Grim Tuesday

Chapter Five

To Arthur's considerable relief, the light did grow and it did look exactly like the Front Door. Only this time he was approaching very slowly, so he had enough time to prepare himself for the shock of falling through to the other side - to the green lawn of Doorstop Hill, in the Atrium of the Lower House.

Once he was there, he figured it would be relatively easy to get to Monday's Dayroom. Arthur wondered if it was called Arthur's Dayroom now, or the Will's Dayroom, or something else completely different. In any case, he would find the Will and Suzy there, and together they would work out what to do about Grim Tuesday and his minions.

Arthur was still thinking about that as he drifted gently towards the Door, when he was unexpectedly thrust forward by a tremendous force. Completely unprepared for what felt like a giant whack in the back, he tumbled end over end and crashed headfirst into the bright rectangle of light.

For an instant Arthur felt like he was being turned inside out, everything twisted in impossible and painful directions. Then he bounced on his feet on the other side and crashed down onto his hands and knees. Jarring pain in both told him he had not landed on soft grass. It was also completely dark, without even the soft glow of the distant ceiling of the Atrium, and certainly no elevator shafts illuminating the scene. Even worse, there was smoke everywhere - thick, cloying smoke that instantly made Arthur's lungs tighten and constrict.

Before he could begin to feel around or even cough, someone grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him up and back. Arthur swallowed his cough and instinctively screamed, a scream that was cut off as some kind of fluid enveloped him. He started to choke, thinking that he was in water, but a solid clap on the back stopped that and he realized that whatever the fluid was, it wasn't water and it wasn't getting into his throat and nose. A moment later he was out of it and could feel air again. He had passed through some kind of membrane or fluid barrier.

Wherever he was, everything looked extremely blurry and there was too much color, like he was standing with his nose pressed to a stained-glass window where the colors kept mixing up.

"Relax and blink a lot," instructed whoever was gripping his shoulders - a calm, deep male voice that sounded vaguely familiar. It only took Arthur a second to remember whose it was.

The Lieutenant Keeper of the Front Door.

Arthur blinked madly and tried to relax. As he blinked, the colors settled down and the blurriness eased, at least when he was looking straight ahead. It was still very blurry to either side.

"Are we inside some sort of multicolored glass ball?" Arthur asked after a moment. They certainly were inside something spherical and there was light shining into it, light that kept shifting around and was diffracted into many different colors.

"We are in a temporary bubble inside the Door itself," explained the Lieutenant Keeper. He let go of Arthur, stepped in front of him, and saluted. As before, he was wearing a blue uniform coat with one gold epaulette. "One that lessens the effect of the Door on mortal minds. Now, we only have a brief respite before you must go through to the Far Reaches -"

"The Far Reaches?" exclaimed Arthur in alarm. "But I wanted to go to the Atrium of the Lower House."

"The Front Door opens on many parts of the House, but the door you entered in the Secondary Realms leads only to the Far Reaches and the Grim's railway station."

"I can't go there!"

"You must go there," declared the Lieutenant Keeper. "You have already gone there. I snatched you back, but I cannot keep you inside the Door for any great length of time. You must go where you are going. That is the Law of the Door."

"But?" Arthur struggled to think. "Okay, if I have to go to the Far Reaches, can you send a message from me to the Will or Suzy, in the Lower House?"

"That part of the Will is called Dame Primus now," said the Lieutenant Keeper. "I am afraid I am not allowed to send unofficial messages to her or anyone else. I can hold a message for someone, but I cannot pass it on unless they inquire whether I have one."

He unbuttoned part of his coat and reached in to withdraw a watch. It played a haunting melody as he flipped open the case and gravely studied the dial.

"Two minutes, then I must return you to the Far Reaches."

"Can you give me a disguise?" asked Arthur desperately. The Lieutenant Keeper had helped him before with a shirt and cap, so he didn't stand out in the Lower House. Arthur would need a disguise even more in Grim Tuesday's domain.

"That I can do. I hoped you would ask." The Lieutenant Keeper reached out through the glowing walls of the sphere. When he pulled his hand back he held one end of a clothesline. He reeled it in. As the pegs dropped off, various items of clothing fell into Arthur's lap, including a faded pajama-like top and pants, a strange hooded cape of some rough material the color of mud, and a many-times-patched leather apron.

"Put the work suit on over your clothes," instructed the Lieutenant Keeper. "You will need layers for warmth. Roll up the cape for later."

Arthur put on the pajama-like top and trousers, and then strapped on the apron, which was very heavy leather. As instructed, he rolled up the hooded cape. It was very thick, and difficult to squash down. Arthur didn't recognize the material.

