"What did you do, Larry?" I said. "What did you do to earn your wand?"
"I brought Queen Mab up out of Hell."
"What?" I said. "How? And more importantly, why? Mab is one of the great old monsters! Everyone knows that!"
"I didn't know what I was getting into! I thought it was just another job. I wasn't a private eye back then. Just a treasure-hunter, trying to make a name for myself. And I always was a fool for a pretty face."
FOUR
Larry Oblivion, Treasure-Seeker I never told anyone this story, said Larry Oblivion. Whom could I tell? Who would believe me, and believe that it wasn't my fault?
Only those who have been damned to Hell while still alive can be brought back up out of Hell, and restored to the lands of the living. To do this, you need a hellgate, a go-between, and one poor damned fool to play the patsy.
I was a lot younger then. Thought I knew everything. Determined not to follow in the footsteps of my famous father. I wanted a bigger adventure, something more glamorous. I wanted to be the Nightside's Indiana Jones, digging up forgotten treasures from their ancient hiding places and selling them for more money than I could spend in one lifetime. I spent a lot of time in the Nightside's Libraries, digging patiently through discarded stacks and private collections, sifting through diaries and almanacs and very private histories. Looking for clues to point me in the right direction and set me on the trail of significant valuable items that had slipped through history's fingers. There have always been treasure-hunters in the Nightside, but I flattered myself that no-one had ever taken such a methodical approach before. Sometimes all you have to do is look carefully.
I'd just turned twenty, and I'd already had a few triumphs. Tracked down some important items. One of the original seven veils, from when Salome danced before her father for the head of John the Baptist. A set of dentures made up of teeth taken from the skull of the Marquis de Sade. And one of Mr. Stab's knives. Nothing big, but enough to start a reputation, put some decent money in my pockets.
I needed to find something special, something important, something to make people sit up and take notice. The Holy Grail, or Excalibur, or Merlin Satanspawn's missing heart. Think big, and you'll make it big. I had a lot of sayings like that, in those days.
I was drinking a nice chilled merlot in the Bar Humbug that night. A small and very exclusive place, for ambitious young people on the way up. A civilised watering hole for every bright young thing prepared to do absolutely anything to get to the top. Kind of place where you swap business cards instead of names, smile like a shark, and preen like a peacock; and slip the knife in so subtly that your mark won't even notice till you're gone. The Bar Humbug was comfortable rather than trendy, with richly polished oak-panelled walls, padded booths to drink in, and only the most pleasant music in the background. Refreshingly normal and refined, for the Nightside. An oasis of calm and serenity, and never very full, because people don't come to the Nightside for calm and serenity.
Place was run by a sweet-natured old lady in tweeds, pearls, and pince-nez. Grey-haired, motherly, mind like a steel trap when it came to money. Miss Eliza Fritton; always pleasant, always obliging, and not one penny on credit, ever. Only used the shotgun behind the bar when she absolutely had to. She used to run a private girls' school, back in the day. Until the pupils burned it down and sacrificed half the staff in a giant wicker man. Such high-spirited gels, Miss Fritton would say, wistfully, after her second port and lemon.
I was talking with the Beachcomber that night, a dry old stick with a military manner who turned up surprising amounts of treasure by spending all his time in the little curiosity shops and junk emporiums that are always springing up like mushrooms in the Nightside. They handle all the lesser flotsam and jetsam that washes up here through Timeslips, or in the pockets of tourists and remittance men from other dimensions and realities. Most of it worthless, of course, but the Beachcomber could find a king penguin in the desert. And teach it to talk before he sold it. He'd had a good week, so I let him buy me drinks and listened patiently while he boasted of his triumphs in a dry, understated way.
"A Shakespeare first folio, of Love's Labour Redeemed. A betamax video of Orson Welles's Heart of Darkness. An old 45 by the Quarrymen, though played half to death, I regret to say. I do so love alternative histories. Though I believe I could have lived quite happily without seeing the nude spread featuring a young Hugh Hefner, from a 1950s copy of Playgirl, Oh, and a rather interesting ash-tray, made out of a werewolf's paw. Nice little piece, with the disconcerting habit of turning back into a human hand every full Moon. Rather upsetting, I suppose, if you happened to be stubbing out a cigarette in it at the time."
I was waiting for him to run out of breath, so I could slip in a few exaggerated claims of my own, when I happened to glance over his shoulder as a very pretty girl walked in. Young and fresh and bubbling over with high spirits, she marched into the bar as though at the head of her very own parade. She wore a tight T-shirt and tighter jeans, with cowboy boots and all kinds of bangles and beads. Skin so clear it almost glowed, huge dark eyes, a scarlet mouth, and close-cropped platinum blonde hair. Without even trying, she took my breath away. Now, pretty girls have always been ten a penny in the Nightside, but she… was different.
Conversations died away on all sides as she stopped in the middle of the bar and looked around. All the young dudes perked up, ready to catch her eye, only to be utterly dismissed as her gaze settled on me. She trotted happily forward to join me, and the Beachcomber allowed himself a small, disappointed sigh. He moved away gracefully, to find someone else he could button-hole. I was clearly spoken for. The girl swayed to a halt before me, smiling brightly. Up close, I could see that her T-shirt bore the legend If You Have to Ask, You Can't Afford It. And that she wasn't wearing a bra under it. I smiled easily back at her, as though this sort of thing happened to me every day, and gestured for her to park her cute little bottom on the abandoned bar-stool beside me. She dropped onto it with a happy squeak and fixed me with her huge eyes.
"Don't get comfortable here, dear; you're not staying," said Miss Fritton, in a cold tone I couldn't remember her using before. "We don't serve your kind. Oh yes, I can see right through you; don't think I can't."
The girl pouted prettily and batted her heavy eye-lashes at me. "I can stay, can't I, sweetie?"
"Of course," I said.
Miss Fritton sniffed loudly. "None so blind," she said. "It'll all end in tears, but no-one ever listens to me." She gave the girl a stern look. "No trouble on the premises, young lady, or I'll set the dogs on you."
She moved off to the other end of the bar. I was a little put-out. I'd never known Miss Fritton to turn anyone away while they still had some of her money in their pockets.
"Does she actually have dogs?" said the girl.
"Only metaphorically," I said.
"Hi!" the girl said brightly to me, dismissing Miss Fritton with a careless shrug. "You're Larry Oblivion, I'm Polly Perkins, and you're very pleased to see me! Because I am about to make you rich beyond your wildest dreams."
"Ah," I said. "It's a business deal, is it?"
My disappointment must have showed in my face because she giggled delightfully and squeezed my left thigh with a surprisingly powerful grip.
"Business first, pleasure later. That's how the world works, sweetie."
"Exactly how are you going to make me rich?" I said, trying hard to sound tough and experienced.
"You're a treasure-hunter," Polly said briskly. "Everyone knows that. And I know the location of a treasure so splendid that just breathing its name in your ear will bring tears of joy to your eyes and a definite bulge in the trouser department."