Maxwell swore and grumbled as he toiled up the rugged track, finally to reach the hilltop and gaze over the darkening landscape that lay before.
The last light of the day touched down upon roof-tops, chimneys, danced upon gables, a weather-vane.
The City of Rameer!
It was not the City of Rameer.
It was a coaching inn.
Maxwell marched down the hillside, followed by the limping horse. Now seething with fury, Maxwell determined that he had done with all hills for the day. Tonight he would enjoy the comforts of the inn. He had discovered a purse full of gold coins in one of the saddle-bags, and now, he felt, was the time to squander them upon whatever luxuries this inn had to offer. Good ale. Good food. A good hot bath. A cosy bed. A barmaid with a thing about knights, perhaps?
Maxwell marched down the track and presently reached the inn yard.
A number of horses were tethered there. A welcoming glow showed through bottle glass windows, set beneath low eaves. The inn sign was illuminated by lighted lanthorns. It read, THE PROSPECT OF RAMEER.
‘Yes!’ said Maxwell. ‘Praise the Goddess.’
Now shivering in his shirtsleeves, he tethered the horse, gave her an encouraging pat, then strode across the yard and entered the inn.
If rustic Tudoresque without, the inn was not so within.
It had more the look of some elegant twentieth-century wine bar.
The floor was tiled in travertine, the tables topped in teak. Some framed architectural prints hung upon walls stencilled with lilac lattice over peachy pink. A number of folk, neatly dressed in colourful attire, were arranged in pleasing compositions, chatting, sipping drinks. Some discoursed at tables, others at the bar counter, which was of polished slate and behind which stood the innkeeper.
A thin man was he, with narrow shoulders, an overlarge head and a jutting brow, black hair in a centre parting and a tiny black moustache. His get-up was informal: white shirt, knitted cardy, grey slacks. He raised an eyebrow as Maxwell approached, but looked otherwise jolly enough.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the innkeeper. ‘How exactly may I help you?’
‘I require four things,’ said Maxwell politely.
‘Four,’ the barman nodded. ‘The cardinal number which is the sum of three and one. Four I like, please go ahead.’
‘Thank you. Firstly I require someone to tend my horse which has thrown a shoe.’
‘Absolutely no problem at all, I will send my groom to deal with it. Secondly?’
‘Secondly I require a bed for the night.’
‘It will be a pleasure to accommodate you, I will have the maid prepare our finest room.’
‘Thirdly’, said Maxwell, ‘I need to know the precise whereabouts of a place I believe to be near by.’
‘I have lived here all my life,’ said the barman, ‘and am acquainted with the terrain for many miles about.’
‘Splendid. And fourthly I would like some ale.’
‘Ah,’ the innkeeper paused. ‘Which ale would that be, exactly?’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Maxwell. ‘Any ale you have.’
The innkeeper shook his head. ‘I take great pride in my work, sir,’ said he, ‘and I consider it my bounden duty to serve the weary traveller with exactly what he, or she requires.’
‘Nice sentiment,’ said Maxwell.
‘Thank you, sir. There are those who consider that the degree of exactitude I employ is over pedantic. But as I always say, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.’
‘I do so agree.’
‘So, sir, do you like a very strong ale or a very weak one?’
‘Something in between,’ said Maxwell.
The innkeeper fingered his tiny moustache. ‘Very dark or very light?’
‘Don’t mind,’ said Maxwell. ‘Which would you recommend?’
‘That’s hardly for me to say, sir. I do not wish to impose my preferences upon you.’
‘How about something in between, then?’ said Maxwell.
‘Still as pond water or fizzy as sherbet?’
‘In between once more,’ said Maxwell.
The innkeeper nodded his head approvingly. ‘Now,’ said he. ‘A pint or a half-pint?’
‘Tell me,’ said Maxwell, ‘how close do you think I am to actually getting served?’
‘Close, sir, very close. Did you say a pint or a half-pint?’
‘A pint,’ said Maxwell. ‘Definitely a pint.’
‘Fine. If we were out of pint pots would you object strongly to taking your ale in two half-pint glasses?’
‘Not at all,’ said Maxwell.
