One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“I must protest, ma’am. I do not—”

“My mind is made up, Sprockett. I have nothing to offer. You have a bright future. It will please me greatly if you find onward employment that I can be proud of.”

Sprockett buzzed quietly to himself for a moment. “This is compassion, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I can recognize it,” he said, “but I am at odds to understand it. Shall we go indoors?”

We had boiled cabbage for dinner, which might have been improved had there been any cabbage to go in it. But the Winterhopes were more than friendly, and after several rounds of bezique that might have been more enjoyable had there been cards, Sprockett played the piano accordion without actually having a piano accordion, and the empty unread book didn’t ring to the tune of the “Beer Barrel Polka” until the small hours.

34.

The Metaphoric Queen

Journeys up the Metaphoric River are hugely enjoyable and highly recommended. Since every genre is nourished by its heady waters, a paddle steamer can take even the most walk-shy tourists to their chosen destination. As a bonus there is traditionally at least one murder on board each trip—a “consideration” to the head steward will ensure that it is not you.

Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (1st edition)

The steamer was called the Metaphoric Queen, and when I arrived, it was lying at the dockside just above the lock gates that separated the river from the Text Sea. The Queen was built of a wooden superstructure on a steel hull, measured almost three hundred feet from stem to stern and was the very latest in luxury river travel. A covered walkway ran around the upper deck, and behind the wheelhouse on the top deck was a single central stack that breathed out small puffs of smoke. As I approached, I could see the crew making ready. They loaded and unloaded freight, polished the brasswork, checked the paddle for broken vanes and oiled the traction arm that turned the massive sternwheel.

The Queen had docked only an hour before, and the cargo was being offloaded when I arrived: crude metaphor, sealed into twenty-gallon wooden casks, each stenciled PRODUCT OF RACY NOVEL. I watched as the casks were taken under guard and moved towards the Great Library, where they would be distilled into their component parts for onward trade.

“Welcome aboard!” said the captain as I walked up the gangplank. “The senator will be joining us shortly. The staterooms are the first door on the left—tea will be served in ten minutes.”

I thanked him and moved aft to the rear deck, which afforded a good view of the docks and the river. The other passengers were already on board and were exactly the sort of people one would expect to see on a voyage of this type. There was a missionary, a businessman, a family of settlers eager to make a new home for themselves, two ladies of negotiable affection and, strangely enough, several odd foreigners who wore rumpled linen suits and looked a bit mad.

“I think someone made a mistake on the manifest,” came a voice close at hand.

I turned to find an adventurer standing next to me. He looked as though he had argued with a rake at some point as a teenager and come off worse; three deep scars showed livid on his cheek and jaw. He was quite handsome in an understated sort of way, with a plain shirt, grubby chinos and a revolver on his belt. He was wearing a battered trilby with a dark sweat stain on the band, and he looked as though he hadn’t shaved—or slept—for days.

“A mistake on the manifest?”

“Three eccentric foreigners on a trip like this rather than the mandatory one. Mind you, it could be worse. I was on a similar jaunt last year, and instead of a single insultingly stereotypical Italian, all fast talking and gesticulating—we had six. Hell on earth, it was.”

As if in answer to this, the three eccentric foreigners started to jostle one another in an infantile manner.

“It’s Thursday Next, isn’t it?”

I looked at him, trying to remember where I’d seen him before. I stared for a little too long at the scars on his face, and he touched the pink marks thoughtfully.

“I don’t know how I got them,” he confessed, “but they’re supposed to make me look like I’m a man with an adventurous past.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m really not sure. I was given the scars but no backstory to go with them. Perhaps it will be revealed to me later. It’s an honor to meet you, I must say. My name’s Foden. Drake Foden.”

We shook hands. I didn’t want to deny I was Thursday, given my reason for being here, so I decided to hit him with some pseudo-erudition I had picked up in HumDram.

“You’re kind,” I replied, “but last Thursday and next Thursday are still a week apart.”

“Deep,” he said with a smile. “Where are you headed?”

“Upriver a bit,” I said, giving little away. “You?”

“Beyond Racy Novel,” he said, “and into the Dismal Woods.”

“Hoping to find the source of the Metaphoric?”