Grailblazers (7 page)

Sir Turquine glowered at him helplessly and turned the parchment round, so that the seal hung from the bottom. Boamund sniffed; Turquine could remember that damned supercilious sniff as though it were yesterday. He glanced down at the writing.

‘Although,' Boamund went on, ‘as I seem to remember, Sir Turquine was never exactly adept at reading. One seems to recall that when the rest of the class were halfway through the Roman de la Rose, Sir Turquine was still sitting at the back of the room saying “Pierre has a cat. The cat is fat. The fat cat sits on the—”'

‘All right,' shouted Sir Turquine, ‘commission or no commission, I'm going to kill him.'

Sir Bedevere hastily placed a hand on Turquine's chest while Boamund said ‘mat', very deliberately, sat down and ate an olive. Turquine gave a last infuriated snarl, threw the commission on the ground and jumped on it. Since it was, of course, enchanted parchment, all that happened was that his shoelaces broke.

Boamund smiled, that same smug, teeth-grindingly infuriating smile he'd had when he was Helm Monitor back in the sixth form, and made a little gesture with his left hand. Turquine, bright red in the face, snorted like a horse, knelt down, and extended his hands, their palms pressed together. Boamund, looking down his nose like an archbishop, stepped forward and pressed his palms to the backs of Turquine's hands, as lightly as possible; thus signifying that he had accepted Turquine's fealty. It didn't help to soothe Turquine's feelings to find that he'd knelt in one of his own pizzas.

‘Arise, Sir Turquine, good and faithful knight,' said Boamund, obviously enjoying every moment of it. Turquine gave him a look you could have roasted a chicken on, made an obscure noise in the back of his throat, stood up and made a great show of brushing mozzarella off his right knee. Boamund turned to Sir Bedevere and made the same gesture.

Sir Bedevere hesitated, muttered, ‘Oh, all right then,' and performed the same simple ceremony.

‘And now, Sir Turquine,' said Boamund, ‘you will kindly oblige me by retrieving my dwarf from wherever it was you put him.'

‘I might have guessed it was your dwarf,' Turquine grumbled as he plodded to the kitchen. ‘Funny the way that even when we were at school, some of us always seemed to have dwarves when the rest of us had to polish their own armour. 'Course, that came of some of us having great soft-hearted sissy mothers who wouldn't have their dear little boys hurting their hands with nasty rough...'

The kitchen door slammed behind him, and Boamund sighed. ‘He always was inclined to whine a bit,' he observed, and Bedevere, never a man given to nostalgia, found himself harking back to the happy days of boyhood, when he'd gladly have given a whole week's pocket money for the chance of doing something unpleasant to young Snotty.

And then it occurred to him that, although young Snotty was exactly the sort of pompous little swot that Authority invariably made a prefect, nevertheless there was a sort of malign justice that had always ended up by landing him in the smelly, right up to the vambrace, even when (as was generally the case) it wasn't actually his fault.

Bedevere, having checked that Boamund wasn't looking, smirked. The way he saw it, the mills of the Gods may grind slow, but they don't half make a mess of you when the time comes.

 

Dwarfish society is well ordered and stable to the point of inflexibility, and the average dwarf generally knows his place to within 0.06 of a micron. As a result, sudden promotion is something that dwarves are ill-equipped to deal with.

Toenail was no exception. From being a lowly hermit's gopher, he had, at a stroke, risen to being Chief Factotum to a whole order of chivalry. The only other dwarf in the oral tradition of the race who'd ever achieved that distinction was Lord Whitlow King of Arms, who superintended the household of King Lot of Orkney in King Uther's time. It was an honour.

On the other hand, Toenail couldn't help feeling, Lord Whitlow probably had a few lesser dwarves to help him out, or at the very least a vacuum cleaner. And he couldn't be positive about this, because oral tradition can be a right little tease when it comes to matters of detail, but he had a feeling that Lord Whitlow probably got paid.