‘Some would,’ said the innkeeper.
‘Perhaps they would not be so desperate for an ale as I.’ Maxwell frowned hard at the innkeeper.
The innkeeper nodded once more. ‘So, let us summarize. You require an ale which is neither too strong nor too weak, neither very dark nor very light, neither still as pond water nor fizzy as sherbet. And you don’t mind whether you have it in a pint pot or two half-pint glasses.’
‘Sounds exactly what I’m after,’ said Maxwell.
‘Fine, fine, fine.’ The innkeeper clapped his hands. ‘Jack,’ he called to the potman, ‘pint of ale over here for this gentleman.’
Maxwell looked from the potman, who was now pulling a pint, back to the innkeeper who was smiling upon him.
‘You didn’t tell him which ale I wanted,’ said Maxwell.
‘We only do the one, sir.’
‘But what if I’d wanted a very strong one?’
‘You didn’t’
‘Or a very dark one.’
‘You didn’t’
‘Or . . . Oh, forget it.’
The potman served Maxwell’s ale in a pint pot.
‘Aha!’ cried Maxwell in a voice of triumph. ‘I thought you said two half-pint glasses.’
‘No, sir. I said, if you recall, would you object strongly to taking your ale in two half-pint glasses. That was nothing to do with the other questions which were aimed specifically at identifying the exact sort of ale you required. That was for a private survey I’m doing. I hope to go into the hotel business eventually and what I always say is, he who never questions, never learns.’
‘Do you indeed?’ Maxwell pulled Percy’s purse from his pocket and paid for his pint in pennies.
‘Perfect,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Enjoy your ale.’
Maxwell took a swig. It tasted pretty good. Really good, in fact. But then, of course, it was exactly what he’d asked for. Maxwell tried to recall the last time he’d actually drunk a pint of beer. It had to have been in The Shrunken Head on the day of the Great Transition, when the old aeon became the new. And that was nearly one hundred years ago.
Maxwell knocked back his pint and ordered another. He’d been taking abstinence to a quite unreasonable extreme.
‘Now,’ said he, when his new pint was presented. ‘I wonder if you can help me regarding the exact location of the destination towards which I’m bound upon most urgent business.’
‘You can rely on me, sir. Cartography is a hobby of mine, the study of lands both near and distant. As a man needs to know his place in the universal scheme of things, so too is it essential that he should know exactly where he is when he’s doing the knowing. I have a fascination for exactitudes. Some might say an obsession.’
‘Not me,’ said Maxwell. ‘I always say, a man must have a hobby.’
‘No, sir, it’s a boy must have a hobby. A man must do what a man must do.’
‘Right,’ said Maxwell. ‘Now what I wish to know, and this is where your fascination for exactitudes is really going to pay big dividends, is this: where is the City of Rameer?’
The innkeeper laughed. ‘No problem there, sir. The City of Rameer lies over yonder hill.’
‘No!’ Maxwell slammed down his pint pot. ‘All afternoon I have heard that. Over yonder hill! I have been over every bloody yonder hill for miles. I want to know exactly where it is.’
‘It’s over yonder hill,’ said the innkeeper.
‘Which yonder hill?’
‘The yonder hill.’
‘Ale please,’ called a fellow at the end of the bar.
‘Excuse me, sir, I have to serve a customer.’ The innkeeper sauntered away from the now fuming Maxwell. ‘Exactly which ale would you like, sir?’ he asked.
‘Don’t muck about with me, Tom,’ said the fellow. ‘I’m a regular here.’
‘Sorry, Frank.’
Maxwell turned to the fellow called Frank. ‘Good evening to you,’ he said.
‘I’ve known better,’ said Frank. ‘There was the summer of eighty-nine. We had some evenings then, I remember. One in particular I recall was—’
‘Yes,’ said Maxwell. ‘Now, no doubt you overheard the conversation I’ve been having with the innkeeper here.’
The innkeeper nodded politely.
Frank nodded also. ‘I think you’ve been doing very well,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen grown men tear their hair out trying to get a bacon sandwich. There was this sales rep from the brewery once who—’
‘Do you know where the City of Rameer is?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Of course I do. Everyone around here does.’
