“I collect Outlandish objects,” he said with a great deal of pride. “You must come and see my novelty-teapot collection.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  He sat down and indicated for me to take a chair. “I was sorry to hear about Miss Havisham; she was one of the best operatives Jurisfiction ever had. Will there be a memorial?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “I’ll be sure to send flowers. Welcome to The Judgment of Solomon. It’s arbitration, mainly, a bit of licensing. We need someone to look after the crowds outside. It can get a bit impassioned sometimes.”

  “You’re King Solomon?”

  The old man laughed. “Me? You must be joking! There aren’t enough minutes in the day for one Solomon—as soon as he did that ‘divide the baby in two’ thing, everyone and his uncle wanted him to arbitrate—from corporate takeovers to playground disputes. So he did what any right-thinking businessman would do: he franchised. How else do you think he could afford the temple and the chariots and the navy and whatnot? The land he sold to Hiram of Tyre? Give me a break! My real name’s Kenneth.”

  I looked a little doubtful.

  “I know what you’re thinking. ‘The Judgment of Kenneth’ does sound a bit daft—that’s why we are licensed to give judgments under his name. All aboveboard, I assure you. You have to purchase the cloak and grow a beard and go on the training course, but it works out very well. The real Solomon works from home, but he sticks only to the ultimate riddles of existence these days.”

  “What if a franchisee makes a dishonest judgment?”

  “Very simple.” Kenneth smiled. “The offender will be smitten from on high and forced to spend a painful eternity being tortured mercilessly by sadistic demons from the fieriest depths of hell. Solomon’s very strict about that.”

  “I see.”

  “Good. Let’s see the first punter.”

  I went to the door and asked for ticket holder number 32. A small man with a briefcase walked with me up to Kenneth’s table. His knees became quite weak by the time he arrived, but he managed to contain himself.

  “Name?”

  “Mr. Toves from Text Grand Central, Your Eminence.”

  “Reason?”

  “I need to ask for more exemptions from the ‘I before E except after C’ rule.”

  “More?”

  “It’s part of the upgrade to Ultra Word™, Your Honor.”

  “Very well, go ahead.”

  “Feisty.”

  “Approved.”

  “Feigned.”

  “Approved.”

  “Weighty.”

  “Approved.”

  “Believe.”

  “Not approved.”

  “Reigate.”

  “Approved.”

  “That’s it for the moment,” said the small man, passing his papers across for Kenneth to sign.

  “It is The Judgment of Solomon,” said Kenneth slowly, “that these words be exempt from Rule 7b of the arbitrary spelling code as ratified by the Council of Genres.”

  He stamped the paper and the small man scurried off.

  “What’s next?”

  But I was thinking. Although I had been told repeatedly to ignore the three witches, their premonition about Reigate being exempted from the “I before E except after C” rule had just come true. Come to think of it, they had all come true. The “blinded dog”—the real Shadow—had barked, the “hedgepig”—Mrs. Tiggy-winkle—had ironed, and Mrs. Passerby from Shadow the Sheepdog had cried, “ ’Tis time, ’tis time!” There must be something in it. But there were two other prophecies. One, I was to be the Bellman, which seemed unlikely in the extreme, and two, I was to beware the “thrice-read rule.” What the hell did that mean?

  “I’m a busy man,” said Kenneth, glaring at me, “I don’t need daydreamers!”

  “I’m sorry, I was thinking of something the three witches told me.”

  “Charlatans! And worse—the competition.”

  “Sorry. What do you know of the thrice-read rule?”

  “Is this a professional consultation?” he asked, sitting back and twiddling his thumbs.

  “Staff freebie?” I asked hopefully.

  Solomon laughed. “Never heard of any thrice-read rule. Now, you can do me a favor: if you see the three witches again, try and pinch their mailing list. In the meantime, can we have the next customer?”

  I ushered them in. It was several characters from Wuthering Heights and they were all glaring at one another so much they didn’t even recognize me. Heathcliff was wearing dark glasses and saying nothing; he was accompanied by his agent and a lawyer.

