Simon Green - A Hard Day's Knight

1. The Nightside is the dark, secret, brooding heart of London, hidden away from the rest of the world, where magic is realer than you can bear, where lives and souls and everything else you can think of are always up for sale, and all your worst dreams go walking openly in borrowed flesh. It’s always dark in the Nightside, always three o’clock in the morning, the hour that tries men’s souls. Hot neon burns over rain-slick streets, bars and clubs never close, and gods and monsters go walking hand in hand. You can find anything you ever dreamed of in the Nightside; but watch your back. It might find you first.

2. I’m John Taylor, private investigator. I wear a white trench coat, but don’t let that fool you. I don’t do divorce work, and I wouldn’t know a clue if I fell over it. I do, however, have a special gift that means I can find anyone or anything, no matter how carefully they’ve hidden themselves. I do my best to find the truth for my clients; but in my experience, the truth won’t make you happy, and it won’t set you free. Walk the streets of the Nightside, and you’ll hear a lot of bad things about me. Most of them are true. I stay in the Nightside because I belong here. With all the other monsters.

3. Walker is dead. The one and only Voice of the Authorities, the man in charge of the Nightside, inasmuch as anyone was or could be ... The only man who could make us all play nicely together is dead. I killed him. I had good reason, but he’s still just as dead. So I have to be Walker now. Take over his role and act as representative for the new Authorities. The punishment must always fit the crime.

4. Something very old and very powerful has come to the Nightside. That ancient and legendary sword, Excalibur. It isn’t what you think it is, and it never was. Puck told me that; but everyone knows you can never trust an elf. They always lie—except when a truth can hurt you more.

5. And, last of all ... When I finally got home, after killing Walker, wanting only to slump exhausted into a chair and nurse my bitter soul ... I found a long, sword-shaped parcel waiting for me on my kitchen table. Some days, you just can’t get a break.

I stood in my kitchen, already so tired and used up I would have lain down in a coffin if that was all that was available ... and considered the brown-paper parcel on the table before me. Suzie came in from the hall and joined me. She slipped an arm round my waist, and I kissed her absently on the cheek. My Suzie, also known as Shotgun Suzie, also known as Oh Christ It’s Her, Run . My tall blonde Valkyrie in black leathers, a bounty-hunter who always brings them in dead because there’s less paper-work that way. My love, my life, my reason for living, who had dropped the biggest bomb-shell into my life in years by accepting this appallingly significant parcel ...

I moved away from Suzie and walked slowly round the kitchen table, studying the sword-shaped package from all angles. It stubbornly refused to look like anything except a bloody big sword. I had absolutely no intention of touching the thing just yet. Suzie looked at me curiously but said nothing. She could tell I was working. Solving problems is what I do. I leaned over the kitchen table, examining the brown-paper parcel from hilt to point. There were no stamps anywhere, and no address—only my name, in perfect copper-plate. Which meant the parcel couldn’t have come by regular post. It had to have been delivered by hand.

“When did this arrive?” I asked Suzie.

Her ears pricked up as she caught the seriousness in my voice. “Two, three hours ago. I heard a knock on the front door, looked out, and there it was. Leaning against the wall. At first I thought it must be for me since it’s so obviously a weapon; but then I saw it had your name on it, so I put it on one side for you, for when you got home.”

“Think about it,” I said. “You wouldn’t normally bring a strange, unexpected parcel into our home and leave it lying round without running it through a whole series of security checks first, would you?”

“No,” said Suzie, in a way that made it clear she hadn’t even considered the point before and was wondering rather angrily why she hadn’t. “It felt ... right. Like it belonged here. Why the hell didn’t I find that suspicious?”

“Because the parcel didn’t want you to,” I said.

We both glared at the brown-paper package.

“Could it have some kind of compulsion, or geas, attached to it?” said Suzie.

“I think we’re in bigger trouble than that,” I said. “I’m getting a distinct feeling of destiny.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yes, quite,” I said. “Next question: how did our mysterious benefactor pass unscathed through all our security systems? The land mines and the floating curses? We spent ages setting up the defences round this house, to protect us from our enemies and discourage the paparazzi. Our regular postie has a special dispensation; this guy shouldn’t even have made it to the front door.”

“Oh, this has destiny written all over it,” said Suzie. “Let’s run.”

“You didn’t see anyone when you picked up the parcel?”

“Not as such, no. And yes, I should have found that suspicious. Bloody parcel must have been messing with my head.”

“The parcel, or whoever sent it ...” I was scowling so fiercely my forehead was aching. “Beware of unseen strangers bearing gifts.”

I raised my gift, opening up my inner eye, my third eye, my private eye. I studied the parcel with my Sight, which shows me all the wonders and horrors of the hidden world, and scanned the parcel for booby-traps or hidden messages. I barely had time to assure myself there were no hidden extras when I cried out despite myself and fell back, as what was inside the parcel blazed up fiercely, a magical, spiritual light that dazzled and blinded me. My inner eye slammed shut as my mind flinched away from something it couldn’t bear to look at directly.

I grabbed hold of the parcel, glared at it for a moment, then ripped the wrapping away, tearing the brown paper and snapping the knotted string. I had to see it. Had to see what no man had seen for centuries. The legendary sword, Excalibur. King Arthur’s sword, from the Golden Age of Chivalry. The scabbard turned out to be six feet and more of tooled leather, with Celtic markings and designs, and a whole bunch of symbols from a language I didn’t even recognise. The foot-long hilt of the sword seemed to have been fashioned from a single piece of bone, polished to a fine dark yellow sheen. I brushed the last pieces of torn paper away from it, and the scabbarded sword lay alone on my table, in my kitchen, like an unexploded bomb, or a warning from history.

“That ... is not just any old sword,” said Suzie.

“No,” I said absently. “That’s Excalibur.”

“What?” said Suzie. “You mean the Excalibur? As in King Arthur? What the hell is that doing here? Hold everything. You knew what this was all along, didn’t you?”

“I was told the sword had come into the Nightside,” I said. “I never thought it would end up here.”

“Excalibur,” said Suzie. She sounded honestly impressed, which wasn’t something that came easily to her. “Damn ... Aren’t you supposed to draw it out of an anvil, set on a stone? I mean, something as important as this, it shouldn’t just turn up in the post. Where’s the mystical significance of that?”

“This is the Nightside,” I said. “We do things differently here. Somebody wanted to make sure I got it; and this was the best way of sneaking it in, under the radar.”