‘So, where is it?’
‘It’s over yonder hill.’
Maxwell swung a fist, chinned Frank and knocked him to the floor.
The patrons of the inn looked up from their conversations and clicked disapproving tongues.
‘I’ll have to ask you to desist from that kind of behaviour, sir,’ said the innkeeper. ‘We have no truck with bullygarves or blumpits here.’
‘All right,’ said Maxwell, putting up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. It was the heat of the moment.’ He helped Frank from the floor. ‘I’ve had a rough day,’ he explained. ‘Allow me to pay for your pint.’
‘Rough day?’ said Frank, testing for loose teeth. ‘Don’t talk to me about rough days. I remember back in seventy-three, it was a Wednesday I recall and—’
‘Twenty-seven pence,’ said the innkeeper, presenting Frank with his pint.
‘But you charged me thirty,’ said Maxwell.
‘So I did, sir. Then thirty it is.’
Maxwell shook his head. ‘Now listen,’ he said to Frank, ‘I will ask you politely, just one more time. Where is the City of Rameer?’
‘It’s over—’
‘No,’ Maxwell clamped his hand over Frank’s mouth. ‘Exactly where?’ He opened his fingers.
‘—yonder—’
‘No. One more time.’
‘—hill,’ said Frank.
Maxwell raised a fist.
Frank took to flinching. ‘Don’t hit me again. You asked where it is and I’ve told you.’
‘It hasn’t helped,’ said Maxwell.
‘Well, it’s a stupid question. Like, how high is the sky, or which way will the wind blow tomorrow.’
‘It’s north,’ said the innkeeper.
‘What?’ said Maxwell. ‘The City of Rameer is north?’
‘No, the wind. The wind will blow north tomorrow.’
‘I bet it won’t,’ said Frank. ‘I bet it will blow north-east, it always does at this time of year. Except for the big blow of sixty-eight. I recall—’
‘Frank,’ said Maxwell, ‘if you don’t tell me exactly where the City of Rameer is, right now, I will kill you where you stand.’
Frank looked hopelessly at Tom the innkeeper.
And Tom looked hopelessly at Frank.
Then they both looked hopelessly at Maxwell.
‘Look,’ said Frank, ‘there is no other answer to your question. It’s just a saying. The City of Rameer lies over yonder hill, means, well, that something you really really want in life is always just beyond your reach.’
‘Like a bird in the hand won’t get the baby bathed,’ said the innkeeper.
‘No not like that at all,’ said Frank. ‘You know what it means.’
‘Oh yes, I know what it means. I was just saying that, a bird in the hand won’t get the baby bathed, is a saying as well.’
‘Oh, yeah, right. It’s a saying as well. But it doesn’t mean the same as, the City of Rameer lies over yonder hill.’
‘Well, I know that,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Do you think I’m stupid, or something?’
‘Shut up!’ Maxwell shouted, as the red mist filled his head. He glared at the innkeeper. ‘What is the name of this inn?’ he asked.
‘The Prospect of Rameer.’
‘And do travellers pass this way seeking the city?’
‘It has been known,’ said Frank. ‘One time in eighty-three a whole charabanc load of monks—’
‘I’m talking to the innkeeper,’ said Maxwell. ‘Do people seek the city?’
‘They do.’
‘And what do you tell them?’
‘That it’s—’
‘Over yonder hill.’ Maxwell threw up his hands. ‘Right,’ said he, swinging about and spreading his glare over the gathered patrons. ‘Has anyone here ever been to the City of Rameer?’
Heads shook.
‘Does anyone here know where it is?’
Heads nodded.
‘Would someone care to tell me?’
Heads shook again.
‘Why?’ demanded Maxwell.
‘Because you’ll hit them,’ said Frank. ‘They’ll tell you it lies over yonder hill and you’ll hit them.’
‘Not until after I’ve hit you. Perhaps the demonstration will inspire them to exactitude.’
‘It won’t. It won’t. How can I make you understand? There is no City of Rameer. It’s a fable. A fairy-tale place. Like the Isles of the Blessed, or Atlantis—’
‘Or Cardiff,’ said the innkeeper.
