The Outsorcerer's Apprentice (31 page)

“
Y
ou know what,” Turquine said suddenly. “I think I know where we are.”

Buttercup put her back to the tunnel wall and slid down it until she was sitting on the floor. “You said that an hour ago,” she said.

“Yes. But—”

“And fifteen minutes before that. And half an hour before
that
.”

“Yes,” Turquine said. “But I was wrong then and I’m right now. I know this place. I recognise the smell. It’s the back end of the dragonmeat plant.”

Buttercup had taken off her left shoe and was gazing sadly at her heel. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “That’s miles away, on the other side of the—”

“Yes,” Turquine said. “And we’ve been walking for hours. If you walk for hours, you end up miles away. Well-known fact.”

Buttercup tried to put the shoe back on, but her foot seemed to have grown two sizes. “Well?” she said, turning her head to scowl at Benny. “Is that right? Is this the meat-packing place?”

“I don’t know,” Benny replied. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Oh come on, you’re the wizard’s nephew. You must know these tunnels like the back of your hand.”

Benny shook his head. “I keep telling you,” he said. “I only found out the wizard was my uncle a few hours ago. Before that, I’d always believed he was something boring in shipping.”

Turquine raised an eyebrow. “You thought your uncle was a teredo beetle?”

Buttercup sighed. “Please,” she said to Benny, “don’t try and be smart. When you do, it provokes him and he makes jokes, and I’m not sure I can stand it much longer. Do you know where we are or don’t you?”

“Not a clue,” Benny said. “Sorry.”

“He may not know,” Turquine said cheerfully, “but I do. We’re out the back of the dragonmeat plant. I’d know that smell anywhere.”

Buttercup clicked her tongue. “It’d help if it wasn’t so dark and we could see.”

“I’ve got a candle, remember,” Turquine said.

“Yes, and nothing to light it with.”

“I’ve got a tinderbox,” Benny said, “if that’s any help.”

“Not that knowing where we are helps very much,” Turquine added. “Because, if I’m right, the dragonmeat plant is on the other side of that wall, and there may be a door or there may not, and anyway, I’m not entirely sure I know what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“Running away,” Buttercup snapped.

“Oh. I thought we were bearding the wizard in his lair or something.”

“Running away,” Buttercup amended, “with a hostage. Then, when we’re a long way away and hiding safely somewhere, we open negotiations. Stop all the weirdness or your nephew gets it.”

“Gets what?” Benny asked. Then he said, “Oh.”

“She’s bluffing,” Turquine explained. “We aren’t really going to hurt you.” He paused and frowned. “Are we?”

Buttercup gave him an oh-for-crying-out-loud look, the full effect of which was dissipated by the darkness. “We negotiate,” she repeated. “That way, nobody gets killed or turned into woodlice, and things can start to get back to normal around here.” She sighed again, and propped her head in her hands, her elbows on her knees. “Assuming we can ever get out of here.”

“Did you say you’ve got a tinderbox?” Turquine said.

“What? Oh, yes, right here.” Benny fumbled in his pocket and handed it over. “I assume it works, I’ve never tried it. I’m not very good with them, to be honest.”

“Nice bit of gear,” Turquine said, turning it sideways to admire the mechanism. “Where’d you get it?”

“I think someone in a village somewhere makes them.”

“We could shift as many of these as we can get our hands on,” Turquine said. “If the price is right, of course.”

“Turquine,” Buttercup said. “Light the candle.”

There was a soft gruntling noise as Turquine worked the little crank. “Just one thing,” Benny said.

Buttercup scowled at him. “What?”

“Well,” Benny said, “just now, when you said about things getting back to normal, if you can make the wizard stop what he’s doing. I’m very sorry, but I don’t think it works like that.”

Buttercup laughed. “Says you.”

