The Garden of Unearthly Delights (23 page)

Maxwell
now stood upon the top of
this
hill. And it has to be said, there was
not the vaguest hint of surprise to be found in the expression on his face for
the fact that absolutely no City of
Rameer
whatsoever dwelt in the valley below.

There
was, however, an expression of such black fury, as would be better left without
closer description.

As the golden sun sank
slowly in the west, Maxwell trudged bitterly up yet another hill. He was on
foot once more — Black Bess had thrown a shoe — and no longer did he cut the
dashing figure that he had cut earlier in the day. Maxwell’s head was down. His
fine substantial boots, which he had been carrying in the magic pouch, were now
back on his feet. The suit of  golden armour was stashed in the magic pouch.
The pouch was in Maxwell’s trouser pocket.

Maxwell
swore and grumbled as he toiled up the rugged track, finally to reach the
hilltop and gaze over the darkening landscape that lay before.

The
last light of the day touched down upon roof-tops, chimneys, danced upon
gables, a weather-vane.

The
City of
Raxneer
!

It was
not the City of
Rameer
.

It was
a coaching inn.

Maxwell
marched down the hillside, followed by the limping horse. Now seething with
fury, Maxwell determined that he had done with all hills for the day. Tonight
he would enjoy the comforts of the inn. He  had discovered a purse full of gold
coins in one of the saddle-bags, and now, he felt, was the time to squander
them upon whatever luxuries this inn had to offer. Good ale. Good food. A good
hot bath. A cosy bed. A barmaid with a thing about knights, perhaps?

Maxwell
marched down the track and presently reached the inn yard.

A
number of horses were tethered there. A welcoming glow showed through bottle
glass windows,  set beneath low eaves. The inn sign was illuminated  by lighted
lanthorns. It read, THE PROSPECT OF RAMEER.

‘Yes!’
said Maxwell. ‘Praise the Goddess.’

Now
shivering in his shirtsleeves, he tethered the horse, gave her an encouraging
pat, then strode across the yard and entered the inn.

If
rustic Tudoresque without, the inn was not so within.

It had
more the look of some elegant twentieth-century wine bar.

The
floor was tiled in travertine, the tables topped in teak. Some framed
architectural prints hung upon walls stencilled with lilac lattice over peachy
pink. A number of folk, neatly dressed in colourful attire, were arranged in
pleasing compositions, chatting, sipping drinks. Some discoursed at tables,
others at the bar counter, which was of polished slate and behind which stood
the innkeeper.

A thin
man was he, with narrow shoulders, an overlarge head and a jutting brow, black
hair in a centre parting and a tiny black moustache. His get-up was informal:
white shirt, knitted cardy, grey slacks. He raised an eyebrow as Maxwell
approached, but looked otherwise jolly enough.

‘Good
evening, sir,’ said the innkeeper. ‘How exactly may I help you?’

‘I
require four things,’ said Maxwell politely.

‘Four,’
the barman nodded. ‘The cardinal number which is the sum of three and one. Four
I like, please go ahead.’

‘Thank
you. Firstly I require someone to tend my horse which has thrown a shoe.’

‘Absolutely
no problem at all, I will send my groom to deal with it. Secondly?’

‘Secondly
I require a bed for the night.’

‘It
will be a pleasure to accommodate you, I will have the maid prepare our finest
room.’

‘Thirdly’,
said Maxwell, ‘I need to know the precise whereabouts of a place I believe to
be near by.’

‘I have
lived here all my life,’ said the barman, ‘and am acquainted with the terrain
for many miles about.’

‘Splendid.
And fourthly I would like some ale.’

‘Ah,’
the innkeeper paused.
‘Which
ale would that be,
exactly?’

‘I
don’t mind,’ said Maxwell. ‘Any ale you have.’

The
innkeeper shook his head. ‘I take great pride in my work, sir,’ said he, ‘and I
consider it my bounden duty to serve the weary traveller with
exactly
what
he, or she requires.’

