Theatre of the Gods Page 7

  ‘My Queen, I am not a young hero any more. I am an old man. For the love of everything, I am more than one thousand years old!’

  ‘Silence, hero! It is decided. Now I’m thirsty!’ cried the Queen. Both her hands flew into the air and hung there for a second. ‘Thirsty!’ cried Barrio, his crooked mouth slick with spittle. Eunuchs sped into the room carrying silver trays with glasses full of coloured liquids. ‘Red!’ cried the Queen. ‘I want r-r-r-r-r-red!’ The word ‘red’ whirred off her tongue like a propeller. A eunuch held a beaker the colour of day-old blood to the Queen’s face and her awful, greenish lips closed like a sea slug around the tip of the straw. The sucking sound rang through the chamber; it sounded like strips of paper being slowly torn. And Fabrigas’s heart – that too had been torn into even pieces. He gazed down at the iron cuffs which lay nearby. He thought about his comfortable cell with all his books and his nice, comfortable bed. He looked down at the now-still pond in front of the throne. Several would-be assassins had tried to use non-slip shoes to reach the Queen. They now slept with Leonard. He thought for a second how nice and simple it would be to join the giant octopus in his calm, cool world below the surface.

  A FREE BIRD

  Word busted from the chamber with the purposeful fury of a team of elephants. In the First Chamber the dice-men turned, gaped, and were trampled. In minutes word had stormed the palace: ‘He is free! The wizard is released! He is redeemed! The Queen says there are other universes!’ and then it broke into the Empire, and it was no longer like elephants, it was like a plague-fall: invisible, invasive, leaping from skin to lip and ship to ship, the speed at which it tripped across the starry-mist was frightening. Men swooned. Women raised their fists and cheered. The Ethernet lit up, all systems overloaded, there were several major burnouts in the hubs. In days it spread across the Empire. ‘Fabrigas has been released from prison! Fabrigas will lead an expedition to the next universe! All is forgiven! He will not let us down!’

  The enemy empires picked up the news through their delicate spy networks. The Vangardiks, faced for the first time with the genuine threat of a trans-dimensional attack, upgraded their threat level to ‘Burnt umber’. Then, having flown merrily across the known universe, the word returned to the old man’s cell, slipped under the door, and found his face stricken with a breathtaking sadness. The word came back on the banner of the Gazette and Sentinel: ‘DREAM OF A QUEEN: THE WIZARD OUR SAVIOUR?’

  He heard it whispered by the guards who passed his door: the hope, the tragic optimism. ‘This will show those Vangardik beggars! This will teach them for stealing our ice girl!’ He saw it in the eyes of the girl who brought him his toast. It was the worst look she could possibly have given him: it was a look of hope.

  ‘Is sir not yet packed to leave?’ said Carrofax tenderly. ‘Her Majesty has made you a free bird.’

  ‘Yes. Free,’ said the free bird.

  The free bird left his toast and his newspaper unpecked. He left the corner of his bed, the books in piles, the papers, and went over to the small window. There were no bars on the window. Why should there be when outside is an ocean of emptiness?

  Me babe we had a sweedy love,

  Those feelings cannot change.

  (Oi!)

  So please don’t take it badly,

  ’Cause the lord knows I’m to blame.

  (Oi!)

  But, ifI stayed here with you,

  Things could never be the same.

  ’Cause I’m free upon the ocean,

  And this bird ye cannot tame.

  (Oi!)

  (This bird ye cannot tame,

  This bird ye cannot tame.)

  I’m free upon the ocean,

  And this bird ye cannot tame.

  (Oi!)

