Superior Saturday. Гарт Никс

Scamandros began to shake his head and Arthur stopped himself. “Oh yeah, you can’t go on the Stair. Oh well…there was a mirror in Sir Thursday’s…in my quarters. I guess I can try that, and if it doesn’t work then we’ll have to think of somewhere else, in the Middle House or wherever, and try to take an elevator from there.”

      He took out the Fifth Key and held it up for a moment in front of his face, then dropped it to his side.

      “Uh, if I can make a door, how do I take you with me?”

      Dr Scamandros held up his hand and wiggled his fingers.

      “If you allow me to hold on to your coat-tails, I shall be carried through, Lord Arthur.”

      “Hold on then,” said Arthur. “We’ll give it a try.”

      He looked into the mirror and tried to remember what his quarters in Thursday’s Citadel had looked like. He remembered the big four-poster bed with the carved battle scenes on the posts, and then there was the wardrobe, the chair he’d been shaved in and, yes, there was a tall, bronze-framed mirror in the corner. If he thought of that mirror like a window, then looking through it he would be able to see the bed, and the door, and the painting on the wall…

      Slowly he began to see the room, though much of it was clouded and fuzzy. It took him a few seconds to work out that the bronze mirror was partially covered with a cloth. But he could see enough of the chamber, he was sure, for the Key to open a door there.

      “Fifth Key, take me…us…to my room in the Citadel of the Great Maze!”

      It was not so easy to go through the door of white light this time, nor was the transfer so immediate. Arthur felt himself held back not just by his coat-tails, but by a force that pushed against his entire body and tried to throw him back. He struggled against it, with mind and body, but it was like walking against a very powerful wind. Then all of a sudden it was gone. He fell into his room in the Citadel and Dr Scamandros fell over his legs. Both of them tumbled across the floor and Arthur hit his head against the carved battle scenes on the left-hand post of the huge bed.

      “Ow!” he exclaimed. He felt his head, but there was no blood, and after a moment the sharp pain reduced to a dull ache.

      “I do beg your pardon, Lord Arthur,” said Dr Scamandros as he got to his feet. “Most clumsy of me. That was fascinating—quite a different experience than a Transfer Plate. I am enormously grateful to you for saving me from the Deep Coal Cellar.”

      Arthur stood, using the bedpost to haul himself upright. As he did so, the sleeves of his paper coat rode up. He slid them back down and for the first time noticed that they finished well short of his wrists. His trousers were also now ridiculously short, real ankle-freezers.

      “I’d better get changed,” Arthur said. He started towards the walk-in wardrobe, hesitated, and went back to the door, throwing it open to shout, “Sentry!”

      A startled Denizen in the uniform of a Horde Troop Sergeant hurtled into the room and stood quivering at attention, his lightning tulwar crackling as he saluted with it. Arthur heard the crash of at least a dozen boots out of sight down the corridor, evidence of more troopers suddenly coming from rest to parade-ground attention.

      “Lord Arthur! Guard present, sir!”

      Arthur was already in the wardrobe, taking off his paper clothes and quickly putting on the plainest uniform he could find, which happened to be the sand-coloured tunic and matching pale yellow leather breeches of a Borderer on desert duty, though this particular tunic had gold braid stitched across the shoulders and the leather breeches had gold stripes down each leg. Both tunic and breeches were much softer and more comfortable than anything a regular Borderer would ever be lucky enough to wear. They fitted perfectly after a moment, shifting and altering themselves from Sir Thursday’s size to Arthur’s new height and musculature.

      “Thank you!” Arthur called out to the sergeant. “We’ll go down to the operations room in a minute. Is Dame Primus here? And Suzy Turquoise Blue?

      “Dame Primus is in the operations room, sir!” boomed the Troop Sergeant. He appeared to be under the impression that Arthur was either deaf or much further away than he actually was. “General Turquoise Blue is somewhere in the Citadel.”

      “General Turquoise Blue?” asked Arthur. “I didn’t make Suzy a general, did I? I remember her talking about it, but I don’t remember actually…”

      “She probably just put on the uniform,” said Dr Scamandros. “No one would question her.”

      Arthur frowned, but the frown quickly gave way to laughter.

      “That sounds like Suzy,” he said. “I bet she did it to get a better grade of tea or something. Or to annoy Dame Primus.”

      He picked up a pair of armoured sandals, looked at them for a moment, then dropped them back on the shelf and chose a pair of plain, but glossy black boots instead.

      “It’s good to have you back, sir,” said the Troop Sergeant as Arthur strode out of the wardrobe.

      “Thank you again, sergeant,” said Arthur. “Let’s get to the operations room. I need to find out exactly what’s going on.”

      There were at least twenty guards in the corridor, who formed up around Arthur as soon as he appeared. As they all marched together to the operations room, Arthur asked the guard commander to also send a messenger to find Suzy.

      The operations room had grown larger in the few days of House time that had passed since Arthur had been there last. It was still a large domed chamber, but the walls had been pushed back to make it twice the size it had been before. It was now as big as his school gym, and in addition to all the soldiers in the various uniforms of the Regiment, the Horde, the Legion, the Moderately Honourable Artillery Company and the Borderers, there were also numerous Denizens in civilian attire, many of them with their coats off and the sleeves of their white shirts covered with green ink-protectors up to the elbow.

      Besides the central map table, which was also much longer and broader than it had been, there were now rows and rows of narrow, student-style desks for the civilians, who were all busy talking on old-fashioned phones or scribbling down messages. Every few seconds one would push his or her chair back and race across the room with a message slip, going either to Marshals Dawn, Noon or Dusk, or to Dame Primus, who loomed over the map table, looking intently at various details, while many Denizens babbled out messages around her, often at the same time.