The Song of the Quarkbeast tld-2 Page 2

  ‘She is an astonishing sorceress of considerable power and commitment, so don’t be impertinent. Or at least,’ I added, ‘not within earshot.’

  ‘Speaking of live shows,’ said Tiger in a lowered voice, ‘will you go to Jimmy ‘Daredevil’ Nuttjob’s stunt show with Perkins?’

  ‘Probably not,’ I said with a sigh, ‘it’s not a good idea to date someone you work with. If he and I are meant to be, it’ll certainly wait the two years until I leave.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tiger.

  ‘Why is that good?’

  ‘Because he may give away your ticket, and I’d like to watch someone with more bravery than sense being fired from a cannon into a brick wall.’

  ‘Is there a support act?’

  ‘A brass band, cheerleaders and someone who can juggle with bobcats.’

  We turned to see a taxi approaching. It was the Amazing Dennis ‘Full’ Price, and after I had paid for the taxi, he climbed out and looked around.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, demonstrating the difference between him and Lady Mawgon almost immediately. ‘I got delayed talking to Wizard Moobin. He wants you to witness an experiment he’s got cooking.’

  ‘A dangerous one?’ I asked with some concern. Wizard Moobin had destroyed more laboratories than I’d had cold and inedible dinners.

  ‘Does he know any other?’ he replied. ‘Where’s Mawgon?’

  I nodded in the direction of the roadside snack bar.

  ‘Not with her own money, I’ll be bound,’ he said, and after giving us a wink, strode off to talk to her.

  ‘Full’ Price was another of our licensed operatives. He and his brother David – known as ‘Half’ – were famous as the most unidentical identical twins on record. David was tall and thin and lofty and prone to swaying in a high wind, while Dennis was short and squat like a giant pink pumpkin, only with arms and legs. They hailed from the ramshackle collection of warlord-controlled regions in mid-Wales that were loosely referred to as the ‘Cambrian Empire’. Details were sparse, but it seemed the Prices had refused to work with the well-named Cambrian potentate ‘Tharv the Insane’, and then made their way to the Kingdom of Hereford to escape. They joined up with the Great Zambini soon after, and had been at Kazam for over twenty years.

  As Tiger and I stood there smelling the faint aroma of frying bacon on the breeze, a Rolls-Royce whispered to a halt next to us.

  In pursuit of lost stuff

  The Rolls-Royce was one of the top-of-the-range six-wheeled Phantom Twelves. It was as big as a yacht, twice as luxurious and had paintwork so perfect it looked like a pool of black paint sitting in the air. The chauffeur opened the rear passenger door and a well-dressed girl climbed out. She was not much older than myself, but from a world far removed from the upbringing of a foundling – a world of privilege, cash and a sense of entitlement. I should have hated her, but I didn’t.

  I envied her.

  ‘Miss Strange?’ she said, striding confidently forward, hand outstretched. ‘Miss Shard is glad to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Who’s she talking about?’ asked Tiger under his breath, looking around.

  ‘Herself, I think,’ I said, smiling broadly to welcome her. ‘Good morning, Miss Shard, thank you for coming. I’m Jennifer Strange.’

  This was our client. She didn’t look old enough to have lost something badly enough to call us, but you never knew.

  ‘You must call one Ann,’ she said kindly. ‘Your recent exploits of a magical variety filled one with a sense of thrilling trepidation.’

  She was talking in Longspeak, the formal language of the upper classes, and it seemed that she was not fluent in Shortspeak, the everyday language of the Ununited Kingdoms.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It was a singular display of inspired audaciousness,’ she replied.

  ‘Is that good?’ I asked, still unsure of her meaning.

  ‘Most certainly,’ she replied. ‘We followed your adventures with great interest.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Myself and my client. A gentleman of some knowledge, position and bearing.’

  She was undoubtedly referring to someone of nobility. By long tradition royals in the Ununited Kingdoms employed others to do almost everything for them; only the very poorest did anything for themselves. It was said that when King Wozzle of Snowdonia tired of eating he employed someone to do it for him. After the inevitable weight loss and death, he was succeeded by his brother.

