Armageddon Outta Here - The World of Skulduggery Pleasant (7 page)

ith the shadows wrapped around him and the sliver of light falling dramatically over his eyes, the evil sorcerer Scaramouch Van Dreg stood in the dungeon and watched his captive with predatory amusement.

The dungeon was dark and damp and dank, and the chains that bound the skeleton detective were big and thick and heavy. They shackled the bones of his wrists to the stone floor, forcing him to kneel.

Scaramouch liked that. The great detective, the living skeleton who had foiled plan after plan, scheme after scheme, was now forced to look
up
at Scaramouch. Like he had always been meant to. Like
everyone
had always been meant to.

The detective, his dark blue suit burnt and torn and muddy, hadn’t said anything for almost an hour. In fact, he hadn’t
moved
for almost an hour. Scaramouch had been standing in the shadows, gloating, for a little over fifteen minutes, but he wasn’t entirely sure that his captive had noticed.

He shifted his weight noisily, but the detective still did not acknowledge his presence.

Scaramouch frowned. There was very little point in going through all this if his efforts weren’t rewarded with due and proper attention.

He brought himself up to his full height, which wasn’t very high, and sucked in his belly, which was substantial. He gathered his cloak and stepped forward, gazing down at the top of the detective’s skull with the pitiless gaze he had practised for hours.

“Skulduggery Pleasant,” he sneered. “Finally, you are within my grasp.”

The detective shifted slightly, and muttered something.

Good God. Was he
asleep
?

Scaramouch cleared his throat and gave the detective a little kick. The detective jerked awake and looked around for a moment, then looked up with those empty eye sockets.

“Oh,” he said, like he had just met a casual acquaintance on the street, “hello.”

Unsure how to counter this unexpected approach to being a captive, Scaramouch decided to replay the sneer.

“Skulduggery Pleasant,” he repeated. “Finally, you are within my grasp.”

“It does appear so,” Pleasant agreed, nodding. “And in a dungeon, no less. How brilliantly postmodern of you.”

“You have interfered in my plans for the last time,” Scaramouch continued. “Unfortunately for you, you will not live to regret your mistake.”

Pleasant tilted his head curiously. “Scaramouch? Scaramouch Van Dreg? Is that you?”

Scaramouch smiled nastily. “Oh, yes. You have fallen into the clutches of your deadliest enemy.”

“What are
you
doing here?”

Scaramouch’s smile faltered. “What?”

“How are you mixed up in all this?”

“How am I…? What do you mean? This is
my
plot.”

“
You’re
plotting to use the Crystal of the Saints to bring the Faceless Ones back into our reality?”

Scaramouch frowned. “What? No. What do the Faceless Ones have to do with this? I don’t want the Faceless Ones back, I don’t even worship them. No, this plot is for
me
, to gain absolute power.”

“Then… you’re not in league with Rancid Fines or Christophe Nocturnal?”

“I’ve never even
met
Rancid Fines,” Scaramouch said, “and I
hate
Christophe Nocturnal.”

Pleasant absorbed this information with a nod. “In that case, I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

Scaramouch felt like he’d been punched in the gut. All the breath left him, and his shoulders slumped. “You mean, you’re not here for me?”

“Dreadfully sorry,” Pleasant said.

“But… but you arrived at the hotel. You and your partner, the girl. You were asking all those questions.”

“We were looking for Fines and Nocturnal. We didn’t even know you were in the country. To be honest, and I don’t mean to offend you or anything, but I thought you had passed away some time ago.”

Scaramouch gaped. “I just took a little break…”

Pleasant shrugged. “Well, at least now I know. So what are you up to these days?”

“I’m… I have plans,” Scaramouch said, dejected.

“The absolute power thing you mentioned?”

Scaramouch nodded.

“And how’s that going?”

“It’s going OK, I suppose. I mean, you know, everything’s on schedule and proceeding apace…”

“Well, that’s good. We all need something to get us up in the mornings, am I right? We all need goals.”

“Yeah.” An unwelcome thought seeped into Scaramouch’s mind and lingered there. He tried ignoring it but it flickered and swam, and finally he had to ask, “You don’t view me as your deadliest enemy, do you?”

Pleasant hesitated. His skull remained as impassive as ever, but this hesitation spoke volumes. “I view you as
a
deadly enemy,” he said helpfully.

“How deadly?”

“I don’t know… relatively?”

“Relatively deadly? That’s all? I thought we were arch-enemies.”

“Oh,” Pleasant said. “No, I wouldn’t call us
arch
-enemies. Nefarian Serpine was an arch-enemy. Mevolent, obviously. A few others.”

“But not us?”

“Not really…”

“Why? Is it because I’m not powerful enough?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then why? What’s so different between me and, say, Serpine?”

“Well,” said Pleasant, “Serpine had options. He was adaptable. Remember, the deadliest enemies are not necessarily the strongest, they’re the smartest.”

“So it’s because I’m not
smart
enough? But I
am
smart! I am highly intelligent!”

“OK,” Pleasant said in an understanding voice.

“Don’t patronise me!” Scaramouch snapped. “I have
you
as a prisoner, don’t I? You fell into my trap without even a hint of a suspicion!”

“It
was
a clever trap.”

“And those chains that bind your powers – you think that’s easy to do? You think
that
doesn’t require intelligence?”

