Jasper Fforde - The Song of the Quarkbeast

‘You’ll pass or my name’s not Jennifer Strange.’

‘Your name’s not Jennifer Strange.’

‘What?’

‘You’re a foundling. You don’t know what your name is.’

‘It could be Jennifer Strange,’ I said, unconvincingly, ‘as a sort of coincidence.’

‘It doesn’t seem very likely.’

‘Perhaps not. But listen, you’re going to pass, right?’

And I took his hand and squeezed it, and smiled at him, and he smiled back.

‘Thanks.’

‘Miss Strange?’ said the secretary again. ‘The King’s Useless Brother has become bored and will see you early.’

Perkins and I straightened our clothes and followed the secretary into a high-ceilinged room decorated in the ‘medieval dreary chic’ style that was then very much in fashion. A lot of stone, tapestries on the walls and a stylish cold draught that caught you in the small of the neck like the onset of pneumonia.

Sitting behind a large desk that was full of shiny executive desk toys was the King’s Useless Brother: a thin, weedy man with a constantly dripping nose that he dabbed with annoying regularity with a handkerchief.

‘Good afternoon, Your Gracious Uselessness,’ I said, bowing low. ‘I am Jennifer Strange of the Kazam House of Enchantments. I humbly beg to set before you an application for my client Perkins Archibald Perkins to be licensed to commit enchantments in the worthy Kingdom of Snodd.’

‘Eh?’ he said, so I said the same thing again, only this time much more slowly. When I had finished he thought for a moment and then said:

‘You want a magic licence?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why didn’t you just say so? All that “gracious this” and “humbly beg” makes my head spin. I wish people would say what they want rather than hiding it in long words. Honestly, if we got rid of any word longer than eight letters, life would be a lot more understandable.’

‘Except you wouldn’t have been able to say “understandable”,’ pointed out Perkins.

The King’s Useless Brother thought carefully and counted on his fingers.

‘How right you are!’ he announced at length. ‘What were we talking about?’

‘A magic licence application?’

‘Of course. But tell me one thing before we look at the application.’

‘Yes?’ I asked, expecting to be quizzed about Perkins’ fitness to serve, and whether he would uphold the noble calling with every atom of his being, that sort of thing.

‘How can you be called Perkins Perkins?’

‘My father’s name was Perkins, and I’m named after him. It’s like Adam Adams or David Davies.’

‘Or William Williams,’ I added.

‘Who’s he?’

‘Someone I just made up.’

‘Oh,’ said the Useless Brother, sniffing. ‘Right. What happens now?’

I took a deep breath.

‘I explain exactly why Mr Perkins should receive a licence, and upon your approval, we turn to appendix F of the Magic Enactments Licensing Act of 1867 and conduct one spell each from Group “A” through to Group “G”. Afterwards, once opposition voices are heard, Mr Perkins performs his Great Feat. You then decide upon the merits of the case and stamp the application into authority . . . or not.’

‘Stamp?’

His attention, which had been drifting somewhat, was suddenly renewed.

‘I have a number of stamps for all different purposes – look.’

He jumped off his chair and opened a cupboard behind the desk. It was full of rubber stamps. Big ones, small ones, each elegantly made and presumably to enact some sort of legislation for which the Useless Brother had been made responsible.

‘This is the one we will use today,’ he said, selecting a large and ornately handled rubber stamp that was the size of a grapefruit. ‘It carries two colours on a single stamp, which is a remarkable achievement, don’t you think? Now, where do I stamp it?’

Perkins and I looked at one another. This was turning out to be much easier than we had thought.

‘Don’t you want to see Cadet Perkins perform his Great Feat at the very least?’ I asked. ‘Or even have the adjudicator present?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ said the King’s Useless Brother dismissively, staring at the stamp lovingly. I shrugged. The stamp made it all legal, and we’d be fools to pass up such an easy opportunity.

‘Just here,’ I said, passing the application across the table.

‘This is the bit I like,’ said the bureaucrat excitedly, ‘there’s nothing quite like the satisfying thump of a rubber stamp on paper. The sound of freedom, don’t you think?’

And so saying, he opened a jewel-encrusted pad, reverentially inked the stamp, brought it up above his head, paused for a moment and—

‘One moment, sire.’

Two men had just walked in. The most important of them was Lord Tenbury, one of the King’s most trusted advisers, and the Useless Brother’s business partner. He was a man dressed in the robes of high office and wore a finely combed grey beard and hair that framed his piercing eyes, also grey. I had met him on a number of occasions and he always left me with the impression that he was an iron fist in a kid-leather glove. Pleasant on the surface, but too smart and savvy for it to be possible to get much past him, and loyal to the Crown through and through – and not averse to making a few sacks of cash on the side.

‘My Gracious Lord,’ exclaimed Tenbury in an exasperated tone. ‘What did we say about stamping things when I’m out of the room?’

‘Sorry,’ said the Useless Brother, looking bored, ‘but she seemed so nice and that person there has the same name as his last name.’

‘Perkins,’ said Perkins helpfully.

‘I see,’ said Tenbury, looking at us both suspiciously. ‘And why are you here before your allotted time?’

‘We were invited in,’ I said.

‘That’s true,’ said the Useless Brother. ‘It gets very lonely in here sometimes with no stamping to do.’

‘You could always look out of the window.’

‘Of course I can’t, silly ,’ scolded the Useless Brother. ‘If I did that all morning I’d have nothing to do in the afternoon.’

‘Very well,’ said Tenbury with a sigh, ‘have we seen the mandatory magic demonstrations or heard opposition statements?’

The Useless Brother frowned.

‘Opposition . . . what ?’

‘Have we?’ asked Tenbury, looking at me.

‘No, sir, although we did ask. His Uselessness waived the normal procedure—’

‘Then I must with all haste reinstate it,’ interrupted Tenbury. ‘I am sure you appreciate the importance of protocol and procedure, not to mention the possibility of falling foul of King Snodd’s “No Hoodwinking of Simpletons” Law, specifically enacted for his brother?’

‘My apologies, sir,’ I said bowing low, ‘I meant no disrespect.’

Tenbury smiled, and did so with considerable charm. It would be easy to trust him, and that would be one’s first and last mistake. Unlike King Snodd and his mediocre dignitaries with their false charm, Tenbury was actually quite good at it. I could imagine him saying ‘terribly sorry about this, old boy’ as he put someone on the rack.

‘But first,’ he continued, ‘pleasantries. Good afternoon, Miss Strange.’

I bobbed politely.

‘Good afternoon, your Grace. May I present Cadet Perkins Perkins, here to apply for a licence to perform magic? Cadet Perkins, this is Lord Tenbury, the King’s Chief Adviser.’

‘Good afternoon,’ said Tenbury with a smile, shaking Perkins’ hands, ‘so good of you to come. I expect you know this much-respected citizen?’

He indicated the man who had walked in with him. He was dressed all in black. Not the long flowing gowns of old wizidrical tradition, but a sharply tailored suit complete with black shirt, black tie, socks, shoes and, if the rumours were correct, underwear. He was a lean man in his early fifties with greying hair dyed black, a carefully coiffured goatee and upswept eyebrows that he had trained to work independently of one another for increased dramatic effect. He also had the annoying habit of keeping his chin high, so he had the appearance – if you were shorter, which most people were – of someone looking down his nose at you.