  ‘I can’t understand a word she’s saying,’ whispered Tiger.

  ‘Tiger,’ I said, keen to get rid of him before she took offence, ‘why not fetch Dennis and Lady Mawgon, hmm?’

  ‘Were they of a disingenuous countenance?’ Miss Shard asked, smiling politely.

  ‘Were who of what?’

  ‘The Dragons,’[7] she said, ‘were they . . . unpleasant?’

  ‘Not really,’ I replied in a guarded fashion. Almost everyone wanted to know about the Dragons, and I revealed little. They valued discretion more than anything. I said nothing more, and she got the message.

  ‘I defer to your circumspection on this issue,’ she replied, with a slight bow.

  ‘O-kay,’ I said, not really getting that either, ‘this is the team.’

  Tiger had returned with Full Price and Lady Mawgon with Perkins bringing up the rear in his ‘observing’ capacity. I introduced them all and Miss Shard said something about how it was ‘entirely convivial’ and ‘felicitous’ to meet them on ‘this auspicious occasion’, and in return they shook hands but remained wary. It pays to distance oneself from clients, especially ones who use too many long words.

  ‘What do you want us to find?’ asked Lady Mawgon, who was always keen to get straight to the point.

  ‘It’s a ring that belonged to the mother of my client,’ she said. ‘He would be here personally to present his request, but finds himself unavailable owing to a prolonged sabbatical.’

  ‘Has he seen a doctor about it?’ asked Tiger.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘His prolonged sabbatical. It sounds very painful.’

  She stared at him for a moment.

  ‘It means he’s on holiday.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I apologise for the ignorance of the staff,’ said Lady Mawgon, glaring at Tiger, ‘but Kazam sadly requires foundling labour to function. Staff can be so difficult these days, wanting frivolous little luxuries like food, shoes, wages . . . and human dignity.’

  ‘Please don’t worry,’ said Miss Shard politely, ‘foundlings can be refreshingly direct sometimes.’

  ‘About the ring?’ I asked, feeling uncomfortable with all this talk of foundlings.

  ‘Nothing remarkable,’ replied Miss Shard, ‘gold, plain, large like a thumb-ring. My client is keen to return it to his mother as a seventieth birthday gift.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ remarked Full Price. ‘Do you have anything that might have been in contact with this ring?’

  ‘Such as your client’s mother?’ said Tiger in an impish manner.

  ‘There’s this,’ replied Miss Shard, producing a ring from her pocket. ‘This was on her middle finger, and would have clicked against the lost ring. You can observe the marks, look.’

  Lady Mawgon took the ring and stared at it intently for a moment before she clenched it in her fist, murmured something and then opened her hand. The ring hovered an inch above her open palm, revolving slowly. She passed it to Full Price, who held it up to the light and then popped it in his mouth, clicked it against his fillings for a moment, then swallowed it.

  ‘Meant to do that,’ he said in the tone of someone who didn’t.

  ‘Really?’ asked Miss Shard dubiously, doubtless wondering how she was going to get it back and in what condition.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Full Price cheerfully, ‘amazing how powerful cleaning agents are these days.’

  ‘Why did you ask us to meet you here?’ asked Lady Mawgon, thankfully changing the subject.
>
  It was a good question. We were on an unremarkable lay-by and rest area on the Ross–Hereford road near a village called Harewood End.

  ‘This is where she lost it,’ replied Miss Shard, ‘she had it when she got out of a car here, and when she left she didn’t have it any more.’

  Lady Mawgon looked at me, then at our client, then at Dennis. She smelled the air, mumbled something and looked thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘It’s still around here somewhere,’ she said, ‘but this ring does not want to be found. You agree, Mr Price?’

  ‘I do,’ he said, rubbing his fingers together as he felt the texture of the air.

  ‘How can you know this?’ asked Miss Shard.

  ‘It’s been lost for thirty-two years, ten months and nine days,’ murmured Lady Mawgon thoughtfully, ‘am I correct?’

  Miss Shard stared at her for a moment. It appeared this was indeed true, and it was impressive. Mawgon had picked up the lingering memory that human emotion can instil in even the most inert of objects.