Boamund was all right, of course, as knights go - and Toenail was rapidly becoming an authority on knights. Not only had the new Grand Master paid him back for the petrol and the damage to the rear mudguard of the bike as soon as Toenail had found him the old teapot which served the Order as its exchequer, but he'd expressly forbidden Sir Turquine and Sir Pertelope (who was nearly as bad) to put him in the dustbin without authority, on pain of dishonour. Toenail wasn't sure what dishonour now meant in the context of the Order, but he guessed it was something to do with not being allowed to use the van at weekends. Given the trades which Turquine and Pertelope now followed, this was clearly a sanction of the utmost weight.

Of course, it was now Toenail's job to clean out the van every morning (which meant scrubbing caked-on tomato puree off the back seat and occasionally unloading cartons of Hungarian training shoes which Lamorak had bought cheap and somehow forgotten to disembark himself), but that in itself was an honour, if one translated it into the terms of the Old Days. You'd had to be a pretty high-ranking dwarf to be Chief Groom and Lord High Equerry.

On balance, the first fortnight of the new state of affairs had gone off all right, so far as Toenail could judge. There had been a few tricky moments; Turquine, Lamorak and Galahaut the Haut Prince had mutinied and tried to ambush Boamund on his way back from the newsagent's, with a view to loading him with chains and casting him in the toolshed, but Bedevere (rather, Toenail had felt, against his better judgement) had betrayed the conspiracy, with the result that Boamund had foiled the plot by getting the number 6 bus instead of the number 15a. He had given them all a very stern talking-to in the Common Room after tea, following which Turquine had stalked out of the room and been very ostentatiously sick in the kitchen sink. Apart from that, however, a routine was developing. Basically, it consisted of the other five going out to work as usual, while Boamund sat in the Common Room with his feet up on the sofa and watched the snooker on the television. Boamund had taken to snooker very quickly, Toenail had noticed, and was talking freely of having a table installed in the garage, which would mean Lamorak finding a home for seven hundred pairs of flood-damaged Far Eastern jeans, fifty one-handed alarm clocks and all the rest of his stock-in-trade.

Toenail sighed and dipped his cloth in the metal polish. So far, Boamund's main effort in the direction of starting the quest up again had been ordering him to get all the armour and weapons from the cellar and polished up to tiltyard standard. That seemed to suit the other five, who he knew had no intention of giving up their settled if unprofitable lives just to go looking for that damned Grail thing; but Toenail, with a degree of perception that is not uncommon among dwarves, had a shrewd suspicion that things might change once the Embassy World Snooker Championship was over. Call it, Toenail said to himself, astrology.

He breathed a fine mist on to the surface of a shining gauntlet, polished it off on his trouser-leg, and added it to the pile. There was enough armour there to equip an army, and he hadn't even started on the horse-furniture yet. Mind you, he couldn't really see how there was going to be much call for that. A couple of sheets of corrugated iron welded on to the sides of the van was probably all that would be needed.

From the direction of the Common Room he could hear raised voices, and his genes told him that the Lords were holding a High Council.

Racial memory is very powerful among dwarves. Putting down his cloth, he tiptoed to the linen basket, raised the lid and jumped in.

 

‘No,' said Turquine.

Boamund glowered at him and struck the table with his mace of office. Lamorak, who had forty-two others just like it in the lock-up, sighed. As he'd suspected at the time, they weren't solid teak at all.

‘This,' Boamund said grimly, ‘is mutiny.'

Turquine grinned. ‘Well done, young Snotty,' he said. ‘You're learning.'

‘Mutiny,' Boamund went on, ‘and treason. Unless Sir Turquine immediately repents of his words, I shall have no alternative but to declare him dishonoured.'

‘You try it,' Turquine replied, ‘and see how far it'll get you. Because,' he added, with the confidence of strength, ‘I don't need that clapped-out old scrapheap of a van any more. Look at this!' And, with a magnificent gesture, he threw a set of keys on the table. ‘They're so pleased with me,' he said, ‘they've let me drive the company van. And,' he added conclusively, ‘it's a Renault. So you can take your honour and you can ...'

Boamund's expression did not change. He simply leant forward, took the keys from the table, and put them in his pocket.

Turquine nearly fell over.

‘Here,' he said, ‘you can't do that, it's not my—'

‘Agreed,' replied Boamund. ‘It has now become the property of the Order. And you, Sir Turquine, are dishonoured. Now, then...'

