Wren had worked out that Pennyroyal must be at least sixty-five, so she was expecting someone quite frail. But Pennyroyal had aged well. He had lost some weight and most of his hair, but otherwise he looked not much different from the photographs Wren had seen of him, taken during his brief, unhappy stint as Anchorage’s Honorary Chief Navigator. A bevy of attractive slave girls trod water around his floating bed, clutching fresh drinks, a bookmark, trays of cakes and sweets, and other items such as a busy mayor might need. A boy of Wren’s age, long and black as an evening shadow, stood on the poolside, waving an ostrich-feather fan.
“I see that Green Storm prisoner I sold you has settled in well,” said Shkin.
’Ah? Oh!” Pennyroyal opened his eyes and sat up. “Ah! Afternoon, Shkin.” He twisted round on his air bed to peer at the youth. “Yes, Mrs. Pennyroyal is delighted with him. Makes a very handy fan bearer. Lovely wafting action. And he goes so well with the dining room wallpaper.” He looked at Shkin again, and Wren had the impression that he wasn’t particularly pleased to see the slave trader. “Anyway, Nabisco, old chap, to what do I owe the um, ah…”
Shkin bowed faintly. “This girl was taken from one of the limpets we fished up last week. I thought you might wish to purchase her for the Pavilion.” He gestured toward Wren, and his assistants moved her closer to the poolside so that the mayor might have a better view of her.
Pennyroyal peered at her. “Lost Girl, eh? She scrubs up well, I must say. But I thought we agreed we don’t want any of her crowd hanging about in Brighton. Weren’t you planning to sell them all to Nuevo-Maya?”
“Afraid one of them might know a few awkward facts about your past, Pennyroyal?” said Shkin.
“Eh? What are you suggesting?”
“This girl,” Shkin announced, “has lately arrived from the Dead Continent. From a city long thought lost, but actually thriving in that blasted land. A city of which I believe Your Worship has fond memories.”
Reaching behind him, Shkin took something from one of his lackeys and lobbed it across the pool so that it landed on Pennyroyal’s air bed. The Tin Book. Pennyroyal picked it up and studied the cover with a puzzled frown, then turned it over and looked at the paper label on the back.
“Great Gods]” he gasped, spilling his drink into the pool. “Anchorage!”
“This girl,” Shkin said, “is none other than the daughter of your old traveling companion Hester Shaw.”
“Oh, cripes!” yelped Pennyroyal, and with a sudden, spasmodic lurch capsized his air bed.
“I was concerned to discover that there are certain discrepancies between the story she tells and the version of events in Your Worship’s interpolitan bestseller Predator’s Gold” explained Nabisco Shkin, looking not the least bit concerned as he stood there on the poolside, leaning on his black steel cane, watching Pennyroyal splash and flounder. “So I decided it might be best if I gave Your Worship the opportunity to purchase her before her account can become publicly known and… confuse Your Worship’s many readers. Naturally she is priced at a premium. Shall we say a thousand gold pieces?”
“Never!” spluttered Pennyroyal, standing up in the shallow end with all the dignity an elderly gentleman in a gold lame swimming costume can muster. “You’re nothing but a gangster, Shkin! I will not be intimidated by your puerile attempt to ah, er… It’s not true, is it? It can’t be true! Hester Shaw had no daughter—and anyway, ah, Anchorage sank, didn’t it; went down with all hands…”
“Ask her,” said Shkin brightly, pointing the tip of his cane at Wren. “Ask Miss Natsworthy here.”
Pennyroyal gawked at Wren, his eyes so full of fear that for a moment Wren felt almost sorry for him. “Well, girl?” he asked. “What do you say? Do you really claim to be from Anchorage?”
Wren took a deep breath and clenched her fists. Now that she was facing this legendary traitor and villain, she felt less certain than ever that her plan would work.
“No,” she said.
Shkin turned to stare at her.
“Of course it’s not true,” said Wren, managing a tight little laugh. “Anchorage went down in Arctic waters years and years ago. Everyone who has read your magnificent book knows that, Professor Pennyroyal. I’m just a poor Lost Girl from Grimsby.”
Wren had turned her story this way and that in her mind on the way from the Pepperpot, and could not see how it could be disproved. Of course, if anyone asked the other Lost Boys, they would all say that Wren was not one of their tribe, and Fishcake knew who she really was—but why would Pennyroyal believe their word over Wren’s? She could say that Shkin had bribed them to back him up.
“I’ve never been to Anchorage,” she said firmly.
Shkin’s nostrils flared. “Very well then; the book, the Tin Book, stamped with the seal of Anchorage’s rulers—how do you explain that?”
Wren had already worked out an answer to that. “I brought it with me from Grimsby,” she said. “It is a present for Your Worship. The Lost Boys stole it years and years ago, like we’ve stolen all sorts of things from all sorts of cities. Anchorage is a wreck, sunk at the bottom of the sea. Nobody lives there.”
“But she told me herself she was Hester Shaw’s daughter!” said Shkin. “Why would she lie?”
“Because of your wonderful books, Your Worship,” explained Wren, and gazed at the mayor as adoringly as she could. “I have read them all. Whenever my limpet attached itself to a new city, I would always burgle the bookshops first in the hope that there would be a new Nimrod Pennyroyal. I told Mr. Shkin I was from Anchorage just so that he would bring me to meet you.”
Pennyroyal looked hopeful. He so wanted to believe her. “But your name,” he said. “Natsworthy…”
“Oh, it’s not my real name,” Wren said brightly. “I looked up Hester Shaw in Uncle’s records, and it said she used to travel with someone called that.”
“Oh, really?” Pennyroyal tried to hide his relief. “Never heard of him.”
Wren smiled, pleased at how easy it was to lie and how good she was turning out to be at it. Her story didn’t make a lot of sense, but when you tell someone something that they want to hear, they tend to believe you; WOPCART had taught her that.
She said, “I was planning to keep up the pretense, Professor, in the hope that you would take me into your household. Even if I were only the lowliest of your slaves, at least I would be close to the author of Predator’s Gold and… and all those other books.” She lowered her eyes demurely. “But as soon as I saw you, sir, I realized that you would never be taken in by my lies, and so I resolved to tell you the truth.”
“Very commendable,” said Pennyroyal. “Quite right, too. I saw through it in an instant, you know. Although oddly enough, you do bear a slight resemblance to poor Hester. That’s why I was startled when you first appeared. That young woman was very, very dear to me, and it is the deepest regret of my life that I didn’t manage to save her.”
Ooh, you rotten liar! thought Wren, but all she said was, “I expect I must go now, sir. I expect Mr. Shkin will wish to make what profit of me he can. But I go happily, for at least I have spoken with the finest author of the age.”
“Absolutely not!” Pennyroyal heaved himself out of the pool and stood dripping, waving away the girls who came hurrying round him with towels, clothes, and a portable changing tent. “I will not hear of it, Shkin! This delightful, intelligent young person has shown pluck, initiative, and sound literary judgment. I forbid you to sell her off as a common slave.”