Free Faust Among Equals by Tom Holt

those initial weeks of vocalisation, is, ‘You bastards ! Get me back up there immediately !’
    The Old Language is, of course, not confined to the newly born; it is also the lingua franca of the dead, the immortal and the ineffable. And magicians, necromancers and conjurors also speak it, albeit with an accent that makes them sound like the Germans in war films. For the convenience of our readers we shall ignore this and translate simultaneously as we proceed.
    â€˜Ronnie, old mate,’ said Lucky George. ‘Wonderful to hear from you. How in buggery did you get my number?’
    In his office in Pandaemonium, Hieronymus Bosch glanced furtively about him and cupped his hand tight round the receiver.
    â€˜Shut up and listen,’ he hissed. ‘I’m only doing this because I owe you one, right? Remember that. If they catch me, my life won’t be worth . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Sorry, Freudian slip. Anyway, they’ll bloody well crucify me. Look, George, they’re on to you.’
    â€˜They are?’
    â€˜Believe it. I got this number from your dossier, okay? That suggests they’re pretty well informed about your whereabouts, doesn’t it? They got it all from your diary.’
    â€˜My diary? I’ve never . . .’
    George stopped, blinked and then winced.
    â€˜Sod it,’ he said. ‘That’s really aggravating, that is.’
    Everyone, at some stage of their lives, keeps a diary. Now, the usual reason for doing so is to help you remember, years later, what you did in the past.
    Trust Lucky George to be different from everybody else. ‘Where was it?’ he asked.
    â€˜Long story,’ Bosch replied. ‘To cut it short, though, it showed up in Amsterdam, about twenty years ago. I think you left it on a tram or something.’
    â€˜Did I?’
    â€˜Not did. Will. I think. Did you ever read it, by the way?’
    â€˜What, and find out my future? No fear. I wouldn’t be able to sleep nights.’
    Bosch shrugged. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘never mind all that. It’s showed up at last, some of our boys from the Spooks department raided some university somewhere and got hold of a copy. The rest is history, if you’ll pardon the expression.’
    George frowned. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Now I owe you one. Has Lundqvist seen it yet, do you know?’
    â€˜It’s a reasonably safe bet,’ Bosch replied. ‘Of course, they’ve undertaken to you to call off all their people from persecuting you, so they couldn’t have shown him openly. I did hear, though, that once they’d read it, they deposited it in the maximum security vault of the Credit Infernale, with fifteen armed guards and a hi-tech laser-assisted alarm system. Where Lundqvist’s concerned, that’s the next best thing to pinning it on the notice board in the staff canteen. He’s bound to have seen it. It’s also on the database, of course, which is what I’m looking at, but Lundqvist’s computer-illiterate.’ Bosch raised his head, glanced round once more and added, ‘I have an idea they also know about Nellie, so maybe you’d better . . .’
    George shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘that’s all right, Nellie can look after herself. Well, thanks a lot, Ronnie. I won’t say Be seeing you , but take care, be good.’
    â€˜Don’t worry about it, George. Oh, George.’
    â€˜Yes’
    â€˜You didn’t mind me reversing the charges, did you? Only they check the phone bills now, and—’
    â€˜No problem, Ronnie. Ciao.’
    History, most aggravating of the Nine Muses, has forgotten what the favour was that Lucky George did Hieronymus Bosch all those years ago, when they were students at Wittenberg together. History’s other infuriating habit, apart from forgetting things, is using all the sugar in the communal kitchen and never replacing it.
    The