Grim Tuesday (3 page)

There was no new news, at least none that Arthur could identify as the work of Grim Tuesday. He shut the television off and looked outside. Everything appeared normal. The only people in the street were across the road, putting a
SOLD
sign in the front yard of the house there.

Which, Arthur thought, was more than a bit weird on the morning after a citywide biohazard emergency.

Arthur looked again. There was an expensive, clean new car, the kind real estate agents always used. There were two men in dark suits, with the usual kind of
SOLD
sign. But as Arthur looked, his eyes teared up and his vision blurred. When he rubbed his eyes and looked again, the men were much shorter, wider, and misshapen than they had been. In fact, one looked like he had a hunchback as well, and both had arms that reached down almost to their knees.

Arthur kept staring. The two men looked a bit blurry, but as he focused on them, he saw their suits fade. Those clothes were an illusion—the two were actually wearing old-fashioned coats with huge cuffs, odd breeches, wooden clogs, and leather aprons.

Arthur felt a chill run through his whole body. They weren’t real estate agents. Or even human. They had to be Denizens of the House, or perhaps creatures summoned from Nothing.

Agents of Grim Tuesday.

Whatever was about to happen had already begun.

Arthur ran back up the stairs, taking three at each jump. Before he got to the top he was wheezing and clutching his side. But he didn’t stop. He grabbed
The Compleat Atlas of the House
from his room and went up again, out onto the rooftop balcony.

The two…whatever they were…had finished hammering in the
SOLD
sign and had gotten another sign out of their car and were hammering that in as well.
Arthur couldn’t quite see what it said till they stepped out of the way. When he read the bold foot-high words it took a second for them to penetrate.

DUE FOR DEMOLITION
.
THE NEW LEAFY GLADE SHOPPING MALL COMING SOON
.

A shopping mall! Across the street!

Arthur put the Atlas on his knees and looked at the two real estate agents. Still staring at them, he placed his hands on the book and willed it open. He’d needed the Key before, but the Will had assured him that at least some pages would be accessible without it.

Who are those people? Are they servants of Grim Tuesday? What does Grim Tuesday oversee in the House?
Thoughts tumbled through Arthur’s head, though he tried to concentrate on the two “real estate agents.”

He felt the book shiver under his hands, then it suddenly exploded open. Arthur almost toppled over backwards. It always shocked him, even when he was expecting it, that the book trebled in size.

It was open at a blank page, but he’d expected that too. A small spot of ink appeared, then stretched into a stroke. Some unseen hand rapidly drew a portrait of the two real estate agents. But not with the illusory dark suits. The Atlas showed them as they had appeared once Arthur rubbed his eyes, wearing large leather aprons
that stretched from the neck to the ankle. Only in the illustration they both carried large hammers and had forked beards.

After the illustration was done, the invisible pen started to write. As it had before, it started in some weird alphabet and language, but changed into English as Arthur watched, though the writing was still very old-fashioned.

Immediately following the breaking of the Will, Grim Tuesday embarked upon a course that has wrought great damage to the Far Reaches of the House that were his assigned domain. In the vast room originally known as the Grand Cavern, there was a deep spring that brought a regular and controlled effervescence of Nothing to the surface. The Grim used this elegant provision of Nothing to prepare raw materials for lesser artisans, and to make and mold a miscellany of items himself, copying artifacts created by the Architect, or the work of lesser beings in the Secondary Realms. Yet the more the Grim made such items, the more he wished to make, in order to sell what he wrought to the other Days and even ordinary Denizens of the House.

Limited by the amount of Nothing that rose to the surface of the spring, the Grim decided to sink a shaft to mine the source that supplied the spring. That single shaft has become many tunnels, deeps, and excavations, until almost all the Far Reaches become an enormous Pit, an horrific sore that threatens the very foundation of the House.

To work his ever-expanding mine, Grim Tuesday sought Denizens from the other parts of the House, taking them from the other Days in lieu of payment for the things he sold. These Denizens have become little more than slaves, indentured without hope of release.