‘Nice
sentiment,’ said Maxwell.

‘Thank
you, sir. There are those who consider that the degree of exactitude I employ
is over pedantic. But as I always say, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing
well.’

‘I do
so agree.’

‘So,
sir, do you like a very strong ale or a very weak one?’

‘Something
in between,’ said Maxwell.

The
innkeeper fingered his tiny moustache. ‘Very dark or very light?’

‘Don’t
mind,’ said Maxwell. ‘Which would you recommend?’

‘That’s
hardly for me to say, sir. I do not wish to impose my preferences upon you.’

‘How
about something in between, then?’ said Maxwell.

‘Still
as pond water or fizzy as sherbet?’

‘In
between once more,’ said Maxwell. The innkeeper nodded his head approvingly.
‘Now,’ said he. ‘A pint or a half-pint?’

‘Tell
me,’ said Maxwell, ‘how close do you think I am to actually getting served?’

‘Close,
sir, very close. Did you say a pint or a half-pint?’

‘A
pint,’ said Maxwell. ‘Definitely a pint.’

‘Fine.
If we were out of pint pots would you object strongly to taking your ale in two
half-pint glasses?’

‘Not at
all,’ said Maxwell.

‘Some
would,’ said the innkeeper.

‘Perhaps
they would not be so desperate for an ale as
I.
’ Maxwell frowned hard at the innkeeper.

The
innkeeper nodded once more. ‘So, let us summarize. You require an ale which is
neither too strong nor too weak, neither very dark nor very light, neither
still as pond water nor fizzy as sherbet. And you don’t mind whether you have
it in a pint pot or two half-pint glasses.’

‘Sounds
exactly
what I’m after,’ said Maxwell.

‘Fine,
fine, fine.’ The innkeeper clapped his hands. ‘Jack,’ he called to the potman,
‘pint of ale over here for this gentleman.’

Maxwell
looked from the potman, who was now pulling a pint, back to the innkeeper who
was smiling upon him.

‘You
didn’t tell him
which
ale I wanted,’ said Maxwell.

We only
do the one, sir.’

‘But
what if I’d wanted a very strong one?’

‘You
didn’t’

‘Or a
very dark one.’

‘You
didn’t’

‘Or… Oh, forget it.’

The
potman served Maxwell’s ale in a pint pot.

‘Aha!’
cried Maxwell in a voice of triumph. ‘I thought you said two half—pint
glasses.’

‘No,
sir. I said, if you recall, would you object strongly to taking your ale in two
half-pint glasses. That was nothing to do with the other questions which were
aimed specifically at identifying the exact sort of ale you required.
That
was
for a private survey I’m doing. I hope to go into the hotel business eventually
and what I always say is, he who never questions, never learns.’

‘Do you
indeed?’ Maxwell pulled Percy’s purse from his pocket and paid for his pint in
pennies.

‘Perfect,’
said the innkeeper. ‘Enjoy your ale.’

Maxwell
took a swig. It tasted pretty good.
Really
good, in fact. But then, of
course, it was
exactly
what he’d asked for. Maxwell tried to recall the
last time he’d actually drunk a pint of beer. It had to have been in The
Shrunken Head on the day of the Great Transition, when the old aeon became the
new. And that was nearly one hundred years ago.

Maxwell
knocked back his pint and ordered another. He’d been taking abstinence to a
quite unreasonable extreme.

‘Now,’
said he, when his new pint was presented. ‘I wonder if you can help me
regarding the
exact
location of the destination towards which Pm bound
upon most urgent business.’

‘You
can rely on me, sir. Cartography is a hobby of mine, the study of lands both
near and distant. As a man needs to know his place in the universal scheme of
things, so too is it essential that he should know exactly
where
he is
when he’s doing the knowing. I have a fascination for exactitudes. Some might
say an obsession.’

