A Hard Day's Knight

TWO You’ve Either Got or You Haven’t Got Soul

The pocket-watch locked onto Julien Advent’s location and took me straight to him. I have no idea how it does that, but I’m growing increasingly convinced that there’s something else inside the gold pocket-watch, apart from the Portable Timeslip. And one of these days I’m going to dig it out with a butter-knife. Walker did so love to keep his little secrets. I arrived in the main bar of the Adventurers Club, where heroes from all over the worlds gather, to test themselves against the challenges of the Nightside. I have never been invited to become a member.

I spent a few moments shaking my head gently until all the bits settled back into place again. Travelling through the Portable Timeslip’s interdimensional short cut is never easy. It’s dark in there, darker than any night, and cold enough to chill the soul. There are voices in that dark, voices not in any way human, calling out to be freed, promising anything, pleading, threatening terrible things. But then, you can get that walking down any street in the Nightside. A bad trip, though, in every sense. How did Walker stand it? He always appeared out of nowhere, looking cool and calm and collected, as though he were out for a stroll. I had a strong feeling I’d arrived looking like someone who’d just been thrown out of the drunk tank.

I shook the last of the darkness out of my head and looked round. It had been a while since I’d been allowed into the Adventurers Club bar, and I was already rehearsing how many terribly expensive drinks I could demand before I was asked to leave. The place was exhaustingly spectacular and downright lousy with luxury, and the bar itself was a work of art fashioned from gleaming mahogany and brightly polished glass and crystal. Stacked in obsessively neat rows behind the bar was every kind of booze you’ve ever dreamed of and a few that would haunt your nightmares.

But what really caught my attention was how empty the place was. Normally, you couldn’t move for heroes and warriors and would-be legends, fighting for a place at the bar and complaining bitterly over the bartender’s inflexible rules when it came to extending credit. This time there was no crowd, no bartender; only a whole lot of silence. You could almost hear the wine aging. And half-way down the bar, Julien Advent sat perfectly poised on a tall bar-stool, drinking pink champagne. With his little finger properly extended, of course.

Julien Advent: tall, dark, and handsome in the old style, the great Victorian Adventurer who fell through a Timeslip in the nineteenth century and emerged in the Nightside in the nineteen sixties. And didn’t appear to have aged a day since. Julien is the real deal, a real hero and a complete gentleman. He tends not to approve of me, or my methods—except when he needs me to do something no-one else can. We’re friends, sometimes despite ourselves. I walked over to him, looked briefly but longingly at the bottles behind the bar, so near and yet so far, and nodded to Julien.

“You could offer me a drink, you know. I could be persuaded.”

“No, you couldn’t,” he said calmly. “You don’t have time.”

“Oh hell,” I said. “It’s one of those cases, is it? And where is everybody, anyway?”

“Out and about,” said Julien. “Doing their best to keep a lid on things. Since Walker died, so very suddenly and unexpectedly, the news has shot round the Nightside. And a great many not-at-all-nice people have been running wild, taking advantage. Seeing what they can get away with until Walker’s replacement steps up to dispense law and justice and general beatings. That’s you, by the way. But since you weren’t immediately available, I deputised everyone in the Club and sent them out into the streets to restore order, by any means necessary, and slap down anyone who looked like getting ambitious.”

“I would have got round to it,” I said. “I’ve been a bit ... distracted.”

Julien studied me thoughtfully over the rim of his champagne glass. “There’s something different about you though I can’t put my finger on it.... Either way, it will have to wait. There’s trouble down at the Mammon Emporium. The biggest mall in the Nightside is in very great danger of going off bang. But first, John, I have to ask you ... Did you really have to kill Walker?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was necessary. He’d gone too far into the dark.”

Julien clearly heard something in my voice because he put his glass down on the bar and leaned forward on his bar-stool. “I never did understand what he saw in you, or you in him. You seemed to work well enough together, when you weren’t trying to kill each other. He respected you. I know that.”

“I respected him,” I said. “Best enemy I ever had.”

“He was more than that.”

“Of course. He was Walker.”

“Well,” said Julien, “he was dying, after all, and not in a good way. I suppose you could call his death a mercy killing.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think you could call it that.”

He waited expectantly, but I had nothing more to say. Let Walker take his secrets with him, the good and the bad. In the end, Julien nodded and picked up his glass again, which had mysteriously refilled itself with more pink champagne. One of the perks of Club membership.

“I’ll send some of my people to collect the body.”

“There is no body,” I said.

Julien raised an elegant eyebrow. “Hard core, John.”

“Where are the rest of the new Authorities?” I said. Not because I gave a damn but because I felt like changing the subject.

“They’re ... not entirely comfortable with you yet,” said Julien. “My colleagues are currently upstairs, arguing over whether or not to accept you as our new representative. Walker wanted you, and I recommended you, but ...”

“Yes,” I said. “But.”

I remembered meeting these people before, in a devastated future Nightside, where they were the last human survivors, and my devoted Enemies. Doing their best to kill me in their past before I could bring about the terrible future they were living in. Time travel can really mess with your head. Just say no.

Julien suddenly recognised the gold pocket-watch I was still holding in my hand. “How did you get that?”

“Walker left it to me in his will.”

“We haven’t even found his will yet!”

I shrugged. “Details, details ...”

Julien sighed. “And you wonder why nobody trusts you ...”

“No, I don’t. I don’t give a damn. However,” I said, changing the subject again by brute force, “if I’m going to work for the Authorities, shouldn’t I have an official job title? Something big and dramatic, to strike terror into the hearts of evildoers?”

“You do have a title,” said Julien. “Walker.”

“What?”

“You didn’t really think that was his name, did you? I don’t think anyone ever knew what his real name was, the one he used in the outside world, when he went home to his family. Henry was real enough, I think. He always looked like a Henry to me. He used it often enough, and he seemed comfortable with it. Especially with his closest friends, like the Collector, and your father. But I couldn’t even say for sure whether they ever knew his real surname. To know the true name of a thing is to have power over it, and Henry would never have allowed that. No; he was Walker, like all his predecessors in the job.”

“Then Hadleigh Oblivion was a Walker, too?” I said, trying to get my head round the idea.

“Before he went so thoroughly off message, and disappeared into the Deep School, in search of mysteries, and ended up the Detective Inspectre. Whatever the hell that is, and I have a horrible suspicion I’m not going to like it when I find out ... There have been any number of Walkers, down the years, representing the Authorities as their Voice in the Nightside.”

I scowled at Julien. “Why didn’t I know this?”

“You could have asked. It wasn’t exactly a state secret.”

I decided to change the subject again. “Where’s Hadleigh now?”

“I’d feel a lot more secure if I knew the answer to that one. No doubt he’s out and about in the Nightside, walking up and down in it and disapproving of things in horrible ways. I keep waiting for the other incendiary to drop. Whatever mysteries people learn in the Deep School, it doesn’t do much for their sense of tolerance.”

