Grim Tuesday (2 page)

“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 South-West 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.

A
rthur 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 epicenter 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 gotten 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 dollars?” 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,
he told himself
. I have to stay calm.

“What can I do?” he asked, making the words come out slowly and not too loud. “Is there any way of stopping Grim Tuesday?”

“There is one way…” mused the Will. “But you have to come back to the House. Once here, you would then need to—”

A loud beep cut off the Will and a new voice spoke, accompanied by a crackling buzz.

“This is the Operator. Please insert two and six to continue your call.”

Arthur heard the Will reply, but its voice was very faint.

“I haven’t got two roundels! Put it on our bill.”

“Your credit has been revoked by order of the Court of Days. Please insert two roundels and six demicrowns. Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…”

“Arthur!” called the Will, very distantly. “Come to the House!”

“Two…one…This call is terminated. Thank you.”

Arthur kept holding the earpiece, but it was silent. Even the background buzzing had stopped. All he could hear was the rasping of his own breath, struggling to get in and out of his lungs. Or, rather, struggling inside his right lung. His left side felt fine, which was weird since that was the lung that had been punctured by the Hour Key in his life-or-death battle with Mister Monday.

Three hundred and sixty-three tons of gold.

Arthur lay down while he thought about that. How would Grim Tuesday try to get him to pay? Would he send Fetchers again, or other creatures of Nothing? If he did, would they bring a new plague?

He was so tired he couldn’t think of any answers. Only questions. They raced around and around inside his head.

I have to get up and do something,
Arthur thought.
I should look in the
Compleat Atlas of the House
or write down some kind of action plan. It’s Tuesday already, so there’s no time to waste. Grim Tuesday will only be able to do things here in my world on Tuesday, so he won’t waste any time…I mustn’t waste any time…waste any…

Arthur woke up with a start. The sun was streaming in through his window. For a moment he couldn’t work out what had happened or where he was. Then the fog of sleep began to clear. He’d flaked out completely and now it was after ten a.m.

On Tuesday morning.

Arthur jumped out of bed. After the fire and the plague of the day before, there was no chance of having to go to school. But that wasn’t what worried him. Grim Tuesday could have been doing something for hours while Arthur slept. He had to find out what was going on.

When he got downstairs, everyone else was either out or still asleep. There was the very faint echo of music from the studio, which meant his adoptive father, Bob, was playing with the door open. Arthur checked the screen on the fridge and saw that his mom was still at the hospital lab. His brother Eric was practicing basketball out in back of the house and didn’t want to be disturbed by anyone. There was no message from his sister Michaeli, so he figured she was still asleep.

Arthur turned on the television and found the news channel. It was still full of the “miraculous” escape from the Sleepy Plague, with the genetic structure of the virus sequenced overnight and so many sufferers coming out of their comas without going into the final, lethal stage.
The fire at his school got some coverage too. Apparently it had been a very strange blaze, destroying every book in the library—even melting the metal shelves with its intensity—but the building itself had been hardly damaged and the fire had spontaneously extinguished itself. About the same time Arthur had entered the House, he figured.

The quarantine was still in place around the city, but within the city people were allowed to move about during daylight hours if they had “urgent business that could not be delayed.” There were checkpoints maintained by police and Federal Biocontrol authorities, who would test anyone passing through. Arthur could still hear the constant dull chatter of quarantine helicopters flying a cordon around the city.