"Stabilised mud," said the Lieutenant Keeper as Arthur looked down on a rolled-up cape that was a quarter as big as he was. "Inexpensive and it offers sufficient protection against the Nothing rain in the Pit. While it lasts."

"Nothing rain?" asked Arthur. He didn't like the way the Lieutenant Keeper said the Pit either. He remembered that the Atlas had called it a huge sore in the foundation of the House.

"The Pit is so vast that clouds form partway down and there is constant rain," said the Lieutenant Keeper as he reached back out through the barrier and retrieved a pair of wooden clogs stuffed with straw.

"The rain concentrates the Nothing pollution that pervades the Pit and carries it back down. Hence the name."

"But what is the Pit exactly?" asked Arthur. All he knew from the Atlas's earlier reference was that it was some sort of giant mine, and a danger to the House.

"Unfortunately, you will soon see for yourself. I fear you will have difficulty staying out of it. Once in, you should escape as quickly as you can. Now - put on the clogs. Keep your socks. They are not so different as to attract notice."

Arthur slipped off his comfortable, arch-supported, computer-designed sneakers and put on the straw-stuffed wooden clogs. They felt loose and extremely uncomfortable. When he stood up he couldn't take a step without his heels lifting out.

"I can't even walk in these," he protested.

"All the indentured Denizens wear them," said the Lieutenant Keeper. "You cannot risk being given away by your footwear. Now, for the smog. It contains minute particles of Nothing, so it wears down Denizens and will almost certainly slay a mortal. Which hand did you hold the First Key in most?"

"The right," said Arthur.

"Then you must put two fingers from your right hand up your nostrils and your thumb in your mouth while you inhale and recite this small spell: First Key, grant this boon to me, that the air I breathe be pure and safe, and keep from me all harm and scathe."

"What?"

The Lieutenant Keeper repeated his instructions and added, "You may need to repeat this spell, as it too will be worn down by the smog, and the residual powers of the Key will fade from your flesh. Do not stay overlong in the Far Reaches, particularly the Pit."

"I won't if I can help it," muttered Arthur. "I guess I can always get out up the Improbable Stair if I really have to."

The Lieutenant Keeper shook his head.

"You mean I can't use the Stair?" asked Arthur. He knew the Stair was risky, but at least it had been an option. Like a parachute or a fire escape. Some faint hope of escape from disaster.

"You would never reach a favorable destination." said the Lieutenant Keeper.

"Not without a Key, or a well-practiced guide."

"Great," said Arthur dolefully. He carefully put his fingers in his nostrils and his thumb in his mouth. It was difficult to say the spell around his thumb, but possible. He felt a tingling in his nose and throat as he said the words, and at the end of the spell, let out an enormous sneeze that rocked him back on his heels.

"Good!" declared the Lieutenant Keeper as he quickly consulted his watch again. "Now we must return you to your destination. I have done all I can, Arthur Penhaligon, and more than I should. Be brave and take appropriate risks, and you shall prevail."

"But what? please tell someone where I've gone -"

Before Arthur could say any more, the Lieutenant Keeper snapped a salute, turned on his heel to get behind Arthur, and gave him a very hefty push. Arthur, arms cartwheeling, went straight through the strange liquid barrier and once more fell on his hands and knees on the cold stone floor. His left clog came off and clattered away and his hood fell down over his face.

As Arthur struggled with his hood, a bright light shone on him. Arthur looked up and shielded his eyes from a lantern held high by a short, broad figure. The light was shrouded and blurred by the smoke, so for a second Arthur thought he was looking at some sort of pig-man, then he realized it was the thrusting visor of a helmet. The fellow also wore a bronze breastplate over a long leather coat and had a broad, curved sword thrust naked through his belt. More peculiarly, he had what looked like a miniature steam engine in a harness on his back that was sending a steady flow of smoke up behind his neck, and small bursts of steam from out behind his elbows.

That one small engine couldn't possibly be the cause of the thick smoke behind the looming figure. It was like a fog, so heavy that Arthur could only make out fuzzy lights and occasional blurry shapes moving in its midst. Noise was also muffled. Arthur could hear a distant roar, as if there was a crowd somewhere, but he couldn't see it, and there was also a kind of metallic thumping noise that sounded like machinery.

"There's another loose one!" called the lantern-bearer to some unseen companions back in the smoke. He sounded like he didn't have any teeth or there was something wrong with his tongue. Or perhaps it has to do with the helmet.

"Get up!" ordered the steaming, smoking figure.