  ‘Something that wants to be lost is lost for a good reason,’ added Full Price. ‘Why doesn’t your client give his mother some chocolates instead?’

  ‘Or flowers,’ said Lady Mawgon. ‘We can’t help you. Good day.’

  She turned to move away.

  ‘We’ll pay you a thousand moolah.’[8]

  Lady Mawgon stopped. A thousand moolah was serious cash.

  ‘A thousand?’

  ‘My client is inclined towards generosity regarding his mother.’ Lady Mawgon looked at Full Price, then at me.

  ‘Five thousand,’ she said.

  ‘Five thousand?’ echoed our client. ‘To find a ring?’

  ‘A ring that doesn’t want to be found,’ replied Lady Mawgon, ‘is a ring that shouldn’t be found. The price reflects the risks.’

  Miss Shard looked at us all in turn.

  ‘I accept,’ she said at last, ‘and I will wait here for results. But no find, no fee. Not even a call-out charge.’

  ‘We usually charge for an attempt—’ I began, but Mawgon cut me short.

  ‘We’re agreed,’ she said, and made a grimace that I suspect may have been her version of a smile.

  Miss Shard shook hands with us again and climbed back into her Rolls-Royce, and a few seconds later the limousine moved off to park opposite the snack bar. Class was no barrier to the allure of a bacon sandwich.

  ‘With the greatest of respect,’ I said, turning to Lady Mawgon, ‘if it gets around that we’ve been fleecing clients, Kazam’s reputation will plummet. And what’s more, I think it’s unprofessional.’

  ‘How can civilians hate us any more?’ she asked disdainfully and with some truth, as despite our best efforts, the general public still regarded the magic trade with grave suspicion. ‘More importantly,’ added Lady Mawgon, ‘I’ve seen the accounts. How long do you think we can give our skills away for free? Besides, she’s in a Phantom Eight. Loaded with moolah.’

  ‘It’s a Phantom Twelve,’ murmured Tiger, who, being a boy, knew precisely the difference.

  ‘Shall we get a move on?’ said Full Price. ‘I’ve got to move a walrus in an hour, and if I’m late David will start without me.’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ said Lady Mawgon, dismissing Tiger and me with a sweep of her hand so she and Full could have a meeting. I leaned against the car with Tiger, took several deep breaths and watched them talk.

  ‘I lost my luggage once,’ said Tiger thoughtfully, eager to contribute something relevant to the ‘losing stuff’ conversation. ‘On an orphanage trip to the steel mills of Port Talbot.’

  ‘What was it like?’ I asked, glad of the distraction and never having been to the industrial heartland of the Ununited Kingdoms myself.

  ‘Red with castors and an internal pocket for toiletries.’

  ‘I meant Port Talbot.’

  ‘Oh. Hot and very noisy.’

  ‘The steam hammers?’

  ‘The steam hammers were fine. It’s the singing.’

  We watched as Perkins circled Mawgon and Price, attempting to hear what was going on.

  ‘Is Perkins going to get his licence, do you think?’

  ‘He’d better. We need him for the bridge job. Fumble that and we’ll all look a bit stupid.’

  ‘And on live TV, too.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  Our concerns about Perkins will become only too apparent when you consider that the person we had to get the licence from was the one person more boneheaded and corrupt than our glorious ruler King Snodd – his Useless Brother, who was the Minister for Infernal Affairs, the less-than-polite term used to describe the office that dealt with all things magical.

  ‘You swallowed it?’ we heard Lady Mawgon demand angrily. ‘Why in Snorff’s name would you do something like that?’

  She must have meant the ring, and since there wasn’t any real answer to this, Full Price just shrugged in a lame manner. I walked up, ready to mediate if required. Mawgon put out her hand.

  ‘Hand it over, Dennis.’

  Full Price looked annoyed, but knew better than to argue. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then made a series of odd facial expressions and huffy-exertion noises before rolling up his sleeve. We saw the shape of the ring beneath the skin as it moved down his forearm, and as it migrated he sweated and grunted with the effort. I had seen this done several times before, the most recent to expel a bullet lodged perilously close to a patient’s spine, the result of a shooting accident.

