Free The well of lost plots by Jasper Fforde Page A

at ease. I made my way to the bar and ordered two drinks. On the other side of the bar a third cat had joined the two I had previously seen. The newcomer pointed to me but the others shook their heads and whispered something in his ear. I turned the other way and jumped in surprise as I came face-to-face with a curious creature that looked as though it had escaped from a bad science fiction novel — it was all tentacles and eyes. A smile may have flicked across my face because the creature said in a harsh tone:
    “What’s the problem, never seen a Thraal before?”
    I didn’t understand; it sounded like a form of Courier bold, but I wasn’t sure so said nothing, hoping to brazen it out.
    “Hey!” it said. “I’m talking to you, two-eyes.”
    The altercation had attracted another man, who looked like the product of some bizarre genetic experiment gone hopelessly wrong.
    “He says he doesn’t like you.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I don’t like you, either,” said the man in a threatening tone, adding, as if I needed proof, “I have the death sentence in seven genres.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” I assured him, but this didn’t seem to work.
    “You’re the one who’ll be sorry!”
    “Come, come, Nigel,” said a voice I recognized. “Let me buy you a drink.”
    This wasn’t to the genetic experiment’s liking for he moved quickly to his weapon; there was a sudden blur of movement and in an instant I had my automatic pressed hard against his head — Nigel’s gun was still in his shoulder holster. The bar went quiet.
    “You’re quick, girlie,” said Nigel. “I respect that.”
    “She’s with me,” said the newcomer. “Let’s all just calm down.”
    I lowered my gun and replaced the safety. Nigel nodded respectfully and returned to his place at the bar with the odd-looking alien.
    “Are you all right?”
    It was Harris Tweed. He was a fellow Jurisfiction agent and Outlander, just like me. The last time I had seen him was three days ago in Lord Volescamper’s library, when we had flushed out the renegade fictioneer Yorrick Kaine after he had invoked the Questing Beast to destroy us. Tweed had been carried off by the exuberant bark of a bookhound and I had not seen him since.
    “Thanks for that, Tweed,” I said. “What did the alien thing want?”
    “He was a Thraal, Thursday — speaking in Courier bold, the traditional language of the Well. Thraals are not only all eyes and tentacles, but mostly mouth, too — he’d not have harmed you. Nigel, on the other hand, has been known to go a step too far on occasion — what are you doing alone in the twenty-second subbasement anyway?”
    “I’m not alone. Havisham’s busy so Snell’s showing me around.”
    “Ah,” replied Tweed, looking about, “does this mean you’re taking your entrance exams?”
    “Third of the way through the written already. Did you track down Kaine?”
    “No. We went all the way to London, where we lost the scent. Bookhounds don’t work so well in the Outland, and besides — we have to get special permission to pursue PageRunners into the real world.”
    “What does the Bellman say about that?”
    “He’s for it, of course,” replied Tweed, “but the launch of Ultra Word™ has dominated the Council of Genres’ discussion time. We’ll get round to Kaine in due course.”
    I was glad of this; Kaine wasn’t only an escapee from fiction but a dangerous right-wing politician back home. I would be only too happy to see him back inside whatever book he’d escaped from — permanently.
    At that moment Snell returned and nodded a greeting to Tweed, who returned it politely.
    “Good morning, Mr. Tweed,” said Snell, “will you join us for a drink?”
    “Sadly, I cannot,” replied Tweed. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at roll call, yes?”
    “Odd sort of fellow,” remarked Snell as soon as Tweed had left. “What was he doing here?”
    I handed Snell his drink and we sat down in an empty booth. It