“No, really.” And Benny told her what his uncle had told him, about the irreversible nature of the move away from subsistence agriculture to a market economy. “So you see,” he said, “it’s not just a case of, get rid of the wizard and everything’s going to be just fine. It’s too late for that now. Sure, it can be made better. But it can’t be put back how it was. It wasn’t so bad when you didn’t know something was
wrong, you were being ripped off and exploited but you thought it was just a wizard, and wizards are
normal
. But when I came here, I did something to the way Uncle’s magic works.”

Buttercup gave him a look he could’ve shaved with. “You did something.”

“Yes, me. Actually, I reckon it was something to do with base theory. You see, where I come from, there’s two very wise men called Sonderberg and Chen, and they’ve got this hypoth—” He caught sight of the expression on her face, and the didactic urge melted away like ice on a hot stove. “I started something,” he said, “something bad, just by coming here, and then the people here began
thinking
. Well, you two did, anyway. But pretty soon everybody’ll start figuring it out, how it’s all impossible, how it can’t really work, and then eventually they’ll understand, and after that everything’s going to get really nasty. And that’s not Uncle Gordon’s fault,” Benny concluded sadly. “It’s mine.”

Buttercup was silent for a long time. Then she said, “You’re his nephew. Of course you’d say that.”

Benny shook his head. “Before you two came in, I was yelling at him,” he said. “I was really, really angry with him. I still am, I guess. I’m definitely not on his side.”

“Odd,” Turquine said. “I seem to remember something about faces getting smashed in. Oh, and this box of yours is no good. Moss is damp, probably.”

“He’s still my uncle,” Benny said. “And all the family I’ve got. And he’s looked after me since my mum died, and everything. But, no, I don’t like what he’s done, not one bit.”

“Try turning the moss over,” Buttercup said, “that sometimes works. Well, anyway, looks like we all agree about not liking what the wizard’s been doing. So, you won’t mind helping us stop him, then?”

Benny shrugged. “I think you’re going about it the wrong way.”

“I see. And the right way would be?”

“Sorry,” Benny said, “no idea. When my Uncle Gordon wants to do something, he gets on and does it. I don’t think anyone’s been able to stop him, ever.”

“You were right,” Turquine said, with admiration in his voice. “It’s going nicely, I must remember that one.” He lowered his head to breathe on the glowing moss. “Right, let’s get a candle lit and then we can see what we’re—”

“Listen,” Buttercup hissed. “Someone’s coming.”

Turquine snapped the tinderbox lid shut. “Keep still,” he said quietly. “Maybe if we’re lucky, we can jump them before they see us.”

By now Benny could make out the crunch of heavy boots, reverberating down the tunnel like an oncoming train. It occurred to him that they must be his uncle’s men, and probably they’d been sent to rescue him. Define
rescue
, he thought; one of those tricky, chameleon-like words that changes its meaning depending on which angle you’re looking from. Do I want to be rescued? he asked himself.
We aren’t really going to hurt you
, from the man with the sword, followed by
are we?
The alternative would be to go back to Uncle Gordon and get doughnutted back to Orpington and his revision notes. A few hours ago, he’d accepted that, and Buttercup and Turquine hadn’t advanced any reasoned arguments to make him change his mind. On the other hand—

That bloody unicorn, he thought. That bloody unicorn, whose predictions have so far all come true. And some drivel about fires and rings of power. It’s a terribly depressing thing, to realise that you don’t have free will after all, and your destiny is being directed by badly written Robert Jordan.

The boots were getting close, and Turquine was winding
himself up to do something energetic.
One word from me
, he thought, and in thinking it realised it wasn’t going to happen.

The boots stopped. It was too dark to see more than outlines, but the sound Benny heard was unmistakable (though he’d never heard it in real life, only on TV) and distinctly out of place. Oh, he thought. Then he stood up and called out, “Over here, don’t shoot.”

“Bastard,” Turquine observed, a foot to his left, just as a tiny dot of red light appeared in the exact centre of his forehead. Turquine couldn’t see it, of course, and how do you explain laser sights to a knight in shining armour? Answer: you don’t bother trying. Instead, Benny hissed, “Keep very still. Their weapons are magical. You don’t stand a chance.”