‘Not
me,’ said Maxwell. ‘I always say, a man must have a hobby.’

‘No,
sir, it’s a
boy
must have a hobby. A man must do what a man must do.’

‘Right,’
said Maxwell. ‘Now what I wish to know, and this is where your fascination for
exactitudes is really going to pay big dividends, is this: where is the City of
Rameer
?’

The
innkeeper laughed. ‘No problem there, sir. The City of
Rameer
lies over yonder hill.’

‘No!’
Maxwell slammed down his pint pot. ‘All afternoon I have heard that. Over
yonder hill! I have been over every bloody yonder hill for miles. I want to
know
exactly
where it is.’

‘It’s
over yonder hill,’ said the innkeeper.

‘Which
yonder hill?’

‘The
yonder hill.’

‘Ale please,’
called a fellow at the end of the bar.

‘Excuse
me, sir, I have to serve a customer.’ The innkeeper sauntered away from the now
fuming Maxwell. ‘Exactly which ale would you like, sir?’ he asked.

‘Don’t
fuck about with me, Tom,’ said the fellow. ‘I’m a regular here.’

‘Sorry,
Frank.’

Maxwell
turned to the fellow called Frank. ‘Good evening to you,’ he said.

‘I’ve
known better,’ said Frank. ‘There was the summer of eighty-nine. We had some
evenings then, I remember. One in particular I recall was—’

‘Yes,’
said Maxwell. ‘Now, no doubt you overheard the conversation I’ve been having
with the innkeeper here.

The
innkeeper nodded politely.

Frank
nodded also. ‘I think you’ve been doing very well,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen grown
men tear their hair out trying to get a bacon sandwich. There was this sales
rep from the brewery once who—’

‘Do
you
know where the City of
Rameer
is?’ Maxwell asked.

‘Of
course I do. Everyone around here does.’

‘So,
where
is it?’

‘It’s
over yonder hill.’

Maxwell
swung a fist, chinned Frank and knocked him to the floor.

The
patrons of the inn looked up from their conversations and clicked disapproving
tongues.

‘I’ll
have to ask you to desist from that kind of behaviour, sir,’ said the
innkeeper. ‘We have no truck with bullygarves or blumpits here.’

‘All
right,’ said Maxwell, putting up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. It was the heat of the
moment.’ He helped Frank from the floor. ‘I’ve had a rough day,’ he explained.
‘Allow me to pay for your pint.’

‘Rough
day?’ said Frank, testing for loose teeth.

‘Don’t
talk to me about rough days. I remember back in seventy-three, it was a
Wednesday I recall and—’

‘Twenty-seven
pence,’ said the innkeeper, presenting Frank with his pint.

‘But
you charged
me
thirty,’ said Maxwell.

‘So I
did, sir. Then thirty it is.’

Maxwell
shook his head. ‘Now listen,’ he said to Frank, ‘I will ask you politely, just
one more time. Where is the City of
Rameer
?’

‘It’s
over—’

‘No,’
Maxwell clamped his hand over Frank’s mouth.
‘Exactly
where?’ He opened
his fingers.

‘—yonder—’

‘No.
One more time.’

‘—hill,’
said Frank.

Maxwell
raised a fist.

Frank
took to flinching. ‘Don’t hit me again. You asked where it is and I’ve told
you.’

‘It
hasn’t helped,’ said Maxwell.

‘Well,
it’s a stupid question. Like, how high is the sky, or which way will the wind
blow tomorrow.’

‘It’s
north,’ said the innkeeper.

‘What?’
said Maxwell. ‘The City of
Rameer
is north?’

‘No,
the wind. The wind will blow north tomorrow.’

‘I bet
it won’t,’ said Frank. ‘I bet it will blow north-east, it always does at this
time of year. Except for the big blow of sixty-eight. I recall—’

‘Frank,’
said Maxwell, ‘if you don’t tell me exactly where the City of
Rameer
is, right now, I will kill you
where you stand.’