The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [416]
“Thursday Next reporting for duty.”
“Ah!” he said, rising and giving me a hand to shake. “The Outlander. Is it true that—out there—two or more people can talk at the same time?”
“In the Outland it happens all the time.”
“And do cats do anything else but sleep?”
“Not really.”
“I see. And what do you make of this?”
He lifted a small traffic cone onto his desk and presented it with a dramatic flourish.
“It’s . . . it’s a traffic cone.”
“Something of a rarity, yes?”
I chose my words carefully. “In many areas of the Outland they are completely unknown.”
“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!