Turquine froze instantly. Buttercup thought about it, then saw the little red dot. It wilted her, like frost in June. “Magic?” she said.

“Afraid so, yes.”

“Oh, nuts.” She stood up slowly. “I’ll get you for this,” she said. “Trust me.”

“I’m sorry,” Benny said. “But they’d have killed you.”

A soldier stepped forward into what little light there was, and Benny only just managed to keep himself from whimpering out loud. It wasn’t his modern, state-of-the-art assault rifle, though that was disconcerting enough, given where it was pointed. It was the soldier himself.

“Bloody hell,” Buttercup murmured, staring. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

The skeleton in combat fatigues didn’t answer. Instead, he made a self-explanatory gesture with his rifle;
you’re coming with us, no funny business
. “Dragons’ teeth,” Turquine said bitterly, slowly placing the sword on the ground and raising his hands. “Never occurred to me your disgusting uncle had
figured out how to do
that
. And to think,” he added. “I never charged him extra for a single tooth.”

The soldier beckoned with his rifle and Turquine stepped forward. As he did so, a candle dropped from under his shirt, rolled across the floor and came to rest against the soldier’s boot. Benny looked at it and thought: that’s an odd-looking candle. Then a light came on in his mind and he knew what to do.

“Excuse me, officer,” he said politely, taking a long stride forward. “I’m the wizard’s nephew, Florizel. I assume you’re here to rescue me?”

The soldier nodded, then (something of an afterthought) transferred his gun to his left hand and saluted.

“Jolly good,” Benny said. “And about time too. Still, better late than never. Right, let’s get moving, shall we? My uncle doesn’t like being kept waiting. Oh, and would you mind lighting that candle? It’s too dark to see where you’re going, and I keep bashing my shins.”

The soldier barked an order in what was presumably animated-skeleton language; another soldier stepped smartly forward, retrieved the candle and froze; nothing to light it with, does not compute.

“That’s all right,” Benny said. “Sir Turquine’s got a tinderbox.”

Turquine gave him a paint-stripper scowl and dropped the tinderbox in the soldier’s fleshless hand. Trundle-trundle went the little crank. There was a faint flare as the moss caught, another as the soldier applied the glowing embers to the candle wick. Then Benny sprang. More by luck than judgement, he’d got it just about right. One outstretched arm knocked Turquine off his feet, the other one shoved Buttercup sideways, making her overbalance and fall. Benny hit the ground halfway between them, a split second before the tunnel filled with noise and orange light.

It was like having your face licked by a big friendly dog who just happens to be composed entirely of fire. When it was over, and Benny had come to the conclusion, improbable as it seemed, that he was still alive and mostly functional, he sat up and looked around.

What a big difference a few seconds and a firework display can make. For a start, there were no more walking skeletons; a few bones here and there, an empty helmet or two, a couple of thoroughly decommissioned rifles. Terribly sad, of course, but there you go. Buttercup and Turquine were lying face down; no, amend that, they were starting to move, excellent. Finally, where the wall had been there was now a hole, leading into a brightly lit space beyond.

“I’m guessing,” Turquine said, “that those aren’t your ordinary candles.”

“Magic,” Benny explained.

With all the spontaneity and vigour of a tooth leaving a gum, Turquine got up, then helped Buttercup to her feet. “Just to clarify,” Turquine said. “You blew the dragons’ teeth up.”

“Well, yes.”

“Ah.” Turquine nodded slowly. “Thereby saving the both of us at great risk to yourself.”

“At great risk to all three of us, but, yes, I suppose so.”

“Mphm.” Turquine gave him a long look. “Well,” he said, peering sideways through the hole, “it’s the thought that counts, I guess. Ah, told you so. The dragonmeat plant.”

“What happened?” Buttercup said. “Did something just—?”

“He’ll explain it all later,” Turquine said.

“He’d bloody better.”

“He will,” Benny promised. “Right now, though, maybe we should make a move.” He stepped towards the hole in the wall, then stopped. “Those candles,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to have any more of them?”