Tom Holt
was born in London in 1961. At Oxford he studied bar billiards, ancient Greek agriculture and the care and feeding of small, temperamental Japanese motorcycle engines; interests which led him, perhaps inevitably, to qualify as a solicitor and emigrate to Somerset, where he specialised in death and taxes for seven years before going straight in 1995. Now a full-time writer, he lives in Chard, Somerset, with his wife, one daughter and the unmistakable scent of blood, wafting in on the breeze from the local meat-packing plant. For more infromation about Tom Holt visit
www.tom-holt.com

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Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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First US e-book edition: September 2012

ISBN: 978-0-316-23336-1

Also by Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller
Who's Afraid of Beowulf?
Flying Dutch
Ye Gods!
Overtime
Here Comes the Sun
Grailblazers
Faust Among Equals
Odds and Gods
Djinn Rummy
My Hero
Paint Your Dragon
Open Sesame
Wish You Were Here
Only Human
Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Valhalla
Nothing But Blue Skies
Falling Sideways
Little People
The Portable Door
In Your Dreams
Earth, Air, Fire and Custard
You Don't Have to be Evil to Work Here, But It Helps
Barking
The Better Mousetrap
May Contain Traces of Magic
Blonde Bombshell
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Sausages
Doughnut

For two disparate Jans,
Fergus and Yarnot:
Friends indeed

CHAPTER ONE

F
our men in dark grey suits and black sunglasses climbed out of a black, fat-wheeled Transit and slammed the doors. The noise woke up the proprietor, who staggered out of the little shed that served him as an office. He blinked at them.

âMr Denby?' said one of the strangers.

The proprietor shook his head. âNo,' he added, in case of doubt.

âBut this is Denby's boatyard, right?'

âYes.'

The four men exchanged glances and nodded. âYou build boats?'

âYes.'

âThat's good. We want a boat built.'

If the proprietor was surprised by that, he didn't show it. (But then again, he never showed surprise at anything. Simple demarcation. If you want emotions registered, go to an actor.) Instead, he carried on looking weather-beaten and authentic.

âYeah,' said another of the strangers. âCan you do that for us?'

The proprietor's shoulders moved about a thirty-second of an inch, which in the boatbuilders' dialect of body language means something like:
Of course I can build you a boat, you fool, assuming that I can be bothered and you don't mind waiting a year or so, and what would a load of dickheads like you be wanting with a boat, anyway?

âCool. Of course, we need it in a hurry.'

This time, the proprietor allowed his lower lip to twitch, somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousandths of an inch.

âLike, we need it in three weeks, finished and ready to roll. Can you manage that?'

âDepends.' The proprietor half-closed his eyes, as if performing miracles of mental quantity-surveying. âWhat kind of boat do you boys want?'

âAh.' For some reason, the strangers seemed uncomfortable with that question. âWe thought we'd leave that to you, really. Like, you're the expert here, you don't keep a dog and bark yourself, all that shit. A boat.'

âA boat.'

âYou got it.'

âWhat kind of boat?' the proprietor asked again.

To look at the strangers, you'd think they had something to hide. âA big boat,' one of them said. âNot that we're trying to dictate to you in any way, shape or form; I mean, if it's gotta be a certain size, that's the size it's gotta be. Hell, last thing we want to do is come in here telling you how to do your job.'

âA big boat,' the proprietor said.

âYeah.' The tallest and grey-suitedest of the strangers nodded assertively. âA big boat's just fine by us. Something in the order of - and this is just me thinking aloud, you understand, there's nothing carved in tablets of stone or anything - something round about, say, 300 cubits by fifty cubits by thirty. There or thereabouts,' he added quickly.

âCubits?'

âSure. Why not cubits?'

This time, the proprietor actually frowned; easily his most demonstrative gesture since 1958. âWhat's that in metric?' he asked.

âMetric?'

One of the other strangers nudged him in the small of the back. âHe means, like, French.'

âAh, right. OK. Trois cent cubites par cinquante par . . . '

The proprietor's eyes snapped wide open, like a searchlight switching on. âAre you boys French, then?' he asked dangerously.

âUs? Shit, no. No way. We'reâ' From the way the man's head moved a fraction to the left, you might have been forgiven for imagining he was reading notes scribbled on his shirt-cuff. âWe're English, same as you. You know: Buckingham Palace, afternoon tea, Bobby Charltonâ'

By now the proprietor was staring at them as if trying to melt holes in their faces. âWhere did you boys say you were from?' he asked.

âEngland,' the stranger repeated.

âAh. What were you saying about cubits?'

The stranger took a deep breath, as if making himself relax. âI was just thinking, three hundred's a good round number, for length. By, you know, fifty. By thirty. Give or take a cubit.'

âMphm.'

âAnd,' the stranger went on, âsomething else that's just occurred to me, like a real spur-of-the-moment thing, dunno where in hell I got this from, but don't you think it might be pretty damn' cute if you built it out of gopher wood?'

âGopher wood.'

âYeah. Gopher wood rocks, is what I say.'

The proprietor breathed in deeply through his nose. âGopher wood,' he repeated. âAnd rocks.'

âNope, just gopher wood. And while you're at it,' another stranger put in, with an air of almost reckless cheerfulness, âwouldn't it be just swell if you pitched it, inside and out. Like, with pitch?'

âHey!' His colleague's face instantly became a study in wonder. âThat's brilliant, man. Definitely, we want to go with that. Will that be OK?' he asked the proprietor. âPitch?'

âPitch.'

âAnd,' the other stranger ground on, âwhat say we have like a window, say one cubit square? And a door in the side? And - get a load of this, guys - lower, second and third storeysâ'

The proprietor let go the deep breath. âYou mean like Noah's ark,' he said.

The strangers looked at each other.

âWho?' they said, all at once.

âNoah. Like in the Bible.'

âSorry,' said the tall stranger, âwe don't know anything about any Noah. We're just, you know, sparking ideas off each other here, brainstorming . . .'

The proprietor's head moved from side to side, a whole four degrees each way. âYou want Noah's ark,' he said, âand you want it in three weeks.'

âAt the most. We're kinda on a schedule here.'

Lunatics
, the proprietor thought.
Mad as a barrelful of ferrets
. Then he looked them up and down: the suits, the Ray-Bans, the thousand-dollar shoes, the brand-new custom Transit.
Still
, he thought,
it takes all sorts
.

âAll right,' he said.

If the strangers were trying to conceal their relief, they weren't very good at it. âHey,' one of them said, âthat's great.'

âAwesome,' said another.

âBut it's going to cost you,' the proprietor said.

The tall stranger nodded. âSure,' he said. âWe guessed it would.' He nodded to one of his colleagues, who was holding a big aluminium case, the sort you transport expensive cameras in.

âDo you reckon five million dollars'd cover it?' he asked earnestly. âIn cash,' he added, âhalf now and half on delivery?'

âIn three weeks,' another of them pointed out.

It's very hard to stay looking weather-beaten, authentic and taciturn when, inside, every fibre of your being is shouting YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! But the proprietor managed to make a pretty decent job of it.

âAll right,' he said.

The dragon glowed in the silk like daybreak, wild in symmetry, exuberant in formality, a flash of two-dimensional lightning, storm and thunder frozen in amber. As they stared at it, even the schoolchildren were quiet for a while, as if they were grateful for the sheet of stout plate glass that separated them from it. Only the guide seemed not to notice that the dragon was looking straight at her, amused and affrontedâ

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