I didn’t know whom to trust on this boat, so I decided to trust no one.
“I have seen a few Roadmasters following me over the past few days,” I replied cagily.
“Not that unusual,” said Herring. “Fantasy is a hotbed of Imaginative Fundamentalism; if we didn’t keep a Plaid presence on the streets to rein in Fantasy’s worst excesses, we’d be in cross-genre anarchy before we knew it. We’d regulate it more than we do if it weren’t so damn readable.”
Herring was nothing if not conservative in his opinions, but that only reflected the dominant politics of Fiction. The opposition called for more deregulation and even the banning of genres themselves, dubbing them “an affront to experimentation” and “the measles of the BookWorld,” while others called for greater formulaicism—if for nothing better than to appease publishers. A noise made me turn.
“Miss Next,” said Senator Jobsworth. “I am most grateful for your attendance. Will you join me in the captain’s cabin in twenty minutes?”
I told him I would, and he disappeared off towards his private rooms with his entourage. Red Herring looked at his watch nervously.
“Are we late leaving?” I asked.
“We’re waiting for the official Jurisfiction delegate.”
We were kept waiting another ten minutes until a sleek spaceship that seemed to have been carved from a single block of obsidian approached from the south, circled twice, lowered its landing gear and, with a rolling blast from its swiveling thrusters, landed on the dockside. The entrance ramp descended, and two imperial guards hurried down it while one blue-skinned valet spread rose petals on the ground and two more played a brief alarum on trumpets. After a dramatic pause, a tall figure swathed in a high-collared black cloak strode menacingly down the ramp. He had a pale complexion, high cheekbones and a small and very precise goatee. This was His Mercilessness the Emperor Zhark, tyrannical ruler of a thousand solar systems and undisputed star of the Emperor Zhark novels. He was also a senior Jurisfiction agent and by all accounts quite a sweetie—if you didn’t consider his habit for enslaving entire planets to be worked to death in his spice mines.
“Good morning, Your Mercilessness,” said Red Herring, stepping forward to greet him. “No entourage today?”
“Hello, Herring old chap. Where’s my cabin? I’ve a splitting headache. I was up all night dealing with Star Corps—bloody nuisance, they are. What am I doing here again?”
“You’re the Jurisfiction delegate to the Racy Novel peace talks.”
“Who are we fighting?”
“No one yet—that’s why we call them ‘peace talks.’”
“Couldn’t we just lay waste to the entire region and put everyone to the sword? It would save a lot of boring chat, and I can go back to bed.”
“I’m afraid not, Your Mercilessness.”
“Very well,” he said with a sigh, “just don’t expect me to bunk in with the cook again. He frightens me.”
“You have your own cabin this time, Emperor. We are already behind schedule. Steward?”
A steward stepped forward to take the emperor’s bag, which I noticed was made out of the skin of the uncle he had murdered in order to seize the Zharkian throne. Despite appearances, Zhark was a skilled negotiator; it was he and he alone who had brought Forensic Procedural to the table and averted a potential fracturing of the Crime genre.
“Good Lord,” said Zhark when he saw me. “Thursday?”
“The written one, Your Mercilessness,” I said, bowing low. “We last met six months ago at the Paragon Tea Rooms.”
He stared at me for a moment. Sometimes he was slow on the uptake. “You’re the written one?”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved closer, looked to left and right and lowered his voice.
“Do you remember that waitress at the Paragon? The perky one who answered back a lot and was wholly disrespectful?”
“I think so.”
“You didn’t get her number, did you?”
>
“I’m afraid not.”
“Never mind. Written Thursday, eh? Know where the real one is?”