some reason, he felt prouder of that than, say, robbing the caravan of the Prince of Trebizond or stealing the Great Pearl from the palace of the Wazir of Cairo. The concept All my own work came into it somewhere; he was able to thieve because the story said he was a great thief, but when it came to slicing up reconstituted lamb, he was on his own.
‘Cluck,’ said the hen, clinging grimly to the shell with its claws. Akram listened, and heard a tiny tapping noise.
His game plan was simple. According to the fairy godfather, Ali Baba had gone into deep cover somewhere in the twentieth century. Because magic is rather conspicuous in modern Reality, he’d taken the sensible precaution of getting rid of most of his supernatural kit as soon as he’d used it for the purpose he’d originally brought it for. To be doubly sure that it wouldn’t turn up again later to plague him, he’d cunningly lodged each item where it would be guaranteed to be safe and out of anybody’s reach for ever and ever. He’d given the stuff - well, permanently loaned - to museums. The bottomless purse, the magic carpet, the plain, battered brass lamp, were trapped forever behind unbreakable glass, constantly guarded by bits of technology that made silly old magic look sick in comparison; one unauthorised finger coming within a metre would set off enough alarms to gouge great holes in the ionosphere. You had to admit, the man had class. Compared to the security he’d arranged for his souvenirs, the traditional secret cave guarded by hundred-headed dragons was tantamount to leaving the stuff out in the street under a notice saying PLEASE STEAL.
Tap, tap, tap. A hairline crack appeared in the shell. The hen squawked and closed its eyes.
It’s the mark of a truly great strategist that he attacks, not his enemy’s weaknesses (which are sure to be carefully guarded) but his strengths. What surer way to flush Baba out than to steal the relics? Doubly so, because Baba too was a victim of his genetic heritage; he’d been born a hero, just as Akram was a villain in the bone. When it became apparent that a dark and sinister force had invaded Reality and was scooping up magic weapons and instruments of unearthly power, the poor fool would have no choice in the matter at all; he’d have to come out and fight, just as a doctor can’t stop himself giving first aid to an injured man he comes across in the street, even if the man turns out to be a lawyer, policeman or Member of Parliament. And then it would just be a matter of
Crack, went the eggshell. The hen glanced down, clucked wildly, slithered off the egg and made itself scarce, coming to rest under the vegetable rack. A moment later the two halves of the shell fell away, revealing the first phoenix ever to be hatched this side of the border.
Akram looked at the phoenix. The phoenix looked at Akram.
‘Hey,’ growled the bird, ‘just a cotton-picking minute.’
By the time it had finished saying that, of course, it had grown. From being the size of a small pigeon, it was already larger than a turkey, with power to add. Already its claws were as big as coathooks, its beak as long and sharp as a Bowie knife. Phoenixes mature fast; in less time than it takes to boil a half-full kettle they go from being cuddly, helpless infants to fully grown disturbed teenagers with antisocial habits and a pronounced weapons fetish. Imagine a stadiumful of Millwall supporters compressed into one streamlined, gold-feathered body seven feet tall at the wing, and you’re mind’s-eyeball to eyeball with a phoenix, age two minutes.
‘Gosh,’ said Akram, looking up. ‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’
The phoenix regarded him with eyes like a Gestapo sergeant major’s. ‘You’re not my mummy,’ it said. ‘What gives around here?’
‘Would you like a sugarlump? Birdseed?’
‘I’ll have your liver if you don’t tell me what’s going on. Where’s my mummy?’
‘Ah,’ said Akram, ‘that’s rather a
‘Cluck,’ said the hen, clinging grimly to the shell with its claws. Akram listened, and heard a tiny tapping noise.
His game plan was simple. According to the fairy godfather, Ali Baba had gone into deep cover somewhere in the twentieth century. Because magic is rather conspicuous in modern Reality, he’d taken the sensible precaution of getting rid of most of his supernatural kit as soon as he’d used it for the purpose he’d originally brought it for. To be doubly sure that it wouldn’t turn up again later to plague him, he’d cunningly lodged each item where it would be guaranteed to be safe and out of anybody’s reach for ever and ever. He’d given the stuff - well, permanently loaned - to museums. The bottomless purse, the magic carpet, the plain, battered brass lamp, were trapped forever behind unbreakable glass, constantly guarded by bits of technology that made silly old magic look sick in comparison; one unauthorised finger coming within a metre would set off enough alarms to gouge great holes in the ionosphere. You had to admit, the man had class. Compared to the security he’d arranged for his souvenirs, the traditional secret cave guarded by hundred-headed dragons was tantamount to leaving the stuff out in the street under a notice saying PLEASE STEAL.
Tap, tap, tap. A hairline crack appeared in the shell. The hen squawked and closed its eyes.
It’s the mark of a truly great strategist that he attacks, not his enemy’s weaknesses (which are sure to be carefully guarded) but his strengths. What surer way to flush Baba out than to steal the relics? Doubly so, because Baba too was a victim of his genetic heritage; he’d been born a hero, just as Akram was a villain in the bone. When it became apparent that a dark and sinister force had invaded Reality and was scooping up magic weapons and instruments of unearthly power, the poor fool would have no choice in the matter at all; he’d have to come out and fight, just as a doctor can’t stop himself giving first aid to an injured man he comes across in the street, even if the man turns out to be a lawyer, policeman or Member of Parliament. And then it would just be a matter of
Crack, went the eggshell. The hen glanced down, clucked wildly, slithered off the egg and made itself scarce, coming to rest under the vegetable rack. A moment later the two halves of the shell fell away, revealing the first phoenix ever to be hatched this side of the border.
Akram looked at the phoenix. The phoenix looked at Akram.
‘Hey,’ growled the bird, ‘just a cotton-picking minute.’
By the time it had finished saying that, of course, it had grown. From being the size of a small pigeon, it was already larger than a turkey, with power to add. Already its claws were as big as coathooks, its beak as long and sharp as a Bowie knife. Phoenixes mature fast; in less time than it takes to boil a half-full kettle they go from being cuddly, helpless infants to fully grown disturbed teenagers with antisocial habits and a pronounced weapons fetish. Imagine a stadiumful of Millwall supporters compressed into one streamlined, gold-feathered body seven feet tall at the wing, and you’re mind’s-eyeball to eyeball with a phoenix, age two minutes.
‘Gosh,’ said Akram, looking up. ‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’
The phoenix regarded him with eyes like a Gestapo sergeant major’s. ‘You’re not my mummy,’ it said. ‘What gives around here?’
‘Would you like a sugarlump? Birdseed?’
‘I’ll have your liver if you don’t tell me what’s going on. Where’s my mummy?’
‘Ah,’ said Akram, ‘that’s rather a
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