“Are all the dimensional doors and gateways properly shut down and closed off?” I said, when I could get a word in edgeways.
“For the moment, yes. But if the soulbomber should go boom! all bets are off. We can’t predict the outcome because there’s never been a soulbomb explosion next to a dimensional door before. (I checked before I came in here. Went to the Library, and everything.) There was a soulbomb explosion some twenty-odd years ago, in Tokyo’s fabled Sinister Zone. Blew it right out of reality. Just a bloody big crater now, with energies radiating in all directions that can mutate your DNA if you even think about going to take a look at it. The Japanese have been throwing all kinds of lizards into it, hoping they’ll mutate into giant forms ... They do love their cinema, the Japanese. (I like the Muppets.) (Has anyone noticed it’s getting cold in here? I should have brought a scarf.)”
“Has a soulbomb ever exploded in the Nightside?” I said, frowning.
“Not ... as such, Mr. Taylor. In fact, I’m really quite curious to observe what might happen here. (From a distance.) (A safe distance.) (Why are we still standing round talking?) I could learn all kinds of fascinating things. (From a distance.) (Yes, we’ve established that.)”
“Can you tell me anything about the soulbomber himself?” I said desperately. “What kind of a man is he?”
“Troubled, clearly. (Looney Tunes.) (Bit harsh ...) The subject is male, middle-aged, no wedding ring. Could be a midlife crisis. (Should have bought a Porsche, like everyone else.) Didn’t have much to say for himself, just Go away and Where’s John Taylor? He seemed determined enough, in a quiet way. (Stubborn.) No signs of fear or uncertainty. No hysterics. I couldn’t get close enough to run medical scans, but he seemed physically sound.”
“Do me one last favour,” I said. “Run one last scan of the Emporium; check for mechanical or magical booby-traps.”
“Way ahead of you, Mr. Taylor. Done and done. I am a professional, after all. It’s all quiet; nothing here that shouldn’t be. And I am now leaving the Emporium, while the leaving is good. (I’m gonna leave old Durham town ...) I may even leave the Nightside, to be on the safe side. Not that I doubt your abilities, Mr. Taylor, but there are limits to how professional I’m prepared to be. If the dimensional doors go down ... (There are those who say ...) (No, there aren’t; you’re thinking of something else.)”
“The Emporium does have a lot of protections in place,” I said.
“Oh yes, Mr. Taylor. Absolutely and quite definitely, there are many protections in place. First-class protections, magical and scientific. Unfortunately, someone has shut them all down. Every last one of them. In advance. (Makes you think, doesn’t it?) Good-bye, Mr. Taylor. Best of luck. Soulbomber’s down that way; keep going, you can’t miss him.”
“Any last advice?”
“Try not to upset him.”
He hurried off, and I was left alone in the Emporium. Just me, and the soulbomber.
I’d never known the Emporium to be so still, so silent. Like the calm before the storm. I headed for the centre of the mall, following Alistair Hoob’s directions. My footsteps seemed to echo increasingly loudly on the quiet, carrying news of my progress. The lights shone as brightly as ever, fierce and characterless fluorescent light, and there were no shadows anywhere. But it felt as though there were. For all the intense illumination, it felt like I was walking into darkness.
I could feel the weight of Excalibur, invisibly scabbarded on my back. It was a comforting feeling, like it was watching my back and holding my hand, a companion in my time of need. But it also felt like it was trying to warn me of something. No words; only this feeling that there was something very bad here, apart from the soulbomber. But sometimes you have to suck it up and walk into the trap if that’s what it takes to get to the heart of the matter. I slowed my pace, wandering along quite casually, looking into the shop-windows. Never let them know they’ve got you worried. I surreptitiously checked every doorway and every side passage as I came to them, just in case; but there was never anyone there.
Some of the goods on display were quite interesting. The Elizabethan Goode Foode Shoppe, offering hedgehog in clay, coney on a stick, hedgerow salad soup (every dish a surprise!), puffin flambé. And jugged venison, in very large jugs. Given what some of our ancestors ate in the past, it amazes me that any of us are here.
The Twenty-Second Century Magik Shop had a special sale on Pickled Pixies, Flying Slippers, Old Ones Repellent, and a new exorcism plug-in for your computer. I lingered a while before the window of a specialist bookshop called Pornucopia, which sold specially bound editions of the private pornography written by famous authors, for their own pleasure, never intended for publication. But once you’re dead, it’s all fair game, so ... Miss Marple at the Isle of Lesbos, Lady Chatterly’s Gang Bang, and Barbara Cartland’s Strap-on Frenzy.
Sometimes I think if it wasn’t for bad taste, the Mammon Emporium wouldn’t have any taste at all. I made a mental note to look back later. If there was a later.
I realised my path was taking me right past the Emporium’s one and only real oracle, so I decided to pay it a quiet visit. On a mission like this, information is ammunition. The oracle doesn’t look like much: just a traditional stone-walled wishing well, with a circle of stained glass round it, a patchy red slate roof, and a bucket on a chain. It couldn’t be more tacky if it tried. A sign in appallingly twee language invited you to throw a coin into the well, make a wish, and toss your worries away. Whoever wrote that clearly knew nothing about oracles. Officially, it was all a harmless bit of fun for the kiddies. What better disguise for one of the few truly reliable oracles in the Nightside? I had approached it for help once before and knew better than to expect anything actually helpful. Like everyone else in the Nightside, the oracle had its own agenda.
The well knew I was coming before I did. I hadn’t even turned the corner when it called out to me.
“Well, well, the one and only John Taylor; which is just as well because I don’t think I could stand it if there were more of you. Your entire existence plays merry hell with the time-lines. Look over there in the corner; see that woman, crying her eyes out? That’s Fate, that is. Hello again, John. Knew you’d be back.”
“I never knew an oracle that was so in love with its own voice,” I said. “Now do me a favour and keep your voice down. The soulbomber isn’t far from here, and we really don’t want to upset him.”
“I know! I know he’s there, and I know why he’s there, which is more than you do. I know everything. Or at least, everything that matters, and I fake the rest. I even know what you’re going to ask before you ask it, and you really aren’t going to like the answers.”
“Tell me anyway,” I said, leaning heavily on its stone wall. “What can you tell me about this soulbomber?”
“Cross my palm with silver, sweetie, and I shall unfold wonders and marvels ...”
“Cut the crap. I’m not a tourist. You haven’t got a palm, and no-one’s used silver coins for years. You get the usual—one drop of blood, and that’s it.”
“You have no sense of drama.”
I pricked the tip of my left index finger with the sliver of unicorn’s horn I carry in my lapel to warn against poisons and let one fat drop of blood fall into the dark interior of the well. The oracle made a really disgusting satisfied sound, and I winced despite myself.
“All right, you old ham,” I said. “You’ve had your payment, now answer the question. What do I have to do to stop the soulbomber?”