‘It says here that most foreign currency is earned through jeopardy tourism,’ said Perkins, reading from Enjoy the unspoilt charms of the Cambrian Empire without death or serious injury. ‘People after excitement and adventure, even if it means possible loss of life.’
‘I guess that’s where this bunch are going,’ I said, indicating the steady stream of men and women eagerly queuing to cross into the nation.
‘For some it will be for the last time,’ said Perkins. ‘It says here tourism mortality rates haven’t dropped below eighteen per cent in the past nine decades.’
I looked again at the queue of tourists. If what Perkins said was correct, eighteen out of every hundred people wouldn’t be coming back.
‘My father sold Emperor Tharv an option on my daughter for his son,’ said the Princess absently.
‘You don’t have any children,’ said Perkins, ‘and neither does Emperor Tharv. How could Tharv offer the hand of a son he doesn’t yet have?’
‘It’s called “dabbling in the princess options market”,’ she replied, ‘and it’s not uncommon. In fact, a third of the Emperor’s private income is earned on marriage trading options. Only last year he paid fifty thousand moolah for an option on the hand of my second daughter if I had one, for his son, if he has one. His son doesn’t have to take up the option, but if he does it’ll cost him a further million. Nice little earner for us and good for the palace coffers. For Emperor Tharv, he has now gambled on not only securing a good marriage for his grandson at a competitive price, but also gained a tradable asset – he can sell that option to anyone he pleases. If I actually have a second daughter the option jumps in value, and if she turns out to be beautiful, clever and witty, Tharv can make more money from selling the option. Conversely, if my second daughter turns out to be a vapid, airheaded little dingbat, his option value sinks to nothing.’
‘So that’s how the options market works,’ said Perkins, ‘and there was I, thinking it was complex.’
‘Is that why queens have so many children?’ I asked. ‘For the option rights?’
‘Exactly so,’ said the Princess. ‘The King of Shropshire managed to build most of his nation’s motorway network by the trading options on his twenty-nine children.’
There was a pause.
‘I don’t suppose,’ began Perkins, ‘you know anything about Collateralised Debt Obligations, do you?’
‘Of course,’ said the Princess, who seemed to be oddly at ease with complex financial transactions. ‘First you must understand that loss-making financial mechanisms can be sold to offset—’
Luckily we were saved that particular explanation as a Skybus Aeronautics delivery truck was allowed out, and they waved us into the border post of the Cambrian Empire.
The Cambrian Empire
I pulled forward and wound down the window as the border guard moved towards us. It was only then that I noticed that the Helping Hand™ was still firmly attached to the steering wheel. This was illegal magical contraband, and likely to be confiscated. Without time to remove it, I hid my own hand high in my cuff and pretended the Helping Hand™ was my own. The border guard stopped by the driver’s-side window and looked at me suspiciously.
‘Hello!’ I said brightly.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said, looking at me again, then at the car. ‘Is this … a Bugatti Royale?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the chassis number?’
‘41.151,’ I replied, since it was what everyone asked me, along with the body type, offering a stiff admonishment for using it as a daily driver. Apparently the Bugatti Royale is quite rare but, well, we need a car, and it is a car first and foremost.
‘I see,’ said the guard, ‘and why is one of your hands really hairy and like a man’s?’
I lifted my arm and the Helping Hand™ – as its name would suggest – did as it was meant to do – help. The hand moved with my arm, and with the join hidden by my sleeve, the hand looked eerily as though it were attached to me.
‘I lost my own in a car accident,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘This one belonged to a landship engineer who was accidentally dragged into the number-three engine. All they could salvage of him was an ear, this hand and a left leg, which is currently doing useful service attached to a bus conductor somewhere in Sheffield. I’ve not heard where the ear is these days.’
‘And the tattoo about pies?’ he asked, referring to the ‘No More Pies’ tattoo on the back of the hand.
‘You know, we never did find out.’
‘Okay,’ said the guard, who seemed to have fallen for my capacity for invention, ‘papers?’
I handed him our IDs and personal injury waivers, something that is mandatory for all visitors to the risk-desirable nation. He stared at them for a moment.
‘Purpose of visit?’
‘Negotiation for the safe release of a friend,’ I said, showing him the letter from the Cambrian Empire’s Kidnap Clearance House, ‘but before that, a day or two of holiday in the Empty Quarter – who knows, we might even indulge in some mid-level jeopardy.’
He looked at us all and then saluted smartly.
‘Welcome to the Cambrian Empire. There’s a Tourist Information Office down the road where you can decide which particularly perilous pursuit you’d like to attempt first.’
I thanked him and drove the half-mile down the road to where the small border town of Whitney was doing a brisk trade preparing tourists for their excursions. The shops sold supplies, maps, guidebooks and ‘Get Me Out of Here’ emergency escape package deals at grossly inflated prices, and parked on the street were a parade of armoured four-wheel-drive trucks, ready to take visitors off into the interior. I parked the Bugatti and turned off the engine.
‘Keep an eye on the car, one of you,’ I said. ‘I’m going to find a guide.’
I climbed out of the car and headed for the Tourist Information Office. I hadn’t gone five paces when I was accosted by young backpacker carrying a guitar. He was wearing a baggy shirt open to the chest, flip-flops, fashionably ripped jeans, and beads woven into his blond hair.
‘Hey, Dragonslayer babe.’
‘I’m on holiday,’ I said, well used to being recognised in public.
‘The name’s Curtis,’ said Curtis. ‘Want to hang out, play some guitar, talk about the latest fashions, the best places to be seen, and just generally chill?’
‘You must be mistaking me for someone who is shallow and indifferent,’ I said. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Wait, wait,’ said Curtis, who clearly did not take no for an answer. ‘The full name is Rupert Curtis Osbert Chippenworth III. From the Nation of Financia. Chippenworth, yes?’
He said it in a way that suggested I was expected to know who he was, and yes, I had heard of the Chippenworths – a family of huge wealth and privilege from the financial centre of the Kingdoms.