Grim Tuesday. Гарт Никс

Dame Primus. We doubt that Arthur Penhaligon has any idea about what is going on.”

      “I like not these legal niceties,” grumbled Grim Tuesday. He pulled at his chin with a metal-bound hand, almost talking to himself. “What is done once to the Lower House might be done again to me and my realm. Besides, I see the seals of only three of the Morrow Days upon this document…”

      “You need only set your own seal there and it will be four of seven. A majority, and the Lower House is yours.”

      Grim Tuesday looked up at the tall messenger. “I would naturally keep the First Key if I am successful in taking over… I mean to say, recovering what I am owed?”

      “Naturally. All that, and anything you might acquire in the Secondary Realms.”

      The hint of a smile flickered across Grim Tuesday’s face. He could inherit the First Key and everything else that was Arthur’s. “And there will be no interference?” he asked. “No matter what I do in the Secondary Realms?”

      “As far as our… office… is concerned, you have permission to go to this world, this Earth, and do what you need to recover your debt,” said the messenger. “It would be best to avoid any… shall we say… flamboyant looting or destruction, but I think you will be safe from prosecution otherwise.”

      Grim Tuesday looked down at the parchment. He was clearly tempted, his eyes shining strangely yellow, almost as if they reflected a vision of gold. Finally he pressed one gauntleted thumb against the parchment. There was a flash of harsh yellow light and a fourth seal materialised, clinking against the others, its rainbow ribbon sending a ripple of light across the parchment.

      The two messengers applauded softly, while the mass of servants momentarily stopped unloading the train, till they were beaten on again by the Overseers. Grim Tuesday tucked the parchment into his left gauntlet. The document shrank till it was no larger than a postage stamp and easily tucked in under his wrist.

      “There is one other matter we are charged to raise,” said the first messenger. He seemed suddenly more cheerful and less reserved.

      “A small matter,” said the second messenger with a smile. He had not spoken before and his unexpected speech made some of the servants jump, though his voice was mellow and smooth. “We believe your miners are currently capping a shaft that has broken through into Nothing?”

      “It is taken care of,” snapped the Grim. “Nothing will not break into my Pit or the Far Reaches! I cannot speak for the other parts of the House, but we have Nothing well in hand here. I understand Nothing as no one else does!”

      The messengers glanced at each other. The tiniest scornful glance, too fast for Grim Tuesday to catch, was hidden in the shadows cast by the brims of their shining hats.

      “Your prowess with Nothing is well known, sir,” said the first messenger. “We simply want something pushed through the sealed passage into Nothing.”

      “A little something,” said the second messenger. He pulled out a small square of cloth. It looked clean and white, but a very close observation with a magnifying glass would show several lines of writing, done in the tiniest letters of dull silver, letters no higher than a single thread.

      “It will dissolve, be destroyed,” said the Grim, puzzlement on his face. “What is the point of that?”

      “A whim of the one we serve.”

      “A notion. An experiment. A precauti—”

      “Enough! What is this cloth?”

      “It is a pocket,” said the first messenger. “Or was one once. Of a shirt.”

      “Ripped untimely from a uniform. Shorn from a school chemise—”

      “Bah! Riddles and rubbish!” exclaimed Grim Tuesday. He snatched the cloth and tucked it in his right gauntlet. “I will do as you ask, if only to hear no more of your blathering. Take your merriment back to where you belong!”

      The two messengers bowed slightly and turned on their heels. The crowd of the Grim’s servants parted before them as they strode away towards the banks of elevator doors at the rear of the station. As always, these elevators were guarded by Overseers, the most trusted of Grim Tuesday’s servants. Clad in breastplates of dull bronze over black coats of thick leather, their faces hidden by long-snouted helmets, they carried steam-guns and broad-bladed swords called falchions, and usually terrified all who beheld them. But the Overseers shuffled away from the two messengers and bowed their heads.

      Grim Tuesday watched the two Denizens enter a lift. The doors clanged shut, then a beam of bright light shot up into the air, easily visible through the smog and the decaying roof of the station, till it disappeared into the ceiling of the Far Reaches itself, more than half a mile above.

      “Do we move at once, Master?” asked a short, broad-shouldered and long-bearded Denizen whose leather apron was noticeably finer and cleaner than the other servants. He held a large leather-bound notebook ready and had a quill pen in his hand. Another squat, heavily built servant held an open bottle of ink on his palm. Their faces were almost identical, each with a flattened, broken-looking nose separating deep sunken eyes, one blue and one green. There were five more Denizens with the same basic features, though only three were in evidence at the station.

      Together they were called Grim’s Grotesques, the seven top executives of Grim Tuesday. He had made them by melding the three Denizens who had once served him as Dawn, Noon and Dusk into one that was then recast into seven.

      “I must return to the works,” said Grim Tuesday. “There is still too much Nothing leaking through Southwest Down Thirteen and only I can stem it. But someone must go and get this Arthur Penhaligon to sign over his Mastery and the First Key. Not you, Yan. I need you with me. Tan is still below. So it must be you, Tethera.”

      The servant holding the ink bottle nodded.

      “Take Methera. Two of you should be sufficient. Work within the strictures we used before on that world, in their year 1929. Do not call me unless you must, or I shall dock the cost from your pay. Send a telegram, it’s cheaper.”

      Tethera nodded again.

      “And if you see an opportunity to quietly expand my collection,” added Grim Tuesday with a slow smile, “take it.”

      “And this scrap of cloth, this pocket?” asked Yan. “Shall you do as the messengers ask? It stinks of upper-floor sorcery.”

      Grim Tuesday bit the knuckle of his gauntleted hand, then slowly nodded.

      “I will. It is no great matter. A Raising of some kind. A Cocigrue or Spirit-eater.”

      “Forbidden by law and custom,” reminded Yan.

      “Bah!” snorted Grim Tuesday. “It is not of my making, even should I care for old laws. We lose working time nattering here. Raise steam!”

      The last two words were shouted back at the train. Overseers shouted in answer, slapping servants with the flat sides of their falchions to get them to unload the last of the barrels of Nothing faster. Other servants eased themselves between the spikes on the locomotive to disconnect water pipes, while a score of the dirtiest and most malformed Denizens hurried to push the last few wheelbarrows piled with bagged coal up to the locomotive’s tender.

      Grim Tuesday walked back to the front carriage, followed by Yan. Tethera went the other way, towards the main entrance of the station. This was not only a vast door out into the workshops and industries of the remnant Far Reaches, but for those who knew the spell, it could also be transformed for a short time into the Front Door of the House, which led out to all the Secondary Realms beyond.

      Including the world of Arthur Penhaligon.