“So,” I said, “Walker is a title ... like the Walking Man?”

“Might be a coincidence; might not. That’s the Nightside for you. Either way; you’re Walker now. Whether you like it or not. But let me be blunt, John ... The case I’m about to send you on is your first official mission for the Authorities. If you should prove to be ... not up to the job, the others will ignore my recommendations and appoint someone else.”

“Never wanted the job anyway,” I said.

“That’s why I wanted you,” Julien said dryly. “But think on this: you got away with a lot because Walker let you. For his various reasons. You might not do as well with some of the names I’ve heard proposed.”

I smiled briefly. “I handled Walker. And if I could handle him, I can handle anyone.”

“That is exactly the attitude that’s going to get you killed one of these days. There are ... things out there that even the mighty John Taylor can’t handle. You’d do well to arrange a support team, of people you can trust, to be your backup. Walker had all kinds of useful people on his payroll, to be his eyes and ears in the Nightside, or help him deal with the more specialised problems, and naturally you’ll inherit them ... but there are going to be times when only brute force and massed fire-power will do. Walker had the support of the Army and the Church, when necessary, and he also had the Reasonable Men. You do remember the Reasonable Men, don’t you, John? You should; you killed them.”

“They annoyed me,” I said. “Bunch of stuck-up pricks and bully-boys. I can do better than them. How about Suzie Shooter, Dead Boy, Razor Eddie ...”

“I meant people my fellow Authorities could approve of! Though admittedly, those appalling friends of yours would scare the crap out of all the right people ...”

“I think we should talk about the mission,” I said determinedly. “What’s up with the Mammon Emporium that it might go boom? Someone finally realised how unfair and extortionate the prices are? Profit margins down there are so appalling the business owners have to hire transcendental mathematicians just to do their tax returns. And their returns policy sucks like a hooker when the rent’s due.”

“You always did have an elegant turn of phrase, John. Some three hours ago, a man walked into the Mammon Emporium and announced that he was there to blow the whole place up. He gave every impression of being full-on crazy, and perhaps even industrial-strength Looney Tunes; but it only took one scan by the mall’s security people to reveal he was quite serious. He’d made himself into, or allowed himself to be made into, a soulbomb. I can tell from your expression that you have never heard of a soulbomb. I have, which is probably why I don’t sleep as well as I used to.

“When you blow something apart, you get energy, yes? Blow an atom apart, and you get a lot of energy. Blow a soul apart, and you get the kind of energy, the kind of explosion, that can blow holes in reality itself. It has happened in the past. There are those who see it as the ultimate form of suicide. Destroy your soul, and you get to cheat Heaven and Hell.”

“So,” I said, “we’re talking about an explosion big enough to destroy the whole mall?”

“At the very least. The Mammon Emporium is positively crawling with all the very latest kinds of protections, magical and scientific, hopefully enough to contain the explosion. But nobody knows for sure. We could lose the whole district. We could lose the whole Nightside ... And God alone knows what kind of fallout a soulbomb would produce ...”

“He’s been in there three hours, and he hasn’t gone off yet?” I said. “What’s stopping him?”

“You are,” said Julien. “The soulbomber says he’s waiting for you to come and talk with him. Refuses to talk to anyone else and says he’ll blow himself up if anyone tries to move him. We sent in specially trained negotiators, but he threatened to detonate immediately if they weren’t removed. Apparently, he became quite hysterical when they didn’t leave fast enough. We said we’d send for you, and he quietened down a bit. Now he’s sitting there, right in the middle of the mall, sweating heavily and singing sad songs. We’ve evacuated the Emporium. Wasn’t easy. Hell hath no fury like a shopper cheated out of a bargain.”

“Was there a sale on?”

Julien glared at me pityingly. “There’s always a sale on at the Mammon Emporium. The shop owners didn’t want to go, either, and leave their businesses unprotected; apparently their insurance doesn’t cover soulbombers. Though I would have thought they were the exact opposite of an Act of God. Anyway, the place is quite empty now. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, and you’d bloody well better, is to go in there, talk to the crazy person, and stop him.”

“Stop him what?”

“Stop him anything!”

I thought about it. “Am I empowered to negotiate? What can I offer him?”

“Not a damned thing,” Julien said firmly. “We don’t give in to blackmail. We can’t afford to, or everyone in the Nightside would be trying their luck. Of course, feel free to offer him anything you can think of, as long as it’s clearly understood we won’t deliver on anything you promise. How convincing a liar are you? Actually, no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. It’s up to you, John; talk him down or take him down, by any means you deem necessary. But you have to understand: the soulbomber isn’t the real problem.”

“Of course not,” I said. “That would be far too simple.”

“If the soulbomber should detonate, he could destroy some or all of the hundreds of dimensional gateways inside the Emporium, the doors to other Earths, other realities, from which most of the businesses get their stock. Which would seem bad enough, but there are levels of appallingness here. The explosions could just destroy the gateways, effectively shutting off the doors. The cost of replacing them would be almost unimaginable; the Emporium might very well go out of business, with all kinds of nasty economic repercussions. Let us contemplate the idea of falling dominoes for a moment, then move on.

“That’s actually the best option we could hope for if he goes off bang. We could survive that. However, the destructive energies generated by an exploded soul could be enough to blast right through the gateways and cause untold death and destruction on the other sides. The occupants of those other dimensions might well become so enraged that they would invade the Nightside, looking for revenge and compensation. Probably both. Hundreds of armies, from hundreds of dimensions ... The Angel War and the Lilith War were bad enough ...”

“They weren’t my fault!”

“Yes, they were! Everything’s your fault until proven otherwise.”

“You haven’t finished, have you?” I said. “You’re saving the best for last. I can tell. What else could go wrong?”

“The destruction of hundreds of dimensional gateways might be enough to fracture reality and blast open other doors. The kind that lead to places we like to think of as Outside our reality. The kind of door we’ve done everything but barricade and nail shut from this side. You know the kind of dimensions I’m talking about, John. Where Things from Outside have been waiting for millennia, just for a chance to force their way in and destroy every living thing in creation. Do I really need to say the Names?”

“Better not,” I said. “You never know what might be listening. So any or all of these things could happen if the soulbomber detonates? Wonderful. Terrific. The gift that keeps on giving ... Let’s hope he’s only feeling a bit depressed and will respond to a nice hug and some ice-cream. Okay, obvious question. Who stands to profit from something like this? You said yourself, it isn’t an insurance scam.”

“I have people working behind the scenes,” said Julien, “asking those very questions in all kinds of persuasive ways. Never underestimate the Nightside’s ability to profit from even the greatest disaster or atrocity. There has to be somebody behind this. It’s not a cheap or an easy thing, to turn a man into a soulbomb. Even if you’ve got a willing fool to work on, ready to sacrifice his entire existence for ... what? Money? A cause? Revenge? There has to be some plan, some hidden purpose, at the back of this. A pay-off big enough to make the risk acceptable.”