  ‘Sea Bird’ – traditional shanty

  Modern Times

  By M. F. Fabrigas, aged 6 & ¾

  In the future we will have invented many things that do not exist today. Some of these things will be time ships, time viewers (masks you can wear so you can see back in time to before you were born), portable phonographs (for travelling), sleeping tonics (that let a person sleep for only one hour and wake refreshed), and a way to communicate with creatures and other species who have different languages from ours. We will find new energy sources besides steam and oil which will mean that we can build smaller engines for travelling on land, sea and space. I would like to have a ship that can travel under the water. I think that some people have already invented this, such as armies, but they keep it a secret from us. I would like to invent a ship that was the size of a carriage so that families would be able to travel in space without having to go on big uncomfortable ships that sink. I think we could have a small ship that runs on compressed gas and that has comfortable seats and a table for cards and perhaps even a small phonograph or magic lantern for entertainments on a long voyage. In the future I think we could travel a long way by putting people to sleep for the whole voyage and then waking them when we arrive. That is all that I think about the future.

  M.F.F. (x.x.x.)

  HE WHO SAW THE DEPTHS

  ‘Keep a good ship,’ his father had always said, and by that he meant that you should run your company, and your family, as if it was a mighty ship of war. His father, the book baron, had made his fortune printing cheap copies of the great books of the universe. They kept a big house in a wealthy gated district of Carnassus, walled off from the supernumerary horrors of the city. They had a servant, and young Fabrigas a nanny, called Danni, whom he loved. He worked hard at study, helped his mother at home and became so engrossed in subjects that his father often had to come to his room and say, ‘Stop now. Sleep. Tomorrow, greatness!’ His tutor went mad when Fabrigas learned his whole year’s work in a week. He quit and went to live on a moon.

  After that came events well documented. Fabrigas solved a difficult problem posted on a public board and was given the place of junior monk at the Dark Friars’ Academy. Then he shocked the Academy by leaving to become an explorer.

  ‘Great scientists should not read; they should go, and see!’

  His master was cautiously supportive. ‘Keep a good ship,’ Provius had always said, and by that he meant that an explorer should keep his body – the vessel in which he lived and breathed – in rugged good health. Eat well, sleep well, exercise your body and your mind. ‘For what good is a sturdy ship if you yourself are sick?’ He had always been wise, much wiser than his pupil. How Fabrigas missed him. He missed him so much that some days he could hardly stand the knot of pain in his chest. He would lie, often for days, in his bed, his hand clutched to his chest, while Carrofax sat mercifully, patiently by.

  ‘Carrofax,’ he would cry, ‘I am not much longer for this stormy sea of life!’

  ‘Oh,’ his loyal servant would say, ‘if only I could tell you that was true, sir, but you are still a long way from the shore.’

  And it had always been a long and difficult journey. In the years of isolation his vessel had sagged low in stagnant waters. This universe was dark and full of death and misery. He despised this universe, and he despised himself for coming here. And now another mission full of pain and suffering! How strange, how awful. Since the death of his master, Fabrigas had made nine attempts on his own life. He had failed nine times. Ten, if you count today’s attempt to have the Queen execute him. Even in self-murder he was a failure. It was always when Carrofax was away on important business. As his despair had deepened his efforts had become more concerted, more elaborate, but every time he tried something would go wrong: a rope would break, a gun would jam, the toxin from the thorn of the lover’s rose would leave him sick for days, but not end him, the poisonous bats would for some reason refuse to bite his neck. Soon all dangerous objects had been removed from his cell. ‘Prince Albert, now, he had the right idea. Steer your ship into the sun! Feel the terrible burning fury of this great universe and know that you are nothing! That is the way to go.’

  ‘But, master,’ his ser
vant had said, ‘why is it that you want to vanish?’

  ‘Because I think this might be hell, and no man wants to live there.’

  ‘Oh, master, if only I could make you see the truth.’

  In some strange way, Fabrigas did see the truth. He saw how these failed attempts to assassinate himself bore out his theory of a great Infiniverse. There are infinite universes, some in which he was, some in which he wasn’t. But of course he could never be in a universe in which he was dead. Certainly, in other universes the gun might work, the spinning blade might do its job, the thorns of the roses he clutched to his breast would prick his flesh and the lovely poison would take him off to eternity. But in this universe, the one he inhabited, he would always remain alive, he would always be in hell.