  “Proceed!”

  “Wuthering Heights first-person narrative dispute,” said the lawyer, placing a sheet of paper on the table.

  “Let me see,” said Kenneth slowly, studying the report. “Mr. Lockwood, Catherine Earnshaw, Heathcliff, Nelly Dean, Isabella and Catherine Linton. Are you all here?”

  They nodded their heads. Heathcliff looked over his sunglasses at me and winked.

  “Well,” murmured Kenneth at length, “you all believe that you should have the first-person narrative, is that it?”

  “No, Your Worshipfulness,” said Nelly Dean, “ ’tis the otherways. None of us want it. It’s a curse to any honest Generic—and some not so honest.”

  “Hold your tongue, serving girl!” yelled Heathcliff.

  “Murderer!”

  “Say that again!”

  “You heard me!”

  And they all started to yell at one another until Kenneth banged his gavel on the desk and they were all instantly quiet. The Judgment of Solomon was the last form of arbitration; there was no appeal from here and they all knew it.

  “It is The Judgment of Solomon that . . . you should all have the first-person narrative.”

  “What?!” yelled Mr. Lockwood. “What kind of loopy idea is that? How can we all be the first person?”

  “It is fair and just,” replied Kenneth, placing his fingertips together and staring at them all serenely.

  “What will we do?” asked Catherine sarcastically. “Talk at the same time?”

  “No,” replied Kenneth. “Mr. Lockwood, you will introduce the story, and you, Nelly, will tell the major part of it in deep retrospection; the others will have your say in the following ratios.”

  Kenneth scribbled on the back of an envelope, signed it and handed it over. They all grumbled for a bit, Nelly Dean the most.

  “Mrs. Dean,” said Kenneth, “you are, for better or worse, the single linking factor for all the families. Consider yourself lucky I did not give the whole book to you. It is The Judgment of Solomon—now go!”

  And they all filed out, Nelly complaining bitterly while Heathcliff strode ahead, ignoring all the others.

  “That was quite good,” I said as soon as they had left.

  “Do you think so?” asked Kenneth, genuinely pleased by my praise. “Judgmenting is not for everyone, but I quite like it. The trick is to be scrupulously fair and just—you could do with a few Solomon franchises in the Outland. Tell me, do you think Lola will be going to the Bookie Awards next week?”

  “You know Lola?”

  “Let’s just say I have made her acquaintance in the course of my duties.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be there—on the chicklit table, I should imagine—she’s starring in Girls Make All the Moves.”

  “Is she really?” he said slowly. “Who’s next?”

  “I don’t know; it depends on the choice available. Sometimes she goes through them alphabetically, other times in order of height.”

  “Not Lola, next for me.”

  “Sorry,” I said, flushing slightly, “I’ll go and get them.”

  It was Emperor Zhark. He seemed surprised to see me and told me what a great agent Miss Havisham had been. I walked him in, and he and Kenneth both stopped when they saw each other. They had clearly met before—but not for some time.

  “Zhark!” cried Kenneth, walking around to the front of the desk and offering the emperor a Havana cigar. “You old troublemaker! Haven’t seen you for ages! What are you up to?”

  “Tyrannical ruler of the known galaxy,” he replied modestly.

  “Get away! Old ‘Slippery Zharky,’ the class sneak of form 5C at St. Tabularasa’s? Who’d have thought it!”

  “It’s Emperor Zhark, now, old chum,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Glad to hear it. Whatever happened to Captain Ahab? Haven’t seen him since we left school.”

  “Ahab?” queried the emperor, brow furrowed.

  “You remember. One leg and madder than the March Hare. Set fire to his own trousers for a bet and stocked the school pond with piranhas.”

  “Oh, him. Last I heard he was convinced a white whale was after him—but that was years ago. We should have a reunion; one falls out of touch so easily in the BookWorld.”

  “Don’t I know it,” returned Kenneth sadly.

  They sat in silence for a moment, recalling various school-friends, I imagine.