“You know, the soulbomber did ask for me by name,” I said. “This could all be a trap designed to lure me in.”

“It isn’t always about you, John,” Julien said patiently.

“Maybe not,” I said. “But it’s the safest way to bet.”

“They wouldn’t blow up the entire Mammon Emporium, and risk fracturing reality, just to get at you!”

“They might. Depends on who ‘they’ are. Now I have to go in—if only to find out what the hell’s going on and who I’ve upset this time. Tell me everything you’ve done so far, so I won’t repeat anything.”

Julien shrugged. “About what you’d expect. I sent in every professional specialist at my disposal: bomb squad, negotiators, priests, witches, CSI ... and one of the most experienced and expensive whores in the Nightside, on the chance she might be able to ... distract him from his purpose and give him a new interest in life. Didn’t work. Apparently he blushed a shade of red not normally seen in nature and threatened to blow himself up right there and then if she didn’t put all her clothes back on and go away.”

I made a mental note to check the mall’s CCTV footage later. If there was a later.

“No matter what we say or offer, he just keeps repeating that he’ll only talk to you. John, we really can’t afford to lose the Emporium. There’s a lot of money at stake here, not to mention a massive loss of prestige and tourists. You wouldn’t believe how much tax money the Emporium dumps into our economy every year. We’re getting a lot of hard talk from the various business owners to Do Something, along with all kinds of nasty and inventive threats of what they’ll do if it all goes horribly wrong.”

“So,” I said, “no pressure, then. Don’t let the mall get destroyed; don’t let the dimensional gates get destroyed; don’t let the Outsiders force their way into our reality and destroy everything that lives. How the hell am I supposed to talk some sense into someone crazy enough to allow himself to be made into a soulbomb?”

Julien grinned. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

“You can go off people, you know,” I said.

The Mammon Emporium is not only the biggest mall in the Nightside, but quite possibly in the world. Opinion is divided over how many floors there are because some of them aren’t always there, some only appear on special occasions, and they’re always adding more. And yes, the mall is much bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Such spells come as standard in the Nightside, or we’d never fit everything in. Because of the mall’s size, you don’t need a map to get round; you need a spirit guide and a compass. The Mammon Emporium specialises in brand-names, franchises, and weird alternatives from any number of different Earths. Just the thing for the Nightside, where tastes and palates tend to grow jaded really quickly; for people who’ve seen it all, done it all, and produced their own T-shirts to boast about it afterwards.

The Portable Timeslip dropped me off right on the edge of the large crowd that had gathered outside the Emporium. Shoppers who’d been ejected from the mall, much against their will; shop owners mopping the sweat from their brows as they commiserated with each other over loss of trade; and a whole bunch of interested onlookers, quite ready to risk a massive explosion if only for the chance to see something new. There’s nothing so popular in the Nightside as a free show. Vendors and street traders already had their stalls up, selling commemorative T-shirts, hastily improvised souvenirs, protective amulets of dubious efficiency, and something wriggling on a stick. (Very tasty! Get them while they’re hot!)

I took a few moments to get my head back together before walking calmly and confidently into the crowd. This much I had learned from Walker: look like you know what you’re doing, and everyone else will assume that you do. That said, some people in the crowd looked pleased to see me, some didn’t, and some took one look at me and started running. Oh ye of little faith.

Half a dozen business owners advanced on me, shoulder to shoulder, and everyone else fell back to give them room. You could tell who they were immediately from their superior tailoring and sense of entitlement. I gave them a thoughtful look, and they all crashed to a halt a respectful distance short of me. The crew drew back even further to let us talk, but not so far they couldn’t eavesdrop. There was a lot of glancing at each other amongst the shop owners and a certain amount of pushing and shoving as they tried to agree on a spokesman. None of them wanted to give way to any of the others, but none of them was too keen on talking to the infamous John Taylor. I let them get on with it while I looked them over. They didn’t need to identify themselves; I knew who they were. Their names and faces were all over the glossy magazines and the giveaways, trying to persuade me to buy something I knew for a fact I didn’t need, at twice the price I wouldn’t have paid anyway.

Raymond Orbison, a long drink of cold water in baggy white slacks and T-shirt, supplied musical recordings from other Earths, where music and people had taken surprisingly different directions. Where Marianne Faithfull was the lead singer in the Rolling Stones; Dolly Parton sang opera; and the Elvis Twins sang Country & Western. And Kate Bush fronted Rockbitch.

Then there was Martin Broome, fat and prosperous and perspiring heavily, who specialised in strange food and weird dishes from Earths where human biology was not so much different as downright eccentric. Broome offered dishes with different trace elements and altered isomers; eat as much as you like and never put on an ounce because your body doesn’t recognise it as food. Very popular, and very highly priced. And absolutely no warnings about possible side effects, such as bloating, anal leakage, sudden meltdowns in the night, and occasional spontaneous combustion.

And, of course, there was Esmeralda Corr, tall and willowy in flapping silks, who provided exotic perfumes from exotic sources, like moss from the canals of Mars, fungi squeezings from sunken R’Lyeh, and musk glands from extinct animals. They all smelled the same to me, but then, I’m a man.

Orbison finally took the lead and fixed me with his usual watery-eyed stare. “You’re who the Authorities sent? You’re the new Walker? I can feel my palpitations coming on. Well, don’t just stand there! You’ve got to do something, Taylor! People want to shop! All the time we’re standing round here, we’re losing money!”

“You’ll be losing that finger if you keep prodding it in my direction,” I said.

Oribison was overcome with a sudden modesty and insisted on falling back. Esmeralda Corr immediately took his place, hands on hips and pointing her prominent bosoms at me like loaded weapons. “What are you going to do, Taylor? I think we have a right to be consulted before you undertake any operation that might put our livelihoods at risk!”

“I’m more concerned with lives than livelihoods,” I said. “What is that perfume you’re wearing? Is it actually legal to smell like that in public? Step back a few paces. A few more ... Right. I’m here to shut the soulbomb down. That’s all you need to know. Now, have any of you upset anyone recently? More than usual, I mean. Someone who might bear a grudge?”

They all looked at each other, and there was much averting of eyes and general shrugging. No-one had to say anything. Business was business in the Nightside, and devil take the hindmost. Sometimes literally. But after a certain amount of nudging, elbowing, and general intimidation, Broome was finally moved to admit that they had no-one special in mind. There had been no advance warning, no threats or ransom demands, and no-one had come forward to claim responsibility. The bomber was a complete stranger to all of them. He’d walked into the mall and threatened to blow up his soul.

They all turned their best business-like glares on me. They’d done all that could be reasonably expected of them, their glares implied, and now it was up to me. So if anything went wrong, it was all my fault. But there was a certain expectant look to them as well because I was the new Walker, and they were curious to see if I was up to it. I was curious, too.