"You're in the Grim's service now and must stand in the presence of all Overseers."

"I am?" asked Arthur as he slowly stood up, speaking in a quavering voice that was only partly an act. "I hit my head? You're an Overseer?"

The Overseer swore in a language Arthur didn't know. The Key had enabled him to speak all languages of the House, but without it, he had only kept the power to understand the lingua domus that Denizens of the House spoke, not the specialized dialects of each demesne.

"More damaged goods!" the Overseer continued. "Those other Days are always trying it on. Follow me! Obey orders or you'll get steamed."

To demonstrate his warning, the Overseer pulled out a large-bore flintlock pistol - the kind pirates and highwaymen had in films - but this one was connected by a hose to the miniature steam engine on his back. He cocked the flintlock, then pulled the trigger. The lock snapped down, sending a spray of sparks into the air and a whistling blast of steam quite close to Arthur. The boy flinched and jumped aside, to the Overseer's great delight.

"Har! Never seen the like before, have you? Behave and you'll keep some flesh on your scrawny bones."

Arthur jumped again as the Overseer pushed him deeper into the smog. He only had a moment to glance back over his shoulder, to try and fix his location for a later exit. There was a door there, tall and imposing, easily thirty feet high. But it didn't look like the Front Door. It was made of carved wood and showed scenes of a tall, thin man - presumably Grim Tuesday - making things at a forge and a bench, and being worshipped by hundreds of apron-clad disciples. But the scenes were fixed and unmoving, stained with streaks of grime and pitted as if acid had been sprayed across the surface. Nothing like the constantly shifting, colorful, and vibrant images on the Front Door. Clearly this could be the Front Door, because Arthur had come out of it, but it wasn't at the moment. There had to be some secret to its use.

There would be no easy escape through there.

The Overseer pushed Arthur again, shoving him to the right. Arthur saw that he was heading towards the back of a line of sad-looking Denizens that disappeared into the eddying smog. The line was halted, but there was a sudden brief lurch forward as Arthur joined it and a momentary lightening of the smog gave him a brief glimpse of their destination: a long mahogany desk, little more than fifteen yards away, where a Denizen was being presented with a leather apron and a cape that looked even drabber than the one Arthur had.

"Get in line and get yer stuff," said the Overseer with a final push. None of the Denizens looked around as Arthur joined the line. They simply shuffled along, their eyes downcast.

Arthur almost called out that he already had his stuff but he kept his mouth shut. The Overseer might not like his stupidity being publicly announced. Or perhaps there was other stuff being given out as well as the leather aprons and capes. When the Overseer had disappeared back into the deeper smog, Arthur hesitantly tapped the Denizen in front of him on the shoulder. It was a woman, dressed in the sort of strange combination of nineteenth-century clothing that Arthur had seen in the Lower House. This woman had a long, torn dress as the basis of an eccentric outfit that appeared to include at least a dozen scarves wound around her arms and torso.

Arthur's tap on the shoulder didn't have the effect he expected. The Denizen shrank beneath his touch, losing six inches in height without bending her knees. She turned around fearfully, obviously expecting someone much scarier than Arthur.

"Beg pardon, sir," she whispered, tugging at her fringe. "It wasn't my fault, whatever it was."

"Uh, sorry," said Arthur. "I think you've got me confused with someone else. I'm not one of the Overseers or anything. I'm? ah? one of you."

"An indentured worker? You?" whispered the Denizen in amazement. "Then how?"

She made a gesture with her hand pushing down on her head. She was much shorter than she had been before Arthur tapped her.

"Oh, that wasn't me," said Arthur hastily, almost babbling. "I don't know how that happened. Don't think it was anything to do with me. I hit my head and I can't remember anything. Where are we?"

"The Far Reaches," whispered the Denizen. She was still feeling the top of her head and looking puzzled. "Your contract must have been assigned to Grim Tuesday. You're an indentured worker now."

"Sssshhhh!" warned the next Denizen along. "Keep it down! The last person talking got steamed and so did everyone next to him. / don't want to be steamed."

"Where are you from?" whispered Arthur to the woman ahead of him.

"The Upper House. I was a Capital Ornamenter Third Class. I don't understand why I was sent here. I must have done something wrong. Are you one of the Piper's children, or unnaturally shrunk? It does happen here. I didn't think it would happen to me so soon -"

"Quiet!" hissed two Denizens farther up. "Overseer!"

An Overseer lurched out of the smog. He stopped to gaze at the line of Denizens, tapping on his steam-gun with thick, calloused fingers. Arthur saw a ripple of fear pass through the whole line, a kind of slow hunching down that all the Denizens did, while at the same time trying not to show any signs of movement.

