The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [418]
“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