Walker had only been dead for a few hours; but everyone knew. News travels fast in the Nightside, especially bad news.

I walked through the crowd, and it opened up to let me pass. It had all gone very quiet. Except for the bookmakers, who were already offering odds.

I strolled under the huge M and E that marked the main entrance to the mall, and a whole new world opened up before me. Shops and businesses, chains and franchises, speciality stores and perv parlours stretched away before me, for just a bit further than the eye could comfortably see. Corridors and passageways branched and separated, and stilled elevators led up to more floors and even more wonders and marvels, all major credit cards accepted. There was a map floating on the air in the lobby, a huge 3D hologram affair of such complexity that staring at it long enough could start you speaking in tongues. I chose a direction and started walking.

I looked carefully about me, but the whole place was deserted. Thankfully, someone had shut down the piped Muzak, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard anywhere apart from the gentle humming of the fierce fluorescent lighting and the distant rumble of the air-conditioning. It could still be a trap. Either for me, specifically, or for whoever took over as the new Walker. Certainly, I’d made enough enemies in my time, and in the Past and Future, too.

Why had the soulbomber demanded to speak to me, and only me? Julien had shown me a photo of the guy before I left; but I didn’t recognise him. There was nothing special or striking about him. If anything, he’d looked almost defiantly average. Did he want to lure me in, to be sure of getting me? Did he need to look me in the face, to tell me something important to him, before he could destroy himself? Or had he heard of my ability to work miracles on a budget and drop-kick victory from the jaws of defeat, and was hoping to be talked out of it? Or possibly even rescued if this hadn’t been his idea in the first place ... It’s amazing the things a man will do—for money or fame or if his loved ones are threatened.

My footsteps echoed loudly on the quiet, I could actually hear my own breathing, and my heart was hammering in my chest. Malls aren’t supposed to be quiet or empty. It felt unnatural. And then I stopped abruptly as I heard footsteps up ahead, coming my way. I slipped my left hand into my coat-pocket and let my fingers drift over certain useful items ... and then took my hand out again. It was the Nightside CSI—first in, last out, as always. He came round the corner, stopped when he saw me, then smiled and nodded amiably enough. The Nightside CSI is only one man, pleasant enough, calm and easy-going, and very professional. It probably helps that he has multiple personality disorder, with a sub-personality for every speciality and discipline in his profession. (One to handle fingerprints, another to examine blood spatter, or look for magical residues ...) He’s really quite good at his job though he does tend to argue with himself.

Between himself, he knows everything he needs to know.

Each sub-personality has a different voice. Some of them are women. I’ve never asked.

“Alistair Hoob,” I said. “As I live and breathe heavily. No-one told me you were still in here. How are we doing today?”

“As well as can be expected, Mr. Taylor. Not much in the way of evidence to offer you, I’m afraid. (You didn’t check for fingerprints!) (What was the point?) (Hush, we’re talking.) All the soulbomber brought in was himself, and he wouldn’t allow me to get anywhere near him. (Has anyone seen my wetwipes?)”

Alistair Hoob is a big blocky type with a shock of bushy red hair, one green eye and one blue, and a reasonably sane smile that comes and goes according to who’s talking. He always wears the same baggy white sweater with holes in it, grubby cream slacks, and cheap knock-off trainers. He carries a battered old briefcase that unfolds and unfolds, to contain all his (very) specialised equipment. I once saw him open it wide enough to pull out a chemical lab, an X-ray machine, and a rather surprised-looking rabbit.

“Have you spoken to our soulbomb, Alistair?” I said.

“Oh, of course. (Seems sane enough, if a bit gloomy.) Bit frustrating, really, as he didn’t want to talk to me. (Smells funny.) He was quite insistent that he would only talk to John Taylor; but he wouldn’t say why. And he wouldn’t let me get close enough to run any useful tests. (Elephant!) (Shut up!)”

“But you are certain he’s a soulbomber?”

“Unfortunately, yes. You wouldn’t believe the state of his aura. Even sitting still, he’s giving off so many negative vibrations he’s contaminating his surroundings. It’ll take weeks to scour the psychic stain out of the area. Assuming you can talk him down, of course. (Oh, well done, Mr. Tact.) I’ve run all the usual tests on the Emporium, and I can tell you that no-one else is in here with us. (No life signs anywhere.) (Except for the exotic pet shops on the thirteenth floor, and they’re all securely locked down.) (Spiders shouldn’t get that big. There ought to be a law. It’s unnatural, and it might give them ideas.) So once I’m gone, you’re on your own, Mr. Taylor. Best of luck. (Bye-bye.)”

“Are all the dimensional doors and gateways properly shut down and closed off?” I said, when I could get a word in edgeways.

“For the moment, yes. But if the soulbomber should go boom! all bets are off. We can’t predict the outcome because there’s never been a soulbomb explosion next to a dimensional door before. (I checked before I came in here. Went to the Library, and everything.) There was a soulbomb explosion some twenty-odd years ago, in Tokyo’s fabled Sinister Zone. Blew it right out of reality. Just a bloody big crater now, with energies radiating in all directions that can mutate your DNA if you even think about going to take a look at it. The Japanese have been throwing all kinds of lizards into it, hoping they’ll mutate into giant forms ... They do love their cinema, the Japanese. (I like the Muppets.) (Has anyone noticed it’s getting cold in here? I should have brought a scarf.)”

“Has a soulbomb ever exploded in the Nightside?” I said, frowning.

“Not ... as such, Mr. Taylor. In fact, I’m really quite curious to observe what might happen here. (From a distance.) (A safe distance.) (Why are we still standing round talking?) I could learn all kinds of fascinating things. (From a distance.) (Yes, we’ve established that.)”

“Can you tell me anything about the soulbomber himself?” I said desperately. “What kind of a man is he?”

“Troubled, clearly. (Looney Tunes.) (Bit harsh ...) The subject is male, middle-aged, no wedding ring. Could be a midlife crisis. (Should have bought a Porsche, like everyone else.) Didn’t have much to say for himself, just Go away and Where’s John Taylor? He seemed determined enough, in a quiet way. (Stubborn.) No signs of fear or uncertainty. No hysterics. I couldn’t get close enough to run medical scans, but he seemed physically sound.”

“Do me one last favour,” I said. “Run one last scan of the Emporium; check for mechanical or magical booby-traps.”

“Way ahead of you, Mr. Taylor. Done and done. I am a professional, after all. It’s all quiet; nothing here that shouldn’t be. And I am now leaving the Emporium, while the leaving is good. (I’m gonna leave old Durham town ...) I may even leave the Nightside, to be on the safe side. Not that I doubt your abilities, Mr. Taylor, but there are limits to how professional I’m prepared to be. If the dimensional doors go down ... (There are those who say ...) (No, there aren’t; you’re thinking of something else.)”

“The Emporium does have a lot of protections in place,” I said.

