“Something’s wrong,” I said. “Excalibur is warning me.”
Sir Gareth drew his sword. The Gallery was quiet and empty. And while we were both standing and looking, the portrait behind me, that I hadn’t even looked at, came alive; and Jerusalem Stark reached out of his portrait, grabbed Excalibur and its sheath, invisible as they were, and hauled them right off my back. It was all over in a moment. Before I could even cry out, Stark had retreated back into his portrait with his prize, and was gone. And the portrait was only a photo again.
I swayed sickly on my feet. It felt as though part of my soul had been ripped away. Sir Gareth grabbed me by the shoulder to steady me.
“He’s got it, hasn’t he? He’s got Excalibur!”
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t know if he can hold on to it, but he’s got it.”
Sir Gareth pushed me away. “Only John bloody Taylor could gain and lose Excalibur in the same day!”
“Don’t count me out yet,” I said, matching his glare with one of my own. “I can get it back. I have a special gift for finding things, no matter where they are.”
I raised my gift, forcing my inner eye open as wide as it would go. It didn’t take me long to find Excalibur.
“Of course,” I said. “It’s back in the Nightside. Only place he could hope to hide it. I’ll have to go back and get it.”
“I’ll go with you,” Sir Gareth said immediately.
“No,” I said, just as quickly. “I already have a partner in the Nightside. And ... you’re a London Knight. You don’t belong there. You wouldn’t know how to act, in the Nightside.”
FIVE
Sinister Doings in the Nightside
I left London Proper for the Nightside with a certain sense of relief and emerged from the Underground station into a refreshing dazzle of neon noir, amber street-lights under an endless night sky, and a bustling sea of Humanity driven along by unhealthy appetites and bad intentions. It felt good to be back, to leave the London Knights behind me, with their strict morality and uncomplicated sense of good and evil. And it felt even better to dive back into the usual crowd of gods and monsters, saints and sinners, and all the lost and battered souls who couldn’t hope to survive anywhere else. I was home again, back where I belonged. And the moment I stepped out of the station, there was Suzie Shooter, waiting patiently for me. I went straight to her, and we hugged each other tightly for a long moment. Then Suzie pushed me away, so she could look me over thoroughly.
“No visible wounds. Blood on your coat, but it doesn’t seem to be yours. Kill anyone interesting?”
“No-one you’d know,” I said. “I would have brought you back a present, but the knights didn’t have anything you’d want.”
“The London Knights,” said Suzie, sniffing loudly. “Bunch of stiffs. Do they really wear chastity belts under their armour?”
“I’m relieved to say I never got the chance to find out,” I said. “Suzie ... Tell me you haven’t been waiting here for me all this time?”
She gave her usual sharp bark of laughter. “You wish. I’m your partner, not your nanny. I dropped into the Mammon Emporium and put a little pressure on an oracle in a well to tell me exactly when you’d be back. It didn’t really want to talk to me, but I persuaded it.”
“Tell me you didn’t drop a grenade in.”
“Of course not. That would have attracted attention. I pissed in it.”
I sighed, quietly. “You’re a class act, Suzie.”
She slipped an arm through mine, and we headed off down the street. I was pleased to note that everyone was getting out of my way again. It’s the little things you miss the most.
“Did you visit your old haunts in London Proper?” said Suzie, after a while.
“Yes,” I said. “A lot had changed, but not enough. Never go back.”
“I could have told you that. In fact, I’m pretty sure I did. How did you get on with the London Knights?”
“Hard to tell,” I said. “I think I was doing quite well ... right up to the point where I lost Excalibur.”
Suzie gave me a hard look. “How can anyone lose Excalibur?”
“It wasn’t easy! And I didn’t exactly lose it. More ... had it stolen while I was distracted.”
“Ah,” said Suzie. “That’s more like it. You always were easily distracted. Do you know where the sword is now?”
“Not yet. But I will. I need the right setting, and preparations, before I fire up my gift.”
“And then we’ll go get it,” Suzie said comfortably. “Will I by any chance get to kill a whole bunch of people?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said.
We strolled along, under the night sky that never ends, contemplating justice and violence. Wild things rode the night skies, starlight gleaming on their outstretched wings, while dangerous traffic thundered unceasingly up and down; and something foul and fierce went somersaulting over the vehicles, howling and cackling and spitting sparks in all directions. It was good to be back.
“So,” I said, “have you finished dealing with all the suddenly deceased persons who were cluttering up our property when I left?”
“All gone,” she said cheerfully.
“I won’t ask.”
“Best not to. But we’re going to have some really big flowers in the garden this time next year.”
“You hate flowers,” I said, amused.
“All right then, I’ll plant some fruit trees. I’ve always wanted to make my own jam.”
“You are an endless source of surprises to me,” I said solemnly. “Now, let us away to Strangefellows. I need to pick up something I left there with Alex, sometime back. Something I’d really hoped I’d never need to see again.”
And so Suzie and I came to Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world, and still our favourite watering hole. Quite possibly the sleaziest and most disreputable drinking den in the whole of the Nightside, Strangefellows has the saving grace that no-one there will ever give a damn who or what you were. And most of my enemies are too scared to go in. The perfect place to drink and brood and plan revenges against a manifestly unfair and uncaring world. When Suzie and I clattered down the long, metal stairs into the great stone pit that was the bar proper, the background music was already playing Rick Wakeman’s King Arthur album. Just the bar owner’s little way of letting me know he knew what was going on. Alex Morrisey knows everything, except for when he doesn’t; and then he fakes it so convincingly that the world often changes to accommodate him. Because his gossip is always more entertaining than mere facts could ever be.
It was a pretty usual night, for Strangefellows. An unfrocked hair-stylist with a piercing through her left eye-ball was busy shaving complicated patterns into the thick body fur of a teenage werewolf. The things people will put themselves through to appear fashionable. Over in the large open fireplace, a pleasant fire was burning in a miniature Wicker Man, while a group of young business men in smart City suits, each with one eye missing, toasted bread against the flames before dipping it into a vat of steaming goat’s-cheese fondue. Alex must be trying to drive the bar up-market again. He’d have better luck with a chair and a whip. Two Japanese teenage girl vampires were draining the blood out of a resigned-looking goat through two straws, racing each other to the middle. And a quartet of fuzzy post-nuclear mutants were showing each other strange alien porn on the televisions they had implanted in their stomachs.
At the bar, the owner, bartender, and tall dark pain in the neck, Alex Morrisey, greeted Suzie and me with a sullen nod. Alex was born under a cloud, which surprised the midwife. He was the world’s first clinically depressed toddler, and has only got worse down the years. He only ever wears black, including shades and a beret, mixes the worst martinis in the world, doesn’t wash the glasses nearly often enough, and could gloom for the Olympics. Always check your change with Alex, and never ever try the bar snacks. You never know who they might have been. He glared at his pet vulture, Agatha, still perched menacingly on his old-fashioned till and still extremely pregnant. Alex put out a hand to pet her. The vulture fixed him with a malignant look, and Alex pulled his hand back.