Overtime. Part 52

Obviously.

'... Which, together with a balanced portfolio of Beaumont Street Gilt and Fixed Income Trust units and a modest cash balance in, say, the Beaumont Equitable Building Society, provides for maximum income potential without undue prejudice to long-term capital growth. What do you say?'

'No.'

Giovanni sighed. It was cold down here in the cellars and he was getting cramp. On the other hand, he enjoyed a challenge. 'Fair enough,' he said. 'How about putting the bulk of the capital sum into Carribeanis 9 % Convertible Treasury Stock, and investing the balance in something like, oh, I don't know, Second Crusade 3 % Loan Stock 1192? Now you can't say fairer than that. Safe as the Bank of England, that is.' He remembered the investment package he'd worked out for the Chancellor of the Exchequer back in 2343. 'Safer,' he added firmly.

'No.'

'It so happens,' he said, 'I know of this horse running in the 2.15 at Doncaster. When I say running, what I really mean is ran, of course...

'No.'

There are times when even the most persistent financial adviser has to call it a day. 'Ah well,' he said, 'it's entirely up to you, naturally. If you don't want to provide for your old age ...'

'Talk sense,' the Antichrist replied.

It was raining. It was coming down in bucketfuls and n.o.body had invented the umbrella yet. Mountjoy, who generally insisted on dressing in period ('When in the Renaissance, do as the Renaissancers do') looked out from under the soggy top edge of his cowl and blew a raindrop off the end of his nose.

'He's late,' he said, 'With respect, sir.'

Slowly, the Anti-Chaplain turned his head and scowled at his chief henchman. Acting Chief Henchman; he'd asked for White Herald, but apparently Maintenance were all out of 63B knee joints.

'You said something?'

'Yes, sir,' Clarenceaux replied. 'With respect, sir, given that we are presently in a temporal anomaly, with respect, urn, how can he be late, sir? I mean...'

Mountjoy let him tail off without interrupting. He felt it would be more humiliating. 'Have you quite finished?'

'Sir.'

'Then shut up.

Clarenceaux mouthed the word Sir and continued to stand to attention. After all, he said to himself, I may be the lowest form of life and completely unintelligent and little better than a robot, but at least I've got the sense to wear oilskins.

Mountjoy was just beginning to suspect that this was some sort of practical joke when a small figure appeared on the opposite side of the bridge. He was carrying an umbrella. Typical.

'Sorry to have kept you,' Blondel sang out as he approached, splas.h.i.+ng through the puddles in his green wellington boots. 'I got held up on the way here.' He turned his head and nodded to the castle on the other side of the river. 'Not there, of course, but the castellan turned out to be a fan and they insisted I stay for a gla.s.s of mead. One does like to be polite, you know.'

Mountjoy glowed peevishly, evaporating a pint or so of rain out of his cowl. 'It doesn't matter,' he replied, 'you're here now.'

'So I am, yes,' Blondel said. 'Look, do you think we could just step in out of the wet somewhere? This is my sister's umbrella, and it's a bit small for me.'

They found a degree of shelter under a small tree, and Blondel put the umbrella down. It was a sort of beigy-fawn colour with rather restrained black patterns, Mountjoy noticed. So that was what women went in for. One of these days, it might be quite intriguing to meet one. Or maybe not. He flickered in the cold, and cleared his throat.

'Right,' he said, 'let's get down to business, shall we?'

'With pleasure,' Blondel opened the flap of the small leather satchel he was carrying round his neck and produced a tape recorder. 'You don't mind if I take notes, do you?' he said. 'I find my memory isn't what it was these days.'

'Please yourself,' Mountjoy replied frostily. 'I had a.s.sumed that we could trust one another, but -'

'I know,' Blondel replied. 'Wretched, isn't it? Actually, it wasn't my idea, it was my agent's. There's a born negotiator for you. Spent the last few days trying to sell your boss life insurance.

Mountjoy looked down his nose. 'Unsuccessfully, I a.s.sume.'

Blondel grinned. 'Not entirely,' he replied. 'Didn't manage to kid him into taking out any life cover, but he did manage to interest him in an accident policy. He's now fully covered in the event of loss of limb.'

That, Mountjoy decided, was enough small talk. It was time to show his hand.

'It might interest you to know,' he said, wiping rain out of his eyes with the heel of his hand, 'that we have some guests staying at the Chastel at the moment.'

'Oh yes.'

'Friends of yours,' Mountjoy said. 'Or rather, one friend and one relative.' He smiled stroboscopically (a neat trick, if you manage it. Being two-faced, like Mountjoy, does of course help).

If Blondel was disconcerted for a moment, he recovered quickly. Someone who can teach themselves tightrope walking at the first attempt shouldn't have any problem with mere mental agility.

'Oh,' he said, 'you mean that Goodlet chap and my sister Isoud. Perhaps I ought to warn you that unless Isoud has a cup of tea first thing after waking up she's about as sociable as a puma. Or have you found that out already?'

'La Beale Isoud,' Mountjoy replied, 'has the sense to realise that she has more pressing things to worry about than where her next cup of tea is coming from.'

'Are you sure we're talking about the same person?' Blondel said. 'About this height, sort of mousy blond, keen on carbohydrate-rich foodstuffs?'

Mountjoy ignored him. 'I am told,' he went on, 'that they have already made one fumbling attempt at escape, which naturally ended in failure. You may be sure that they won't be in a hurry to try again.

A gentleman, Blondel's mother had always insisted, is unfailingly polite at all times, even when being lowered into a pit full of scorpions by black-hearted and incorrectly dressed Infidels. He shrugged slightly.

'Clever old you, then,' he said. 'I take it you're going to suggest an exchange of hostages.'

'That was my idea, yes.'

'Fair enough,' Blondel replied. 'Swap me King Richard for the Antichrist, and I'll let you have the two Julians for Guy and Isoud.'

'Certainly not,' Mountjoy replied with an unpleasant little snicker. 'That would be grossly unfair to us, given that the Pope and the Anti-Pope are one and the same person.

'But wearing different hats,' Blondel replied quickly. 'Hats make an awful lot of difference. You ask my friend Guy about hats.'

'Nevertheless,' Mountjoy replied, 'the terms are unacceptable.'

'How about if I get my agent to throw in a free radio alarm clock?'

Mountjoy scowled, making the world momentarily dark. 'If I were you,' he said, 'I would advise your friend Galeazzo to stay off the topic of free radio alarm clocks, particularly when he's in the presence of My Lord.'

A terrible thought struck Blondel, and he struggled with his muscle control in a desperate attempt not to giggle.

'You don't mean... 'he said.