“Oh yes, Mr. Taylor. Absolutely and quite definitely, there are many protections in place. First-class protections, magical and scientific. Unfortunately, someone has shut them all down. Every last one of them. In advance. (Makes you think, doesn’t it?) Good-bye, Mr. Taylor. Best of luck. Soulbomber’s down that way; keep going, you can’t miss him.”

“Any last advice?”

“Try not to upset him.”

He hurried off, and I was left alone in the Emporium. Just me, and the soulbomber.

I’d never known the Emporium to be so still, so silent. Like the calm before the storm. I headed for the centre of the mall, following Alistair Hoob’s directions. My footsteps seemed to echo increasingly loudly on the quiet, carrying news of my progress. The lights shone as brightly as ever, fierce and characterless fluorescent light, and there were no shadows anywhere. But it felt as though there were. For all the intense illumination, it felt like I was walking into darkness.

I could feel the weight of Excalibur, invisibly scabbarded on my back. It was a comforting feeling, like it was watching my back and holding my hand, a companion in my time of need. But it also felt like it was trying to warn me of something. No words; only this feeling that there was something very bad here, apart from the soulbomber. But sometimes you have to suck it up and walk into the trap if that’s what it takes to get to the heart of the matter. I slowed my pace, wandering along quite casually, looking into the shop-windows. Never let them know they’ve got you worried. I surreptitiously checked every doorway and every side passage as I came to them, just in case; but there was never anyone there.

Some of the goods on display were quite interesting. The Elizabethan Goode Foode Shoppe, offering hedgehog in clay, coney on a stick, hedgerow salad soup (every dish a surprise!), puffin flambé. And jugged venison, in very large jugs. Given what some of our ancestors ate in the past, it amazes me that any of us are here.

The Twenty-Second Century Magik Shop had a special sale on Pickled Pixies, Flying Slippers, Old Ones Repellent, and a new exorcism plug-in for your computer. I lingered a while before the window of a specialist bookshop called Pornucopia, which sold specially bound editions of the private pornography written by famous authors, for their own pleasure, never intended for publication. But once you’re dead, it’s all fair game, so ... Miss Marple at the Isle of Lesbos, Lady Chatterly’s Gang Bang, and Barbara Cartland’s Strap-on Frenzy.

Sometimes I think if it wasn’t for bad taste, the Mammon Emporium wouldn’t have any taste at all. I made a mental note to look back later. If there was a later.

I realised my path was taking me right past the Emporium’s one and only real oracle, so I decided to pay it a quiet visit. On a mission like this, information is ammunition. The oracle doesn’t look like much: just a traditional stone-walled wishing well, with a circle of stained glass round it, a patchy red slate roof, and a bucket on a chain. It couldn’t be more tacky if it tried. A sign in appallingly twee language invited you to throw a coin into the well, make a wish, and toss your worries away. Whoever wrote that clearly knew nothing about oracles. Officially, it was all a harmless bit of fun for the kiddies. What better disguise for one of the few truly reliable oracles in the Nightside? I had approached it for help once before and knew better than to expect anything actually helpful. Like everyone else in the Nightside, the oracle had its own agenda.

The well knew I was coming before I did. I hadn’t even turned the corner when it called out to me.

“Well, well, the one and only John Taylor; which is just as well because I don’t think I could stand it if there were more of you. Your entire existence plays merry hell with the time-lines. Look over there in the corner; see that woman, crying her eyes out? That’s Fate, that is. Hello again, John. Knew you’d be back.”

“I never knew an oracle that was so in love with its own voice,” I said. “Now do me a favour and keep your voice down. The soulbomber isn’t far from here, and we really don’t want to upset him.”

“I know! I know he’s there, and I know why he’s there, which is more than you do. I know everything. Or at least, everything that matters, and I fake the rest. I even know what you’re going to ask before you ask it, and you really aren’t going to like the answers.”

“Tell me anyway,” I said, leaning heavily on its stone wall. “What can you tell me about this soulbomber?”

“Cross my palm with silver, sweetie, and I shall unfold wonders and marvels ...”

“Cut the crap. I’m not a tourist. You haven’t got a palm, and no-one’s used silver coins for years. You get the usual—one drop of blood, and that’s it.”

“You have no sense of drama.”

I pricked the tip of my left index finger with the sliver of unicorn’s horn I carry in my lapel to warn against poisons and let one fat drop of blood fall into the dark interior of the well. The oracle made a really disgusting satisfied sound, and I winced despite myself.

“All right, you old ham,” I said. “You’ve had your payment, now answer the question. What do I have to do to stop the soulbomber?”

“There’s nothing you can do. The soulbomb will detonate some forty-one minutes from now.”

I blinked a few times. “That’s it?”

“Afraid so. There isn’t a single possible future where the soulbomb doesn’t detonate.”

“No way of avoiding it?”

“None at all.”

“Can’t I try talking to him?”

“If you like.”

“Will that help?”

“No. Doesn’t matter what you do or say: Mr. Soulbomber, he go boom.”

“Well, you’re a lot of use!”

“Lot of people say that to me ...”

“All right,” I said, searching desperately for some solid ground. “Let’s try something else. What can you tell me about Excalibur?”

“You mean that appallingly powerful thing hanging off your back? Burning so brightly I can’t even look at it? Well, to start with, it’s not really a sword. It only looks like one.”

“What is it, then?”

“Reply cloudy, try again later. I told you, it’s so potent I can’t even get a good look at it. You could cut the world in half with a weapon like that.”

“I thought you said it isn’t a sword?” I said.

“It isn’t. It’s much more than a sword. More than a weapon. It’s the lever you turn to move the world.”

“Can you tell me why it’s entered my life?”

“I see you going on a long journey ...”

“If you tell me I’m going to meet a tall dark stranger, I swear I will unzip right here and now and piss into you.”

“You would, too, wouldn’t you? Bully ...”

“Hold everything,” I said. “You’re predicting a journey in my future. How can I have a future if the soulbomb’s going to go off in forty-one minutes?”

“Actually, rather less than that now. But yes, I see your point.” The oracle hummed tunelessly to itself for a moment. “Look, your whole existence is so unlikely it gives me a pain in the rear I haven’t got just thinking about it. It’s hard to be sure about anything where you’re concerned.”

“Because my mother was a Biblical Myth?”

“That doesn’t help, certainly. But it’s more that you’re involved in so many vital, important, and earth-shaking things, that every decision you make changes not only your life but everyone else’s as well.”

“It’s the destiny thing, isn’t it?” I said.

“See that sacred-looking guy over there, with the nervous twitch, trying to comfort Fate? That’s Destiny, that is.”

“Whatever happened to free will?”

“I do have an answer to that,” said the well smugly, “but it would make your head explode. I could tell you a lengthy but complex parable if you like.”

“Would it help?”

“Not really.”

“But you are completely certain that the soulbomb is going to explode?”

