,' Galahaut said, 'it was in your pocket all the time.'

'That does it. I demand satisfaction.'

The Haut Prince giggled. 'You what?' he said.