Grim Tuesday. Гарт Никс

much left of the Reaches, since the digging had eaten away much of Grim Tuesday’s original domain within the House.

      Very few ordinary Denizens ever rode the train. Most had to walk, a journey of at least four months, following the service road next to the railway. The train was only for the Grim himself and his favoured servants. Its locomotive and carriages were razor-spiked all over to prevent hitchhikers, and the conductors used steam-guns on anyone who tried to get on. Even an almost immortal Denizen of the House would think twice about risking a blast of superheated steam. Recovery would take a long time and be extraordinarily painful.

      Flying would be far faster than the train, but Grim Tuesday never wore wings himself and had forbidden them to everyone else. Wings attracted Nothing from all over the Pit. Sometimes they caused flying Nithlings to form. Other times, the flapping set off storms of Nothing that the Grim himself had to quell.

      The train whistled seven times as it came to a screeching stop alongside the platform. Up Station had been built by Grim Tuesday himself, copied from a very grand station on some world in the Secondary Realms. It had once been a beautiful building of vaulting arches and pale stonework. But the coal smoke from the train and the Grim’s many forges and factories had stained the stones black. The pollution from Nothing had also eaten into every wall and arch, riddling the stone with tiny holes, like a worm-eaten wooden ship. The station only stayed up because Grim Tuesday constantly repaired it with the power of his Key.

      Grim Tuesday held the Second Key to the Kingdom, the Key that he should have handed to a Rightful Heir ten thousand years ago but instead chose to keep, in defiance of the Will left by the Architect who had created the House and the Secondary Realms.

      Grim Tuesday rarely thought about the Will. It had been broken into seven fragments and those fragments had been hidden away across the vastness of space and the depths of time. He had hidden a fragment himself, the Second Clause of the Will, and had once been sure that no one else would ever reach it.

      But now he had learned that the first part of the Will had escaped. It had found itself a Rightful Heir, and that heir had unbelievably managed to vanquish Mister Monday and assume his powers.

      That meant Grim Tuesday would be next. As he stepped off the train, he scowled at the open letter he held in his gauntleted hand. The messengers who had brought this unwelcome message to the Far Reaches were waiting now, expecting a reply.

      Grim Tuesday read over part of the letter again. The heir was a boy named Arthur Penhaligon, a boy from the world that was one of the most interesting of those in the Secondary Realms. A place called Earth, which had given birth to many of the artists and creators whose work Grim Tuesday copied. Humans, they called themselves. They were the most gifted result of all the Architect’s aeons-old seedlings, the only creatures anywhere, in the House or out of it, who rivaled Her in their creativity.

      The Grim scowled again and crushed the letter. He did not like to be reminded that he could only copy things. Given a good look at anything original, he could make a copy from Nothing. He could even combine existing things in interesting ways. But he could not create anything entirely new himself.

      “Lord Tuesday.”

      The greeting came from the taller of two messengers. Denizens of the House, but not like the ones in the Far Reaches. They stood head and shoulders above the soot-stained, Nothing-pocked servants of Grim Tuesday who flocked to the train to unload the great bronze-bound barrels of Nothing brought up from below. These barrels of Nothing would be used to make raw materials like bronze, steel and silver, which would in turn be transformed into finished goods in Grim Tuesday’s factories and foundries. Some of the Nothing would be used directly by the Grim to magically fashion the exquisite items he sold to the rest of the House.

      The Grim’s servants usually wore rags and badly mended leather aprons, and were hunched and slow and beaten-looking. The messengers could not look more different, standing arrogantly in their shining black frock coats over snowy-white shirts, their neckties a sombre red, a little lighter than their silken waistcoats. Their top hats were sleek and glossy, reflecting and intensifying the pallid light from the gaslights that lined the platform, so it was hard to see their faces.

      Grim Tuesday snorted. He was pleased to see that he was still taller than the messengers, though they were at least seven feet tall. His servants were generally twisted and foreshortened by their exposure to Nothing, but Grim Tuesday was not. He was thin in the fashion of someone who can easily run all day or swim a mighty river. He scorned fancy clothes, preferring leather trousers and a simple leather jerkin that showed the corded muscles in his arms. His hands were hidden, encased in gold-banded gloves of flexible silver metal. Grim Tuesday always wore these gloves, whether he was working or not.

      “I have read the letter,” grumbled Grim Tuesday. “It matters not to me who rules the Lower House, or any other, for that matter. The Far Reaches are mine and so they shall remain.”

      “The Will—”

      “I’ve taken care of my part, and far better than that sloth Monday,” interrupted Grim Tuesday. “I have no fears on that score.”

      “The writer of the letter does not think so.”

      “No?” The Grim frowned again, and the scars where his eyebrows once were met above his nose. “What do you know that I do not?”

      “We know of a way that you can strike at the Lower House and this… Arthur Penhaligon… a loophole in the Agreement.”

      “Our Agreement?” growled Tuesday. “I trust you are not suggesting anything that would let Wednesday or that fool Friday encroach upon my preserves?”

      “No, no. It is a loophole only you can exploit. The Agreement forbids interference between the Trustees and their properties. But what if you had a lawful claim to the Lower House and the First Key? Then it would be your property, not another’s.”

      Grim Tuesday understood what the messenger was saying. If he could find a way to say this Arthur owed him something, then he could take the First Key as the payment. There was only one problem, which the Grim told the messenger – he had no claim against Arthur.

      “The former Mister Monday owed you for more than a gross of metal Commissionaires, did he not?” the messenger asked in reply.

      “Aye, and many other things, both exquisites and ordinaries,” answered Grim Tuesday. His face twisted in anger as he added, “None of it paid for, in coin of the House or in Denizens to work my Pit.”

      “You know that not having been paid your just debts, you may lay claim to the holdings of the debtor. If you had already served a distraint upon the former Mister Monday, and the Court of Days had decreed that the Mastery and the Key be given up to you, then—”

      The messenger’s point was clear to Grim Tuesday. If he had asked for payment from Mister Monday before Arthur took over, then Arthur would have inherited Mister Monday’s debt.

      “But I did not serve a distraint,” Grim Tuesday pointed out. “And the Court could not in good faith…”

      The taller Denizen smiled and drew a long roll of parchment from inside his waistcoat. It grew even longer as it came out, till he unrolled a scroll the size of a small carpet. It was covered with glowing gold writing and several large round seals of gold hung from the bottom, attached with rainbow wax that changed colour every few seconds.

      “Fortunately the Court was able to hold a special sitting that was deemed to have taken place an instant before Mister Monday was deposed, and I am pleased to say that you have won your case, Grim Tuesday. You may pursue your debt in the Lower House against Monday’s successors, and special leave has been granted for you to pursue that debt in the Secondary Realms as well.”

      “They will appeal,” grunted Tuesday, but he reached out and took the parchment.

      “They have,” said the messenger. He drew a cheroot from a silver case and lit it with a long blue flame that came out of his forefinger. He took a deep draw and blew out a long thread