“Oh yes. In thirty-nine minutes.”

“I hate you.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

I ran through the rest of the corridors to be sure of reaching the soulbomber in time. The oracle is shifty, crafty, and absolutely glories in being spitefully obtuse; but it’s never wrong. My only hope was that it had seen some kind of future for me afterwards. Otherwise, I’d have said, Sod this for a lark, and legged it for the nearest exit. There had to be something I could do. Contain the explosion, perhaps, using the mall’s shields? Throw the soulbomber through one of the dimensional doorways? I told myself I’d think of something, and tried very hard to believe it. After all, I wouldn’t lie to me about something like that.

I found him sitting quite casually on the floor, in the very centre of the mall. A balding, dumpy, middle-aged man in shabby clothes, with sad eyes and a tired mouth. Sitting on the floor, doing nothing in particular, waiting for me to turn up. I let him have a good look at me before I moved cautiously forward. I was a bit concerned that the sight of me might be enough to set him off; but he didn’t look scared, or angry, or impatient. He just looked ... relieved, that his waiting was finally at an end. He nodded to me, briefly, and I stopped a careful distance away from him. He didn’t look like a terrorist, or a fanatic. Maybe I could still talk him out of it.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m John Taylor.”

“I know,” he said. His voice was reassuringly calm, and normal. “He showed me several photos of you before they sent me in here, so I could be sure it was you. I’m Oliver Newbury. You won’t have heard of me. No-one has. I was an ordinary, everyday guy, and I liked it that way. I didn’t ask for much, didn’t want much; but the world took it all anyway ... You wouldn’t think you could get bored, waiting to die; but you can. Feels like I’ve been here for hours. And no; you can’t talk me out of this. My wife is dead. I’m crippled with debts I can’t pay and a family I can’t support any more. This is all that’s left—one last act of rage against a viciously unfair and uncaring world. He’s promised to pay off all my debts, you see, if I do this thing. He’ll see my children are protected and cared for. It’s all I can do for them.”

“If you’re so determined to die,” I said, “for revenge, for money ... why have you waited to talk to me?”

“That was part of the deal,” he said, not unkindly. “To lure you in and take you with me when I go. He said you wouldn’t be able to resist a trap baited with your name. He said you were arrogant and predictable. And you’re here, aren’t you?”

“Don’t go off bang just yet,” I said. “I’m also curious. What’s the point of all this? What does your benefactor hope to gain from your suicide?”

“Apparently, when I explode, the energies released will destroy every dimensional door in the Emporium,” Oliver said calmly. “Blow them all right off their hinges and allow Things from Outside to come in and destroy the Nightside. And please: yes, I do know what I’m saying. Don’t try and appeal to my better nature. I don’t care how many people die, or how much of the Nightside gets trampled underfoot by the Outsiders. No-one cared when I lost my wife, and my job, and couldn’t look after my children any more. I’m a suicide, Mr. Taylor. My life is over. I volunteered to be made into this awful thing, a soulbomb. It hurt like hell, but it was worth it because I can’t feel anything any more, only cold. I’m always cold now. At least this way, my death will mean something. It’ll make a difference. I get to show my anger and contempt at a world that let me down, then kicked me while I was down. I get to punish it as it deserves.”

“Do you know the kind of Things from Outside we’re talking about?” I said carefully. “They exist in dimensions far from ours, far from reality, as we understand it. They’re not even life, as we understand it. They hate life, and destroy it wherever they find it. They want to destroy the Light, until there’s nothing left but the Darkness they hide in.”

“You’re saying they’re evil?” he said politely.

“They’re so different from us they’re beyond simple labels like Good and Evil. Those are human beliefs, human concepts. They’re bigger than that, beyond that, monstrous beyond anything we can imagine because our concept of evil isn’t big enough to encompass the things they do. We call them Outsiders because they’re outside anything we can understand or accept: outside morality, or sanity, maybe even Life or Death.”

“You’re very eloquent,” said Oliver. “But I told you ... I don’t care. Let them eat up the Nightside, let them burn it up, let all the people die. Where were they when I needed them?”

“You still care about your children,” I said. “That’s who you’re doing this for, right? You let the Outsiders loose in our world, and they won’t stop here. Eventually, they will get to where your children are and make them scream with horror before they destroy them.”

“That won’t happen,” said Oliver. “He promised the Outsiders would be contained inside the Nightside. He made a deal with them.”

“And he believed them?”

I was about to try for this particular fool’s name when I noticed that Oliver’s breath was steaming on the air before him. Mine, too. The mall was a hell of a lot colder than it had been. Fern-like patterns of hoar-frost crept quickly across the shop-windows and spread unevenly across the floor, walls, and ceiling. And though the overhead fluorescent lights were still burning just as fiercely, darkness appeared in all the surrounding corridors, one by one, filling them up, then edging slowly forward until only a narrow pool of light remained, surrounding Oliver and me.

“Something’s coming,” I said. “Something’s draining all the warmth and energy out of our surroundings, from the world itself, so it can force its way into our reality. Something from Outside is coming here, to talk to us.”

“But I haven’t blown open any of the gateways yet,” said Oliver.

“Something as powerful as an Outsider doesn’t give a damn about doors,” I said. “They come and go as they please. But they can’t stay long if they force their way in; reality itself rejects them and forces them back out. This is only a messenger boy, here to announce their coming.”

A fountain of vomit blasted up out of the floor, slammed against the ceiling, and rained down, thick and foul. Oliver cried out in disgust and scrambled up onto his feet. I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the way. The foul stuff kept spurting up from the unbroken floor, hitting the ceiling and falling back again, a thick, pulsing pillar of vomit. The stink of it filled the passageway, harsh enough to choke on. Maggots curled and writhed in it. A great face slowly formed itself out of the vomit, its details just human enough to be disturbing. The unblinking dark eyes fixed on Oliver and me, and the ragged mouth stretched slowly in an awful smile.

“Don’t let it get to you,” I said to Oliver. “It’s showing off. Trying to find some form that will scare us, disgust us, give it power over us. Think of it as psychological warfare, with a scratch-and-sniff ingredient.”

“This is an Outsider?” said Oliver, past the hand he’d clapped over his mouth and nose to try to keep out the smell.

“No, I told you: this is one of their messenger boys. Hey, you! Yes, you, puke face! Knock off the special effects and take on a more traditional form, or I’ll turn the fire hose on you! I am John Taylor, and I don’t take no shit from demons!”

I did my best to sound confident, like I knew what I was doing, and the demon must have fallen for it because the horror show disappeared in a moment though the horrid smell still lingered. In its place stood a man in a white trench coat, with a familiar face. It was meant to be me, except it had bulging compound insect eyes, and blood dripped steadily from its ragged mouth. The thick blood fell down onto the white trench coat, leaving stains. Its wrists were stuffed deep into the pockets, and something about the way the figure held itself made me think I wouldn’t want to see what it had instead of hands.