As the number of these workers became legion, Grim Tuesday needed more officers to oversee them. Against all laws of the House, and by use of prodigious amounts of Nothing, the Grim melded his Dawn, Noon, and Dusk together and then recast them as seven individuals. In order of precedence they are Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera, Pits, Sethera, Azer.

Collectively they are known as Grim’s Grotesques, for the seven all are misshapen in different ways, since the Grim could only make poor twisted copies of the Architect’s great work.

The two Grotesques pictured are Tethera and Methera. Tethera is obsequious to all and speaks honeyed words, but his actions are spiteful and vindictive. Methera is silent and cruel, speaks only to wound, and delights in the afflictions of others.

As with all Grotesques, Tethera and Methera have greater powers than most Denizens, but are lesser beings in all ways than any of the other Days’ Dawn, Noon, and Dusk. Beware their breath and the poison spurs within their thumbs.

Despite their fearful mangling and botched remaking at Grim Tuesday’s hands, the Grotesques are slavish in their loyalty and love him as dogs love even the cruelest master, their hearts filled with an awful mixture of hate, fear, and infatuation.

Arthur looked across at the two Grotesques. They had hammered the
DUE FOR DEMOLITION
sign in and were getting another
SOLD
sign out. Arthur stared at them, a frown deepening on his forehead and tension building in every muscle.

How could they buy the houses so quickly? Are they really planning to build a mall, or are they just trying to freak me out?

The two servants of Grim Tuesday walked over to Arthur’s own front lawn. Arthur stared down at them as they started to hammer in the sign. He couldn’t believe they were doing it, but he couldn’t think of anything he could do to stop them. For a moment he considered throwing something down on their heads, but he dismissed that idea. The Grotesques were superior Denizens of the House and almost certainly couldn’t be harmed by any weapon Arthur could lay his hands on.

But he had to do something!

Arthur shut the Atlas and hurriedly stuffed the shrunken book back in his pocket. Then he took off down the stairs at top speed.

They were not going to demolish
his
home and build a shopping mall!

A
s Arthur ran down the stairs, he heard the music stop from the studio and then the front door slam. Bob must have seen the Grotesques as well. Arthur tried to shout a warning but didn’t have enough breath for more than a wheezy whisper.

“No, Dad! Don’t go outside!”

Arthur jumped the last five steps and almost fell. Recovering his balance, he raced across and flung the door open, just in time to see his father striding across the front lawn towards the two Grotesques. He looked angrier than Arthur had ever seen him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” shouted Bob.

“Dad! Get back!” cried Arthur, but his father didn’t hear him or was too angry to listen.

Tethera and Methera turned to face Bob. Their mouths opened wide, far too wide for mere speech.

“Hah!” breathed the Grotesques. Two dense streams of gray fog stormed out of their open mouths, forming a thick cloud that completely enveloped Bob. When it cleared a few seconds later, Arthur’s dad was still standing,
but he wasn’t shouting anymore. He scratched his head, then turned and wandered back past Arthur, his eyes dull and glazed.

“What did you do to him?” shouted Arthur. He wished he still had the First Key, in its sword form. He would stab both the Grotesques through without thinking about it. But he didn’t, and innate caution made him stay near the front door, in case they breathed out the fog again.

Tethera and Methera gave him the slightest of bows, not much more than a one-inch inclination.

“Greetings, Arthur, Lord Monday, Master of the Lower House,” said Tethera. His voice was surprisingly melodious and smooth. “You need not fear for your father. That was merely the Gray Breath, the fog of forgetting, and will soon pass. We do not use the Dark Breath, the death-fog…unless we must.”

“Unless we must,”
repeated Methera softly.

They both smiled as they spoke, but Arthur recognized the threat.

“Go back to the House,” he said, trying to invest as much authority in his voice as he could. It was a bit difficult because he still couldn’t draw a full breath and wheezed on the last word. “The Original Law forbids you to be here. Go back!”

Some of the power of the First Key lingered in his voice. The two Grotesques stepped back and the calm on their faces was replaced with snarls as they fought against his words.