  “So, Zharky old stick, how can I help you?”

  “It’s the Rambosians,” he said at last, “they just refuse to cede power to me.”

  “How awkward for you. Is there any reason why they should?”

  “Stability, old man, stability. The Rambosians have been responsible for numerous acts of savage satire in the Galactic Federation’s daily tabloid Stars My Destination. They lampoon me constantly and the cartoons are shockingly insulting.”

  “So you want to invade?”

  “Of course not; that would be wasteful of resources—no, I want them to open their arms and worship me as their one true God. They will give ultimate executive power to me, and in return, I will protect them with the might of the Zharkian Empire.”

  “Hmm,” replied Kenneth thoughtfully, “that wouldn’t be because the planet Rambosia is composed of eighteen trillon tons of valuable A-grade nutmeg, now would it?”

  “Not in the least,” replied the emperor unconvincingly.

  “Very well. It is The Judgment of Solomon that you make peace with the Rambosians.”

  “What?!”

  The emperor jumped to his feet and went as dark as a thundercloud. He jabbed a long, slender finger in Kenneth’s direction. Anywhere in the Zharkian Empire books such an action would have spelt instant death. Kenneth merely raised an eyebrow.

  “You’ll never play golf at the Old White Male Club again,” yelled Zhark. “I’ll have you blackballed so far out you won’t be able to get your hat checked even if you come in the company of the Great Panjandrum himself!”

  And so saying, he threw his cloak behind him, made a large huff noise, turned on his heels and strode to the door.

  “Well,” said Kenneth, “tyrants are all the same—shocking temper when they don’t get their own way! Who’s next?”

  30.

  Revelations

  Commander Bradshaw did much of the booksploring in the early years, before the outlying Rebel Book Categories were brought within the controlling sphere of the Council of Genres. Inexplicably, novels can only be visited when someone has found a way in—and a way out. Bradshaw’s mapping of the known BookWorld (1927–49) was an extraordinary feat, and until the advent of the ISBN Positioning System (1962), Bradshaw’s maps were the only travel guide to fiction. Not all booksploring ends so happily. Ambrose Bierce was lost trying to access Poe. His name, along with many others, is carved on the Boojumorial, situated in the lobby of the Great Library.

  RONAN EMPYRE,

  A History of Gibbons

  I COULDN’T FIND THE three witches, no matter how hard I looked. Their prophecies bothered me but not enough to keep me from sleeping soundly that night. It was two days later that I came home from a long day of Solomon’s judgments to find Arnie waiting for me. He and Randolph were drinking some beers in the kitchen and talking about the correct time to use a long dash to designate interrupted speech.

  “You can use it any—”

  “Arnie, I owe you an apology,” I said, blushing and forgetting my manners, “you must think me the worst tease in the Well.”

  “No, that would be Lola. Forget it. Gran explained everything. How are you? Memories returned?”

  “All present and correct.”

  “Good. Dinner sometime—as good friends, of course?” he added hastily.

  “I’d love to, Arnie. And thanks for being . . . so . . . well, decent.”

  He smiled and looked away.

  “Beer?” said Randolph, who seemed to have recovered from his Lola-induced trauma.

  “Anything nonalcoholic?”

  He passed me a carton of orange juice and I poured myself a glass.

  “Are you going to tell her?” said Arnie.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I didn’t get the Amis part,” began Randolph, “but I’ve been shortlisted for a minor speaking appearance in the next Wolfe.”

  “That’s excellent news!” I responded happily. “When?”

  “Sometime in the next couple of years. I’m going to do some standing-in work until then; the C of G has opened up travel writing as holiday destinations for Generics—no more away-day breaks in Barsetshire. I’m to cover for Count Smorltork while he goes on holiday for two weeks in Wainwright’s A Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Randolph thanked me but was still somehow distant. He stared out of the porthole at the lake, deep in thought.

  “What about you?” asked Arnie. “What will you do? Your demotion is all over the Well!”