I looked it up and down and sniffed loudly.

“I suppose that’s an improvement. What do you want?”

Its mouth moved uncertainly, as though it wasn’t used to human speech. When it finally spoke, it sounded like it was choking on blood.

“We are coming here, and you can’t stop us, John Taylor. Little human thing. When my masters finally manifest, in all their awful glory, the sight of them will blast the vision from your eyes and drive all you little human things howling into madness and misery. And they shall feast upon your suffering and make you worship them until you can’t stand it any more.”

“Ah,” I said. “The usual. What is it about you demons that you always want to be loved and worshipped? Definite self-confidence problems there, and probably abandonment issues, too. Like I give a shit. What brings you to the Nightside?”

“My masters are not coming for the Nightside. They come for the whole world and everything in it. They have been offered an opening here, and they will use it to destroy everything that lives. You disgust us. Your very existence offends us. Meat that dares to think and dream. My masters will tear your upstart flesh apart and eat your souls, and even after you are dead, we will still find ways to make you suffer. Your torment will never end. For ever and ever and ever.”

“I never get a straight answer, but I’ll try one more time,” I said. “Why?”

“Because we can. Because we want to. Because you can’t stop us.”

“Demons,” I said. “I swear, you’re worse than five-year-olds. Want want want and stamp your cloven feet if you can’t get your own way. But ... while you talk a good game, I think you’re running scared. Your masters wouldn’t waste all the power it takes to force a messenger into our reality unless you were worried something might go wrong. You can’t come in ... unless Oliver here blows the doors open; and your masters are shit scared I might talk Oliver out of it. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re afraid his resolve is weakening. You’re trying to bully him into serving you. How do you feel about that, Oliver? Now you know what your death would really bring about?”

Oliver took his hand away from his mouth, staring at the messenger with revulsion. “I never knew,” he said. “I never even realised things like this existed. What good would it do, to die for my children, if it let things like this into their world? Can you stop this, Mr. Taylor?”

“Oh,” I said, smiling easily. “I’m sure I can find a way.”

I raised my gift, and it only took me a moment to find the dimensional rift that had let the messenger manifest in our reality. It took a complicated lattice of strange energies to hold the rift open, and it only took me a moment to find a fatal flaw in their arrangement. And then it was the easiest thing in the world to hit those energies in exactly the right place, and the whole thing collapsed. The messenger shrieked once, in shock and horror and surprise, and the collapsing rift sucked it back through and out of our reality. There was nothing left in the mall corridor but bright lights everywhere and the last vestiges of a really nasty smell.

I smiled confidently at Oliver and let myself relax a little, reaching for my psychic second wind. I really hadn’t thought it would be that easy.

I took a deep breath and clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “Okay, I’ve got an idea. If you are going to blow yourself up, there might be a way you could do it for the best.”

“Maybe I don’t want to blow myself up,” he said slowly. “Now that I’ve seen what that would lead to.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I really was, “but you’ve been made into a soulbomb. I don’t think that can be undone. And since an oracle on the way here told me that you were going to detonate no matter what, I think the man who paid for you to be made over into what you are probably installed a fail-safe, to take the decision out of your hands after a certain time. So that even if you did have a failure of nerve, you’d still go off. But even if you can’t decide not to explode, you can still choose when, and why. I need you to detonate when I tell you; and I will channel the blast away through this.” I showed him the gold pocket-watch. “I know, it doesn’t look like much, but it contains a Portable Timeslip under my control. I can find the dimensional rift the Outsiders will use to come through and turn your detonation away from the other dimensional doors, so that all the energies blast right through the rift as it opens. A soulbomb explosion is enough to hurt even Things from Outside. You can use your death to strike a blow against them. Won’t be enough to kill them, but it’ll hurt them, and make them back off and think again. How does that sound? You could be remembered as the man who saved the Nightside. How’s that for making a difference?”

“How does that help my children?” he said bluntly. “If I don’t do as I’m told, my children won’t get the money.”

I thought quickly. “How about this? I sell your story to the Unnatural Inquirer. All right, it’s a rag, but they love stories like this. They’ll pay top money; and I’ll see it all goes to your children. I’ll guarantee the paper does right by them.”

“How can you guarantee that if I blow up, and you’re still here? You can’t teleport out; the Outsiders would stop you, wouldn’t they?”

He was right. I’d been thinking I could escape the blast through the Portable Timeslip, but the Outsiders would have access to the dimensional short cut I travelled through. After the explosion, they’d be too busy with their own problems to worry about me, but until then ... I thought some more, then I remembered, and smiled.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Don’t worry, Oliver; I’m protected. I carry the sword Excalibur.”

He looked at me. “Where? Do you have one of those sub-space pocket things?”

I reached over my shoulder, took hold of the hilt, and drew the sword. The long, golden blade flashed brightly. Oliver’s eyes widened.

“It’s ... beautiful. Everything I ever thought it would be. Can I touch it, hold it?”

He reached out a hand towards the sword, then immediately stopped and drew the hand back again.

“No. It wouldn’t be right. Not with what I’ve made of myself. Nonetheless, it is good to know that there is still wonder in the world. There is still glory.”

“Are you ready?” I said. “I don’t mean to rush you, but there’s no telling how much time we have left, before ...”

“I’m ready if you are,” he said steadily. “Let’s do it.”

“One last thing,” I said. “Who set this up? Who planned all this and made you into a soulbomb?”

“Bijou de Montefort,” he said. “One of the business owners in the mall. Do you know him?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I know him.”

One of the Emporium’s biggest success stories, de Montefort came from nowhere to make himself one of the richest men in the Nightside. He specialised in awakening demand for things people didn’t even know they wanted, then selling it to them for ten times the price they would have paid if it hadn’t suddenly been fashionable. But he’d come adrift with his last great idea: the Cloned Celebrity Long Pig franchise. Eat the celebrity of your choice! But he really should have asked permission first; a whole bunch of celebrities got together and sued him over unauthorised use of their image and identity, and they won big. Cleaned him out. Overnight, de Montefort’s business empire collapsed, his credit rating was run out of town on a rail, and he was on the brink of losing everything. At which point, one assumes, he was contacted by a messenger from Outside, who offered a bargain. And he accepted, the fool.

I realised Oliver was looking at me. Bad time to be wool-gathering. “How did he expect to profit from this?”

“He didn’t tell me. All he said was that my death would make him King of the Nightside.”

“Idiot. Outsiders never keep their bargains. They don’t have to.”

“I think we should do it now,” said Oliver. “While I’m still ... firm in my resolve. Good-bye, Mr. Taylor. When you see my children, tell them ... some comforting lie.”

“Yes,” I said. “I can do that.”