“Go back!” repeated Arthur, raising his hands.

The Grotesques retreated again, then rallied and stopped. Clearly Arthur did not have the authority or the remnant power to force them to go, though he had unsettled them. Both wiped their suddenly sweating foreheads with dirty white handkerchiefs plucked out of the air.

“We obey Grim Tuesday,” said Tethera. “Only the Grim. He has sent us here to claim what is his. But it need not go badly for you and yours, Arthur. Just sign this paper, and we will be gone.”

“Sign and we’ll be gone,”
repeated Methera in his hoarse whisper.

Tethera reached into his jacket and pulled out a long, thin, gleaming white envelope. It drifted across to Arthur, as if carried by an invisible servant. The boy took it carefully. At the same time, Methera held out a quill pen and an ink bottle, and the Grotesques stepped forward.

Arthur stepped back, holding the envelope.

“I need to read this first.”

The Grotesques stepped forward again.

“You don’t need to bother,” wheedled Tethera. “It’s very straightforward. A simple deed handing over the Lower House and the First Key. If you sign it, Grim Tuesday will not pursue the debt against your folk. You will be able to live here, in this Secondary Realm, as happily as you did before.”

“As happily as you did before,”
echoed Methera, with a knowing smirk.

“I still need to read it,” said Arthur. He stood his ground, though the Grotesques sidled up still closer. They had a very distinct smell, a lot like fresh rain on a hot, tarred road. Not exactly unpleasant, but sharp and a little metallic.

“Best to sign,” said Tethera, his voice suddenly full of menace, though he continued to smile.

“Sign,”
hissed Methera.

“No!” shouted Arthur. He pushed Tethera with his right hand, the one that had most often held the First Key. As his palm touched the Grotesque’s chest it was outlined with electric blue light. Tethera stumbled back, grabbing at Methera to keep his balance. Both Grotesques staggered away, almost to the road. There they straightened up and tried to assume poses of dignity. Tethera reached into the front pocket of his apron and drew out
a large, egg-shaped watch that chimed as he opened the lid and inspected the face.

“You may have till noon before we commence our full repossession,” Tethera shouted. “But we shall not cease our preparations, and delay will not be to your advantage!”

They got into their car, slammed the doors, and drove off, without any engine noise whatsoever. Arthur watched as the car proceeded about twenty yards up the street, then suddenly vanished in a prismatic effect like the sudden, brief rainbow after a sun-shower.

Arthur glanced down at the gleaming white envelope. Despite its crisp look, it felt slightly slimy to his touch. How could he sign away the First Key and the Mastery of the Lower House? They had been so hard to win in the first place. But he also couldn’t let his family suffer…

His family. Arthur raced back in to check on Bob. There was no reason for Tethera to lie, but the Grotesques’ breath had looked extremely poisonous.

Bob was back in his studio. Arthur could hear him talking to someone, which was a good sign. The padded soundproof door was partly open, so Arthur poked his head around. Bob was sitting at one of his pianos, holding the phone with one hand and agitatedly tapping a
single bass note with the other. He looked fine, but as Arthur listened, he quickly realized that while the Gray Breath had worn off, the Grotesques had, as they’d threatened, continued their “preparations.”

“How can the band suddenly owe the record company twelve million dollars after twenty years?” Bob was asking the person on the phone. “They’ve always robbed us to start with. We’ve sold more than thirty million records, for heaven’s sake! It’s just not possible—”

Arthur ducked back out. The Grotesques had given him an hour and a half before
full repossession
—whatever that was. But even these beginning attacks were very bad news for the family. They’d be living on the street, forced to get handouts…

He had to stop them. If only he had more time to think…

More time to think.

That was the answer, Arthur thought. He could get more time by going into the House. He could spend a week there perhaps, and still come back to his own world only minutes after he left. He could ask the Will and Noon (who used to be Dusk) what to do. And Suzy…

His thoughts were interrupted as Michaeli came charging down the stairs, holding the printout of an
e-mail, her face stuck in a frown that had to come from more than lack of sleep.