  TITANROD

  ‘A dream! A dream! What is this dream, sisters?’ The Man in the Shadows was a terrifying young individual. He’d inherited his mother’s fortune while still a teenager and used it to build an empire of frightening influence. He had the ears of kings, the hearts of princesses, and the balls of anyone who’d crossed him. He had called the Queen’s three sisters to his super-yacht, Titanrod, as soon as he’d heard about the Queen’s nocturnal epiphany. ‘The Queen doesn’t dream, she doesn’t dare. She cowers like a naughty fool in the dark and waits for daylight. So tell me how your idiot sister suddenly had a dream which puts Plan UWX at risk.’

  They were at moor at a private marina near the palace under the pretext of a pleasure cruise around the Asphodel Meadows. Things were tense. The Queen’s three sisters occupied the sofa opposite in frozen magnificence. From behind an almond-shaped glass lounge table on which stood an abstract ceramic sculpture, they peered at this brooding boy as he sat in his velvet bucket chair and tossed a lava ball from hand to hand.

  ‘We confess, young sir, we did not know about the dream,’ said sister one, in a voice like a barber’s blade slicing through a sheet of fine paper. ‘It is news to us.’

  ‘I had everything in place, sisters. The old wizard was virtually at the executioner’s table. Our assassins close in on our master’s enemy, the Vengeance. Her death could have been pinned on the Queen. She would have been hauled from the throne like a dog, and you would finally have been in power. Now it’s all in jeopardy because your sister had a bloody dream!’ He flung his lava ball at the phonograph machine which had been playing a lively modern tune on drum and vibes. The song died under a pile of glass and coloured goo; the plush den was cast into a jagged silence. ‘Who put her up to this? I want to know.’

  Each sister kept her gruesome smile, her corpsy repose.

  ‘We do not know, sir,’ said sister two, in a voice like a sock full of nettles. ‘She has no friends in court. We killed them all. There are only ghosts beside her bed, and her fool, Barrio.’

  ‘Perhaps Dark Hand have infiltrated the palace.’

  ‘Nonsense, sisters. They could never get close enough to have the Queen’s ear.’

  ‘Perhaps she simply had a dream, sir.’

  ‘She didn’t have a dream!’ The Man in the Shadows kicked out, shattering an omni-breasted porcelain nude worth almost as much as the golden ship it rode in. ‘This was a political masterstroke. Her mission is all the people are talking about now. They have hope in their eyes. With a single move she’s saved her head, saved her wizard, and stalled UWX by months or years. Imagine what will happen if her hero succeeds!’ The Man in the Shadows feigned to laugh, then shook the incredulous smile from his face. He smoothed his trousers, calmed slightly. ‘Let me explain, one more time, how the game is supposed to play out. Our master – all love and fear him – has asked us to kill a small girl – his arch-enemy’s daughter – and an elderly wizard before the two can meet. In return, he will give us great power. With his help we can finally smash down the Wall, re-form the Old Empire and conquer the centre. There will once more be a single Empire at the centre of the sphere. The battle for the centre of the sphere is the game. Win the centre, win the game. It’s the only battle. If people travel beyond the boundaries of the universe there is no centre, there is no battle. Plan UWX becomes pointless. It’s like playing cards with someone who can wish themself a better hand.’

  ‘But the wizard is a fool, sir. Our intelligence says his trans-dimensional engine probably doesn’t even work.’

  ‘Probably isn’t good enough. We must be certain. Our master looks down upon everything, he sees all: past, present, future. The old wizard is pretending to be a god. That is why he has to burn. Our master wills it. As separate agents the Vengeance and the wizard are problematic; but if they join together they become a nightmare for our plans, and his.’

  ‘Perhaps this is a secret blessing, young sir,’ said sister number three, with a voice like a sack of rats with crêpe paper wrapped round their tails.

  ‘A blessing.’ He made to pretend-laugh again, this time transforming it into an open-mouthed frowning toss of the head.

  ‘Yes, a blessing. Our idiot sister’s plan is only a good one if the wizard makes it to the next universe. If he fails it will be a swifter end for her. She is desperate. And if Skycore is right and fate really does want to bring the wizard and the Vengeance together – why, so be it. With the right trap set all our problems could end together. In fire and blood. Then the battle is won in a stroke.’