The Overseer kept watching for a few seconds, then disappeared back into the smog. As it closed around him, Arthur caught a glimpse of another two or three lines of Denizens, all waiting to be given their basic outfit. There could be even more lines beyond.

No one spoke after the Overseer left. They kept shuffling forward as their turns came. Arthur didn't tap the woman on the shoulder again, fearful of shrinking her even further, and she didn't look around.

When he came to the front of the line, the Denizen behind the desk stopped in mid-action as he was about to hand Arthur a pile of clothing. He was short and shaped rather like a turnip, so stopping made him almost topple over. In order to keep his balance he dropped the clothes and grabbed the table, almost oversetting the name plaque that said supply clerk in tarnished gold-leaf letters.

"You've already got yours!" the clerk gasped.

"Got what?" asked Arthur. Pretending to be stupid seemed the best defense.

"Your apron, leather, one of; cape, rain, stabilized mud with hood, one of; and clogs, wood veneer, one pair," replied the Denizen. "So what do I do?"

"I don't know," said Arthur. "Just let me go on?"

Wherever "on" was. Arthur had been watching carefully, but hadn't been able to work out what happened to the Denizens in front of him after they got their aprons and capes. They marched around the left side of the table and disappeared into still thicker smog. Arthur also couldn't work out where the aprons and capes and clogs came from. The Denizen handing them out appeared to pull them from the solid mahogany tabletop.

"But I don't know if that's allowed," muttered the supply clerk.

"You could ask," piped up the Denizen who was waiting behind Arthur.

"Ask?" hissed the clerk. He looked around nervously. "You never ask anything round here. That only leads to trouble."

"Well, how about you pretend you never saw me and I just go?" suggested Arthur.

"Next!" said the supply clerk, craning his neck to look to the next person in line. Arthur hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to go. The supply clerk scratched his nose and cupped his hand around his mouth so he could whisper, "Around to the left, down the steps."

Arthur walked around the desk to the left and almost fell down the steps, since he didn't see them until he was almost on them. They were broken in parts, deeply coated with soot, and dangerously greasy. As Arthur cautiously made his way down, he tried to dig up some thoughts out of his brain on how to escape. But no bright ideas flared. All he could think of were the Lieutenant Keeper's words: Take appropriate risks.

But what risks were appropriate?

Arthur was still wondering about that when he reached the bottom of the steps. It looked no different from the area above - dark and smoggy, save for a diffused light ahead that could be ten or fifty yards away. Arthur set out for it, his clogs clacking on the stone floor, occasionally waving his arms to dissipate a thick band of nasty-smelling smog. Fortunately, the spell the Lieutenant Keeper had taught him was working and

Arthur was very relieved he'd done it, even though he'd felt stupid sticking his fingers in his nose.

The light came from two lanterns on either end of another wide mahogany desk. This desk was also bare, save for an identical gold-lettered sign that also said supply clerk. The particular clerk behind the desk was even shorter and squatter than the one before. He was so shrunken he only came up to Arthur's waist and was barely visible behind the desk.

As Arthur stopped in front of him, he pulled a smoke-grimed lantern with a badly mended handle out of the desktop, his fingers appearing to actually dip into the wood.

"Strom lantern, self-oiling, one."

"Storm lantern, you mean," said Arthur.

"Says strom lantern in my book," replied the clerk. "Hurry along and join your gang. Just follow the railway tracks behind me. Unless you hear a whistle, in which case, get off the tracks for a while."

"This storm - sorry, strom - lantern is broken," Arthur pointed out.

"They're all broken," sighed the clerk, indicating the lanterns at each end of his desk, which were identical. "That's the pattern. I suppose our lord and master has better things to do than fix up the pattern. No use complaining. I complained once and look what happened."

Arthur stared at the clerk in puzzlement.

"Got downsized, didn't I? I was a foot taller and a Maker Fourth Class before I was stupid enough to complain about badly made strom lanterns. At least I didn't get sent down the Pit. Now off you go before I get into more trouble."

"What's your name?" asked Arthur. This clerk might be a useful contact. At least he talked about Grim Tuesday and the Pit.

"Name! Supply Clerk Twelve Fifty-Two. Now get going before an Overseer shows up! Around the desk and follow the rails."

Arthur turned to go, holding his smoking lantern high. But before he disappeared into the smog, the supply clerk coughed. Arthur turned back.

"Mathias. That was my name," muttered the clerk. "I don't know who you are, but something makes me want to tell you. Good luck in the Pit. You'll need it."