‘Or Cardiff,’ said Frank. ‘There is no such place as the City of Rameer.’
‘There is too! I met some knights today from there.’
‘Golden knights?’ asked the innkeeper.
‘Very,’ said Maxwell.
‘Hah,’ Frank laughed.
The folk about the bar laughed, somewhat nervously though.
‘Knights of the Golden Grommet,’ said Frank. ‘They’re not from Rameer, they come from Grayson. They just ride around the grid making a bloody nuisance of themselves.’
‘Ah!’ said Maxwell. ‘Yes! The grid! That encircles the City of Rameer, raised by the Sultan. Deny that if you will.’
‘You can’t deny the grid,’ said Frank.
‘I wasn’t going to,’ said the innkeeper. ‘But whoever said that the Sultan raised the grid?’
‘A gridster,’ said Maxwell. ‘He told me he works, er, worked, for the Sultan.’
‘The gridsters are all mad.’ Frank twirled his finger at his forehead. ‘A generation ago they were big fellows. But look at them now, shrinking away and absolutely mad. That’s what too much contact with the grid does for you.’ He looked hard at Maxwell. ‘Do you live close to the grid?’ he asked.
‘No I don’t. But the existence of the grid proves the existence of the Sultan.’
‘It does nothing of the sort. It merely marks the boundary between our world and the one next door.’
‘I’m missing something vital here,’ said Maxwell.
‘You don’t know much about cosmology, do you?’ the innkeeper asked.
‘Apparently not,’ said Maxwell, draining his pint.
‘Right, well you know when the four worlds banged together?’
‘What?’
‘At the time of the great transition.’
‘Oh, that, yes. What four worlds?’
The innkeeper sighed and pulled Maxwell another pint. ‘Thirty-five,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Never mind, you can pay me later. Now, what was I saying?’
‘About four worlds.’
‘Right,’ said the innkeeper. ‘According to accepted scientific doctrine, the earth was once all alone in its particular orbit around the sun. Then one day, out of the blu
e, or black, three extra planets arrived. They caught up with the earth and shunted into it. All four worlds amalgamated to form a single planet, which is now the shape of a sausage. A cylinder with a hemisphere at each end. Are you following this?’
‘I think so,’ said Maxwell.
‘Good, so now there is our world, the red world next door, bashed up against it, the silver world beyond that and the blue beyond that.’
‘And all forming the shape of a sausage?’
‘Or a cigar,’ said Frank. ‘You can prove it for yourself. If you walked along the edge of the grid, then many months later you would find yourself back where you started.’
‘But the grid is kept in place by the Sultan,’ said Maxwell.
‘Cobblers,’ said Frank. ‘The grid is the boundary between our world and the red one. Their natural laws are not our natural laws. Magic flourishes there. No-one knows exactly what the grid is, but it keeps out magic, so let’s be grateful for that.’
The innkeeper nodded. ‘They say the women in the red world have got three bosoms and two—’
‘Don’t talk silly,’ said Maxwell.
‘—handbags each,’ continued the innkeeper. ‘But then they probably believe that about our women.’
‘I wouldn’t fancy a woman with three bosoms,’ said Frank.
‘Nor me,’ said the barman. ‘I’m a four-bosom man. Always have been, always will be.’
‘Stop!’ shouted Maxwell. ‘Do you realize what you’re saying?’
‘You don’t like them with three then, do you?’
‘No! I mean about the folk in the red world. What they might believe about this one. That they might believe in a Sultan Rameer. A powerful ruler who has a great city.’
‘They might,’ said the innkeeper. ‘But they’d be mad if they did. There is no city and no Sultan.’
‘But that’s terrible. Terrible.’ Maxwell clutched at his head.
‘You know,’ said Frank, ‘three bosoms wouldn’t be that terrible. One for each hand and one for your mo—’
‘No!’ said Maxwell. ‘There has to be a city. There has to be.’
‘There isn’t,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Take our word for it. Perhaps there was one, long ago. But there isn’t any more.’
‘There has to be.’ Maxwell raised his fists. ‘You don’t realize what this means to me. I must find the city and the Sultan. I must. I must.’