  ‘Ah!’ said Full Price, as the ring-shaped lump moved across the top of his hand. ‘Ow, ow, OW!’

  The ring travelled down the tighter skin of his finger, rotated around his fingertip and, after a lot of swearing, he succeeded in expelling it from under his nail-bed.

  ‘That is so gross,’ said Tiger.

  ‘I agree,’ replied Perkins, ‘but it’s sort of impossible not to look, don’t you think?’

  ‘There,’ said Full Price, wiping off the ring and handing it to Mawgon. ‘Happy now?’

  But Lady Mawgon was already thinking of other things. She took the ring, murmured something around it and handed it back to Dennis, who held it tightly in his fist.

  ‘I don’t like the feel of this,’ he said. ‘Something bad happened.’

  ‘I agree,’ replied Mawgon, taking out a small crystal bottle with a silver stopper. We had stepped back to allow them to work, and Perkins, now fully mystified by what was going on, had joined us.

  ‘They’ll try to animate the memory,’ I said.

  ‘Gold has a memory?’

  ‘Everything has a memory. Gold’s memory is quite tedious – got mined, got crushed, went to the smelters, got banged with a hammer – big yawn. No, we’re looking for a stronger memory that has been induced in the gold – the recollections of the person wearing it.’

  ‘You can transfer your memories to inanimate objects?’

  ‘Certainly. And the stronger you feel for something, the longer it will stick around. Some people think that objects like jewellery and paintings and vintage cars actually have a soul, but as far as we know they don’t – just the memories of the people who have been around them. The more something is loved, enjoyed and valued, the stronger the memory, and the more we can read into it.’

  ‘And the crystal bottle?’

  ‘Watch and learn.’

  Lady Mawgon placed a single drop on the ring that Full Price was holding, and in an instant the ring had morphed into a small dog that was sitting on the floor wagging its tail happily. It sparkled slightly, indicating that it was not real, and seemed to be made of solid gold.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Lady Mawgon, ‘find it.’

  The small memory-dog[9] gave a low bark, then scuttled off happily, sniffing the ground this way and that as it tried to remember where the ring might have gone. Lady Mawgon and Full Price followed the terrier away from the road, opened a gate to let it in and then chased the small dog across a field, much to the a
musement of several cows. Mawgon and Full Price stopped occasionally as the memory-dog paused to think for a while or scratch its ear with a hind leg, then carried on as it chased off in another direction. It would often double back on itself as it tried to catch the memory-scent, all the while with Lady Mawgon’s index finger steadily pointed at it. Once, it thought its tail was the quarry and snapped at it, then realised and moved on.

  ‘I wonder what did happen to it?’ said Tiger as we followed the sorcerers and the dog across the field, over a stile and a smaller road, then into a small wood.

  ‘Happened to what?’

  ‘My luggage,’ replied Tiger, who wasn’t yet done on his missing luggage problem. ‘Luckily, it didn’t have anything in it. I don’t have any possessions. In fact, the luggage was my only possession. It was what I was found in.’

  Owning very little or even being found in a red suitcase with castors and a separate internal pocket for toiletries was not unusual when you consider Tiger’s foundling heritage. He had been abandoned on the steps of the Sisterhood of the Blessed Lady of the Lobster, the same as me, then sold into servitude with Kazam Mystical Arts until he was eighteen. I still had two years to run before I could apply for citizenship; Tiger had six. We didn’t complain because this was how things were. There were a lot of orphans owing to the hideously wasteful and annoyingly frequent Troll Wars, and hotels, fast-food joints and laundries needed the cheap labour that foundlings could provide. Of the twenty-three kingdoms, duchies, socialist collectives, public limited companies and ramshackle potentates that made up the Ununited Kingdoms, only three of them had outlawed the trade in foundlings. Unluckily for us, the Kingdom of Snodd was not one of them.

  ‘When we have some surplus crackle we’ll retrieve your luggage,’ I said, knowing how valuable any connection to parents was to a foundling. I had been left on the front seat of the Volkswagen Beetle that I drove today, and little would part me from my car.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, demonstrating the selflessness and humility with which most foundlings comforted themselves. ‘It can wait.’