“No, no,” Pleasant said, “I have to admit, you got me fair and square.”

“You’re damn right I did,” Scaramouch sneered. “And you don’t even know about my plot yet, do you? You don’t even know how intelligent
that
is.”

“Well, like I said, I’ve been busy—”

“Busy with Fines, and with Nocturnal, busy with the threat of the Faceless Ones – but you haven’t been busy with the
real
threat, have you?”

“I suppose not,” Pleasant said, and then added, “You mean you, don’t you?”

“Of course I mean me! I’ve been smart enough to fool you all into thinking I was dead. I’ve been smart enough to work under your radar, to set in motion events that will grant me absolute power, which will lead to my total dominion over this world! Now
that
, detective,
that
is smart!”

“Total dominion?”

“Oh, yes, skeleton. How does it feel to know that an opponent such as I, an adversary you would have classified as merely ‘relatively deadly’, will soon rule this planet with a will of iron, and a fist of…” He faltered. “… iron.”

“Um…”

“What?”

“I was just going to say, have you really thought this through?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re talking about ruling the world, right?”

“Yes.”

“Not bringing back old gods, not turning the world into some new version of hell, not remaking it as you see fit…”

“Well, no.”

“You’re just talking about ruling it, then?”

“Yes. With a will of iron and a fist of iron.”

“Yes. And again, I’m compelled to ask – have you really thought this through?”

Scaramouch pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He was getting a headache. He could feel it coming on. “What do you mean? What is so wrong with planning to rule the world?”

“Well, for a start, think of all the work.”

“I’ll have minions,” Scaramouch said dismissively.

“But they’ll still need orders. They’ll need you to tell them what to do. You’ll be inundated with reports, with documents, with briefings. There won’t be enough hours in the day to go over them all, let alone make any decisions.”

“Then I’ll just order that the days be longer,” Scaramouch said. “I will decree that a day stops and starts when
I
decide, not the sun or the moon.”

“And how will you cope with warring nations?”

Scaramouch laughed. “When I am ruler, there will be no wars. Everyone will do what I tell them.”

“There are billions of people in the world, all with their own viewpoints, all with their own rights. It won’t be as simple as telling them to just
stop
. What about famine?”

“What about it?”

“What will you do about it?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“If famine strikes a country, what will you do?”

Scaramouch smiled evilly. “Maybe I will do nothing. Maybe I will let the country die.”

“In which case, you will have an entire country rise against you, because they have nothing left to lose.”

“Then I will destroy them.”

“And you’ll have to deal with the neighbouring countries squabbling over the remains.”

“Then I’ll destroy them – no, I’ll order them to… they’ll do what I tell them, all right?”

“And the media?”

Scaramouch sighed. “What about them?”

“How will you cope with the media questioning your policies?”

“There will no questions. This won’t be a democracy, it will be a dictatorship.”

“There will always be dissent.”

“What did I say? I’ll have minions, I told you.
They’ll
take care of any rebels.”

“You’ll have a secret police?”

“Of course!”

“You’ll assign minions to levels of power?”

“Naturally!”

“And when these minions get ambitions of their own, and they go to overthrow you?”

“Then I’ll kill them!” Scaramouch said, exasperated. “I’ll have absolute power, remember?”

“And how do you plan to attain this absolute power?”

“It’s all in my plan!” Scaramouch yelled, pacing to the wall of the dungeon.

“What about sorcerers?”

Scaramouch tore the cloak from around his neck. It was heavy, and too warm, and when he paced it was annoying. “What about the bloody sorcerers?”

Pleasant’s chains jangled slightly as he shrugged. “You don’t really think they’ll just stand back and let this happen, do you? I realise I’ll be dead, so that’s one less you’ll have to worry about, but there are plenty more.”

“There won’t be,” Scaramouch said, stepping back into the shadows for dramatic affect. “When my plan is complete, I will be the only one capable of wielding magic.”

“So you’re going to kill them all?”

“I won’t have to. They will be left as ordinary mortals, while I will be filled with their powers.”

“Ah,” Pleasant said. “OK.”

“Now do you appreciate my vast and superior intelligence?”

Pleasant thought for a moment. “Yes,” he decided.

“Excellent. I’m sorry we can’t talk further, detective, but my Hour of Glory is at hand, and your death will be—”

“One more question.”

Scaramouch’s chin dropped to his chest. “What?” he asked bleakly.

“On the surface, this plot is fine. Drain the magic from others, and then use this magic to become all-powerful and unstoppable and take over the world. I can’t see anything wrong with that plot – in theory. But my question, Scaramouch, is how exactly are you going to achieve all this?”

Scaramouch picked his cloak off the ground, felt through it until he came to the cleverly concealed pocket. From this pocket he withdrew a small wooden box with a metal clasp.

He held the box for Pleasant to see. “Recognise this?”

Pleasant peered closer, examining the etchings in the wood. “Ohhh,” he said, impressed.

“Exactly. This container, enchanted with twenty-three spells from twenty-three mages, is one of the fabled Lost Artifacts. I have spent the last fifteen months tracking it down – and tonight, it is finally mine.”

“So it’s true, then?”

“Of course it’s true. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Pleasant’s head jerked up sharply. “You mean you haven’t checked it?”

Scaramouch suddenly felt a little foolish. “I… I don’t have to,” he said. “Everyone knows—”