He closed his eyes and seemed to relax completely, as though finally putting down some terrible burden. He gave up the last thing that held him together, and when the explosion came, it was too big to see or hear. A light too bright to bear, and a sound that filled the world. I held Excalibur out before me, between my body and the blast, the point on the floor, the hilt before my face, my hands gripping the cross-piece. When the soul detonated, all I could do was hang on to the sword, blinded and deafened, torn at by forces I could barely recognise. I concentrated on my link to the gold watch in my pocket, using all my mental strength to funnel the energies through the Portable Timeslip and throw them at the Outsiders’ dimensional rift. It wasn’t difficult: once I started the process, the watch did most of the work. Otherwise, I’d never have been able to do it.

I clung to Excalibur as the storm raged round me, hanging on like a drowning man to a raft. The raging energies seemed to keep on coming, destruction without end, power beyond belief, and myself only the smallest mote in an angry god’s eye. But the blast did end, eventually, and the world slowly came back into focus round me. I could see and hear again, left trembling and shaken by the storm that had passed. It took me a long moment to unclench my hands from Excalibur’s cross-piece and look slowly round me. The mall seemed perfectly normal, undamaged, safe and sane again. The light was very bright, and there were no shadows anywhere. I reached into my pocket and closed the gold watch.

The Outsiders had been thrown back into Darkness, and Humanity had been saved because one man had given up his soul to do it. But he shouldn’t have had to. My mission wasn’t over yet. There was still justice to be administered. Justice, and vengeance.

I made my way back through the Mammon Emporium, then took a moment to compose myself before strolling outside to give the waiting crowd the good news. They all looked pretty relieved; presumably, they’d heard something of the explosion inside. I put their minds at ease with a few well-chosen words, and when I told them it was safe to go back inside again, they actually gave me a loud cheer before rushing right past me into the mall to resume their interrupted shopping.

Business as usual, in the Nightside.

As the onlookers in the crowd began to disappear, I raised my voice.

“Is Bijou de Montefort here?”

Everyone looked round, sensing that the evening’s excitement might not be over yet. A small group of business owners came forward, half encouraging and half driving forward one Bijou de Montefort. He was an average-size, average-looking man, nothing remarkable about him at all, save perhaps that he was better tailored than most. He looked entirely defiant as he was brought to a halt before me and shook off the encouraging hands.

“I had time for a nice little chat with the soulbomber, before he went off,” I said pleasantly. “He had a lot to say about you and how you planned to profit from his suicide. Did you really think you could bargain with the Outsiders and hold them to their agreement? Were you really ready to see us all die, so you could be King of Shit Heap?”

“You can’t trust anything that man said,” de Montefort snapped. “He was clearly mentally disturbed, or he wouldn’t have made himself into a soulbomb.” He met my gaze unflinchingly and actually seemed to grow in confidence as he listened to himself. He still thought he could talk his way out of this as he always had before. “You have no proof, Taylor, and no evidence, now that your only witness is dead. And I would advise you to choose your next words very carefully. I can afford the very best lawyers to protect my good name.”

“Lawyers?” I said. “We don’t need no stinking lawyers! Haven’t you heard? I’m the new Walker. And this is Excalibur!”

I drew the sword, and the long blade appeared immediately in my hand, its golden light flaring brightly in the night. Everyone watching gasped and cried out. I slammed one hand onto de Montefort’s shoulder and forced him to his knees in front of me. I brandished the sword above my head, and the crowd cried out in awe and wonder. Many of them dropped to their knees. Some of them were crying. De Montefort looked up at me, all the colour dropping out of his face.

“No! You can’t do this! It’s not fair!”

“It’s justice,” I said.

And I brought Excalibur round in a swift arc and cut his head off.

The sword sliced through his thick neck as though it were air. For a moment, de Montefort just knelt there, eyes wide; and then blood ran down from the long red cut. He convulsed, and his head snapped backwards and fell away. Blood fountained from the stump of his neck. He fell over sideways, his hands clutching spasmodically at nothing. I looked at Excalibur. There wasn’t a drop of blood on the blade. I put it away, and immediately both sword and scabbard disappeared, invisible again. Some of the onlookers cried out again, in voices thick with loss and disappointment.

I walked straight at them, and the crowd fell back and split apart, opening up a wide aisle for me to walk through. I kept moving, not looking at anyone. I was considering what I’d done. I have killed before, in my time, when I absolutely had to; but I’m not an executioner. I’d killed de Montefort coolly and calmly, without even thinking twice about it. And that wasn’t like me. It was what Walker would have done ... but I never wanted to be like him. I had to wonder whether the impulse might have come from somewhere else. Whether merely possessing the sword Excalibur was enough to affect my mind, influence my judgement. I realised I’d come to a halt, and was frowning so hard my forehead ached. People were actually backing away from me. Apart from the one who wasn’t.

“Hello, Julien,” I said. “Come to see how it all turned out?”

“You killed that man,” said Julien Advent.

“Executed him,” I said.

“In cold blood.”

“You know I don’t do things like that. I’m thinking that the sword executed him and used me to do it. I think the sword is changing me ...”

“Could be,” said Julien, unexpectedly. “There are many stories about Excalibur that didn’t make it into the traditional tales of King Arthur. May I see the sword?”

I drew the blade and held it out before me. Julien looked at it for a long moment, his eyes full of the golden glow of the sword. I would have let him hold it if he’d asked because of who and what he was; but he didn’t.

“No,” he said finally. “I’m not worthy.”

“Hell with that,” I said. “You’re a lot worthier than me, and I’m holding the bloody thing.”

“Put it away,” he said, and I did. He sighed heavily. “It is tempting; but a man should know his limitations. And not test himself. You need to know more about the sword you bear, John; and you can’t learn it here. You’re going to have to leave the Nightside, go out into London Proper, and speak with the London Knights.”

“That was the plan, before I got interrupted,” I said. “The whole replacing-Walker thing will have to wait till I get back.”

I was expecting an argument, but Julien nodded slowly. “I understand. It’s not an easy thing, to bear a legend like Excalibur. The London Knights ... are an interesting group. You could learn a lot from them. And, possibly, they might learn a few things from you. If you don’t kill each other first. I did work with them a few times, back in the day. Though they’ve changed a lot since Victoria sat on the Throne.”

“Could I get a letter of introduction from you?” I said. “Saying, This is a good man, despite everything you may have heard, done a lot of good things, please don’t kill him?”

“Ah,” said Julien. “I have to admit that the knights and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms these days. They don’t approve of me since I took up residence in the Nightside. They think I’ve fallen from the straight and narrow path, and I think they’re a bunch of arrogant, stuck-up prigs. But they do know their stuff. They are the last defenders of Camelot, after all.”

“No offence, Julien,” I said, “but I think I’ll pass on the letter.”

Julien looked at me seriously. “Watch yourself, John. The London Knights have done a lot of good in the world but strictly on their own terms. They see things very much in black and white, and have no time for any of the shades of grey.”

“Then I’ll just have to educate them,” I said cheerfully.

He sighed. “It’s all going to end in tears. I know it.”