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.
Arthur hurried up to his room, the incessant jangling of the old-style telephone bell getting louder and louder. The rest of his family couldn’t hear it no matter how loud it got, but that didn’t make him feel any better. He couldn’t believe the Will was already calling him. It was less than eight hours since he’d defeated Mister Monday, assumed the Mastery of the Lower House and the powers of the First Key, and then just as quickly handed them (and the Key) over to the Will. The Will in turn had promised to be a good Steward and leave him alone for at least five or six years. Not a few hours!
It was also only fifteen minutes since Arthur had released the Nightsweeper, the cure for the Sleepy Plague that otherwise might have killed thousands, if not millions, of people. He’d saved his world, but was he going to be left alone to get some richly deserved sleep?
Obviously not. Furious, Arthur raced into his room, grabbed the red velvet box the Will had given him and ripped off the lid. There was an ancient telephone inside, the kind with a separate earpiece. It wasn’t obviously connected to anything, but Arthur knew that didn’t matter. He grabbed it, unhooked the earpiece and listened.
“Arthur?”
He knew those gravelly, deep tones at once. The frog voice that the Will had kept, even when it had transformed itself into a woman. Or something that looked like a woman.
“Yes! Of course it’s Arthur. What do you want?”
“I fear that I bear bad news. In the six months since you left—”
“Six months!” Arthur was now confused as well as annoyed. “I’ve been back for less than a day! It’s only just after midnight on Tuesday morning.”
“Time runs true in the House and meanders elsewhere,” boomed the Will, its voice clear and loud, almost as if it were in the room. “As I was saying, I bear bad news. Grim Tuesday has found a loophole in the Agreement that forbids interference between the Trustees. With the aid of at least some of the Morrow Days, he has laid claim to the Lower House and the First Key, claiming them as payment for the various goods he delivered to Mister Monday over the last thousand years.”
“What?” asked Arthur. “What goods?”
“Oh, metal Commissionaires, elevator parts, teapots, printing presses, all manner of things,” replied the Will. “Normally, payment would not be required till the next millennial settlement, some three hundred years hence. But Grim Tuesday is within his rights to demand payment earlier, as Mister Monday was always behind with his debts.”
“So why not pay him?” Arthur asked. “I mean, with… with what you normally use for money. So he can’t claim anything.”
“Normally payment would be made in coin of the House, of which there are seven currencies, each of which has seven denominations. The currency of the Lower House, for example, is the gold roundel, of three hundred and sixty silver pence, the intermediate coins being—”
“I don’t need to know the types of coins!” interrupted Arthur. “Why not pay Grim Tuesday in these gold roundels or whatever?”
“We don’t have any,” replied the Will. “Or very few. The accounts are in a terrible mess, but it appears that Mister Monday never signed any of the invoices that should have billed the other parts of the House for the services supplied by the Lower House. So they haven’t paid.”
Arthur shut his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t believe he was being told about an accounting problem in the epicentre of the universe, in the House on which the entirety of creation depended for its continuing existence.
“I’ve made you my Steward,” Arthur said. “You deal with it. I just want to be left alone like you promised. For the next six years!”
“I am dealing with it,” replied the Will testily. “Appeals have been lodged, loans applied for, and so on. But I can only delay the matter and our hopes of a legal victory are slim. I called to warn you that Grim Tuesday has also obtained permission to seek repayment of the debt from you personally. And your family. Even your whole country. Maybe your entire world.”
“What!” Arthur couldn’t believe it. Why couldn’t everyone just leave him alone!
“Opinion is divided on exactly who can be claimed against, but the amount due is quite clear. With compound interest over 722 years, the sum is not insignificant. About thirteen million gold roundels, each of which is one drubuch weight of pure gold, or perhaps you would say an ounce, which is 812,500 pounds avoirdupois, or roughly 29,000 quarters, which in turn is approximately 363 tons—”
“How much would that be in pounds?” asked Arthur faintly. Nearly four hundred tons of gold!
“That is your money? I do not know. But Grim Tuesday would not accept any currency of the Secondary Realms. He will want gold, or perhaps great works of art that he can copy and sell throughout the House. Do you have any great works of art?”
“Of course I don’t!” shouted Arthur. He had felt much better earlier, and had even believed he might never have an asthma attack again. But he could feel the familiar tightening, the catch in his breath. Though it was only on one side.
Calm,