  There was a beat in which the Man in the Shadows’ fists unclenched.

  ‘This is not the worst plan, sisters. I could arrange a surprise for the wizard at the crossing. If the Vengeance is there, even better. But first I must consult my oracle about these developments.’

  ‘You’ll go to Skycore now, with all that is happening?’

  ‘Pffft. Skycore. That useless ball of string. Give it to the kittens, sisters. I have a much more powerful oracle now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where is this oracle?’

  ‘We must see it.’

  ‘You will never see it, sisters. It is very well disguised: in that it is not disguised, and is in the first place you would think to look. Look at your faces. Priceless.’

  ‘Do not mock us, sir.’

  ‘But there is one other serious matter, sisters.’

  ‘We sense it.’

  ‘A file has gone astray from one of the communication hubs in the Sentinel complex.’

  ‘Not possible.’

  ‘More than possible.’

  ‘What information has this file?’

  ‘It was a dark communiqué containing details of our Master Plan for UWX.’

  ‘This is terrible news. You understate it. It is beyond serious.’

  ‘It is, true, but it is easily manageable. The file is encrypted, protected, and it has to make it all the way to our enemies if it’s to be useful. And that is a very, very long way. I am about to send my best agents to destroy the file. I need not tell you what the consequences are if our master learns a file has leaked.’

  ‘You do not.’

  ‘With his guidance these hubs will soon be outmoded. I’ll make preparations for the wizard’s destruction before I leave for the oracle. In the meantime, make sure Misfortune’s Queen has no more dreams.’

  M8B

  Fame. Everyone dreams of fame. You long to live for ever, to gain the power of flight. But fame is fickle. One minute you’re a young man alone in the universe; the next you’re travelling beyond the stars and making grand discoveries; the next you’re being ridiculed for proposing that it might be possible to travel beyond the boundaries of time and causality and exist in other dimensions; the next you’re being defrocked and imprisoned for cosmic heresy; the next you’re being exonerated and exalted as a saviour of your kind, saved from your execution and sent, ironically, on a mission of certain death – all because some queen had a dream that a starfish spoke to her. It’s typical, really.

  It was madness at the docks. It was the day before the voyage and the people of Carnassus came up: the young, the old, the strong, the sick, the rusty, many of the very ones who had
tried to murder the old man just a few weeks earlier. They came up, slick, from out of the slum depths and rammed the docks to breaking point. They crowded the way to the necromancer’s hut.

  It is customary (and by customary I of course mean compulsory), in many human empires, to consult astrologers before long expeditions. Without an astrological consultation none of the great insurance houses would insure a voyage. The Empire employed a gaunt and cave-eyed legion of necromancers, shadowmancers, gastromancers, augurers and other charlatans to pull apart the entrails of fish, or to poke at tea leaves, and to tell the pilot or explorer whether the expedition would be successful. Fabrigas knew them. If Fabrigas had two hopes when he arrived in this strange (yet almost identical) universe, the first was to find his master alive, the second was to discover that every single one of these prognosticating charlatans had died of stupidity-related illnesses. In his early days, in his own universe, he had been forced to visit hundreds of these fools, and doing so had only confirmed his suspicions that they didn’t have the faintest idea what they were talking about.

  ‘Did the man who tore the entrails out of a helpless bird to tell me that my trip to Arcadius would see me “return with more discoveries than the Emperor could dream of” think to tell me that the only discovery I would make was that fire-breathing sand lizards don’t like it when you watch them mating?’

  ‘I cannot answer that at this time,’ said the Magic Eighth.

  The Magic Eighth was by far the most ridiculous prognosticator the old man had ever been forced to visit. He was a huge man with a wobbly, oily belly which flowed across his belt. He was a spheromancer. Spirits, he claimed, inhabited his belly and would speak through a small sphere he held. He would sit in a kind of trance, tongue lolling out, and he would shake his ‘Magic Eighth Ball’ vigorously, so that his fat belly wobbled, and then he would answer in a strangled voice.