The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“Are you okay?” asked James.

“Yes,” I replied as soberly as I could. “I’ve got something odd in my bloodstream that generates inappropriate responses. This is Jack Schitt, the Goliath rep. He wants to vandalize our St. Zvlkx codices.”

James looked at Jack, who stared back impassively. Finisterre wouldn’t be armed, but Day Player Jack would know that already from the way James’s clothes hung on his body.

“He was the guy at the Lobsterhood on Tuesday?” asked Finisterre, still staring at Jack but addressing me.

“In a manner of speaking. He’s ruthless,” I added, “and has no fear of death or pain. I recommend you do as he asks.”

“These are my children,” replied Finisterre, indicating the shelves of old books, “and I would die to protect them.”

“Noble,” replied Jack, “but, in war as in literature, we have to sacrifice our babies.”

There was a pause, and I noticed Finisterre’s eyes flick to something behind us. Jack saw it, too, and drew and fired in one smooth movement without looking or turning around. The guard didn’t even make a sound as he fell, and I looked at Finisterre, who swallowed nervously. He did love his books, but after due consideration was decidedly not willing to die for them.

“Which book are you after?” he asked.

“It was a thirteenth-century bestseller,” replied Jack. “Zvlkx’s Brothels of Dorset on Sixpence a Day.”

Finisterre looked momentarily confused. “You’d kill someone for that?”

“I’d kill someone for fun, Mr. Finisterre.”

“Well, you’re going to have to be disappointed. We haven’t got a copy of the Brothels of Dorset.”

“It’s awaiting cataloging,” replied Jack confidently, “from the library of the now-extinct Brotherhood of Perpetual Defenestration. I have good intelligence.”

Neither Finisterre nor I moved. I could feel my head clearing, and my hands were a little less numb. In five minutes I’d be merely useless, not utterly useless as I was at present.

“Listen,” said Jack, taking a pair of cutters from his pocket, “it’s very, very, simple. I’ll remove your fingers one joint at a time until I get what I want. How many fingers and how much pain do you think a Zvlkx codex is worth?”

He was right, in an odd sort of way. Brothels of Dorset on Sixpence a Day was not rare; it could be bought in any antiquarian bookstore for about five hundred pounds, more if it had salacious margin notes and “interesting” staining.

“Take it,” I said, “and leave.”

“I’m so glad you’re seeing it my way at last,” he said. “Mr. Finisterre, lead us to it.”

We walked over to the other side of the room, where the books awaited cataloging. The Brotherhood of Perpetual Defenestration’s small collection was lying in a cardboard box on one side of the copying table, and as soon as Jack saw this, his mood changed abruptly.

“What is this?” he demanded, indicating a flatbed scanner.

“We copy all books,” said Finisterre while rummaging in the cardboard box. He found it eventually—a sad, tired and very well-thumbed book, the racier pages darkened with seven centuries of surreptitious titillation. This would be a copy that would barely make two hundred pounds, even on eBay.

“Has it been copied?” asked Jack, and I looked at the records.

“Yes,” I replied, “this morning.”

“Where would the copy be?” he asked angrily.

“Uploaded to our server, two floors down.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Zurich,” I replied. “Our servers are backed up every hour.”

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “That was a waste of time.” He took a deep breath. “Then again,” he added, “I could kill the pair of you—at least then the morning won’t be a total loss.”

I think he would have done it, too, but just as he raised his gun arm, there was a sound like a melon exploding, and James and I were spattered with the contents of the Day Player’s head.