  “It’s not a demotion. Well, perhaps it is.”

  “Word is that Harris Tweed is up to be the next Bellman,” murmured Arnie, “despite his low experience. Jurisfiction favors an Outlander.”

  “What’s so special about Outlanders?” asked Randolph.

  “I think the C of G like our independence. We are not bound to our narrative, nor—in theory—do we favor one genre over another.”

  “And memories,” murmured Arnie wistfully. “Love to be able to remember a childhood. Any childhood.”

  “Sense of smell, too,” I added.

  Randolph picked up the copy of The Little Prince that had been lying on the table and placed it on his nose.

  “Under your nose,” I told him, “and inhale deeply.”

  Randolph inhaled deeply and then exhaled. He looked confused. “What’s meant to happen?”

  “You kind of taste it in your head. Here.”

  I took the book and sniffed at it delicately. I had expected the odor of leather, but instead I could smell sweet melons—cantaloupes. I was transported back to the last time I had come across this particular scent: the odd boxy truck in Caversham Heights. The truck without texture, the automaton driver without personality. Something clicked.

  “It was an UltraWord™ truck,” I murmured, searching through my bag for the angular and textureless bolt I had picked up after the truck had departed. I found it and sniffed at it cautiously, my mind racing as I tried to think of a connection.

  “If this is anything to go by,” said Arnie, flicking through the pages of The Little Prince, “then the readers are in for a treat.”

  “They are indeed,” I replied as Randolph tried to open the cover—but couldn’t.

  I took it from him and the book opened easily. I handed it back but the cover was still stuck fast.

  “Odd,” I muttered as Arnie opened it again without any problem.

  “It’s Havisham’s copy,” I said slowly, “she’s read it, and me, and now you.”

  “A book which only three people can read!” observed Randolph scornfully. “A bit mean, I must say!”

  “Only three readers,” I murmured, my heart going cold as I recalled the three witches’ prophecy: Beware the thrice-read rule! Perhaps the new operating system was not quite the egalitarian advance it claimed—if it was really the case that Ultra Word™ books could only be opened by three people, then libraries would be a thing of the past. Secondhand bookshops closed overnight. You could only lend a book twice. I thought of the increased revenue that might be generated from such a commercially useful attribute and shook my head sadly. I had been right. There was something rotten in the state of fiction!

  “Thursday?” asked Arnie. “Are you okay?”

  I put The Little Prince down. “Yes—just one of those epiphanic moments that fiction seems to be littered with.”

  “Ah!” said Randolph knowledgeably. “We learnt all about those at Tabularasa’s.”

  I got up and walked about the kitchen, thinking hard. The angular truck, the strange bolt? What did that all mean? I shivered. If something was so insidiously wrong with the new upgrade that they would kill to keep it quiet, then the “thrice-read rule” was just the beginning—after all, a timed readblock would only affect readers in the Outland—it wouldn’t affect the BookWorld at all. There had to be more.

  “Problems?” asked Arnie, sensing my disquiet.

  “It’s the Ultra Word™ upgrade.”

  “Bad?”

  “The worst. I was removed from Jurisfiction for a reason—who other than the grieving apprentice to ask awkward questions? Miss Havisham was sure there was something wrong with Ultra Word™. Her death proves it.”

  “I think at best it only suggests it,” declared Randolph, who had obviously been studying law as part of his Amis bit part. “Without any evidence it will be hard to prove. Did she or any of the others say anything to you about it?”

  I thought hard. “From Havisham and Perkins—nothing. And all I got from Snell was gobbledygook on his deathbed. He might have told me everything, but it was so badly spelled I didn’t understand a word.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Thirsty! Wode—Cone, udder whirled—doughnut Trieste—!’ or something quite like it.”

  Arnie exchanged looks with Randolph.

  “The Thirsty must be Thursday,” murmured Arnie.

  “I figured that,” I returned, “but what about the rest?”

  “Do you suppose,” said Randolph thoughtfully, “that if you were to recite those words near a source of mispeling, they would revert back again?”