There was uproar for a moment, what with Sir Turquine trying to explain that it didn't work like that, and Sir Lamorak and Sir Pertelope both simultaneously asking if they could have it for the weekend. Boamund silenced them all with a blow from the mace, the top of which came off and rolled under the sofa.

‘Since Sir Turquine is no longer entitled to speak,' Boamund said, ‘is there anyone else who wishes to express an opinion?'

There was a long silence, and then Galahaut the Haut Prince got up, rather sheepishly, and looked around.

‘Look, Bo,' he said, ‘you know, in principle I'm with you all the way about finding the Grail. One hundred per cent. I think finding the Grail is right for us, so let's do it, yes, fine. Only,' and he drew a deep breath, ‘timing-wise, perhaps we could, you know, readjust our schedules a bit, because my agent says there's this bit in a dog-food commercial coming up ...'

Boamund's face became ominous, but Galahaut seemed not to have noticed. ‘It's a real opportunity for me,' he went on, ‘to get myself established in dog-food work generally. They say they want me for the tall, good-looking man of mature years in a chunky Arran sweater who says that top breeders recommend it. Play your cards right, they said, this could be a second Captain Birds Eye.'

‘No,' said Boamund. ‘We leave in a week.'

Galahaut looked round the room reproachfully; but everyone happened to be looking the other way, apart from Turquine, who was sulking. ‘Come on, Bo,' he said, ‘this could be the break I've been waiting for. One really good commercial, it's better than a West End hit these days. Look at the Oxo woman,' he added.

‘Who's Oxo?' Boamund asked.

The flame in Galahaut's eyes kindled for a moment, and then died away, to be replaced by an unmistakable flicker of guile. ‘All right, then,' he said meekly, ‘you're the boss. You can count on me.'

Very true, Boamund thought; I could count up to two on your faces alone, you devious little toad. I know what you're thinking, and we'll see about that. ‘Anyone else?' he said.

Lamorak was getting to his feet, and Boamund narrowed his eyes. He'd been practising it in front of the mirror for days.

‘And before Sir Lamorak addresses us,' he said, ‘I should like to make it plain that I don't think we're going to find the Grail down the Portobello Road. So Sir Lamorak can jolly well unload all those boxes and things he put into the van when he thought my back was turned.'

Lamorak groaned. ‘Oh, come on,' he said. ‘It's got to be worth a try, Bo. You go to a street market these days, there's all sorts of old junk...'

‘The Grail,' Boamund replied icily, ‘is not old junk. It's—'

‘Yes,' said Pertelope suddenly. ‘What is it exactly? I'm sure we'd all be fascinated to hear.'

‘Ah yes,' said Boamund, drawing the tip of his tongue around lips suddenly dry as sandpaper, ‘I was hoping someone would ask me that.' He paused; and as he did so, a tiny snowflake of inspiration drifted into his mind.

He could lie.

‘The Holy Grail,' he said, smoothly and confidently, ‘is the cup, or rather chalice, from which Our Lord drank at the Last Supper. No doubt you remember the relevant passage in scripture, Pertelope? Or did you spend that lesson drawing little dragons in the margins of your breviary?'

The Grail Knights were sitting with their mouths open, staring at him. It was easy, this lying business. Gosh, yes ...

‘Anyway,' Boamund went on, ‘the Grail is a fluted, double-handed cup wrought of the purest gold. Its body is inlaid with the richest gems, amethyst and chrysophrase, diamonds and rubies, and across the rim is engraved in letters that shine like fire ... er ...'

Five stunned faces watched him move his lips desperately, as he ransacked his brain for something appropriate. He closed his eyes, and the words came. In fact, they came so easily that you could almost believe ...

‘In letters,' he repeated briskly, ‘that shine like fire:

... if memory serves me correctly,' he added smugly. ‘Any questions?'

There was a long, long silence. Finally, Pertelope stood up again. He was trying to look sceptical but his heart wasn't in it, you could tell.

‘What was that again?' he asked.

Boamund repeated the text of the inscription. It sounded better and better. Maybe this was a what-you-call-it, miracle.

‘Why's it in French?' Pertelope demanded. Something wobbled inside Boamund's stomach. He was about to say ‘Er' when Pertelope continued.