The Realms Thereunder

2

Robin Ploughwright, Lord of the Boggy Marshes and eighteenth Earl of Shotover Hill-a portly, rotund figure-pulled a pocket watch from his large purple waistcoat and marked the time. Even though the sky was overcast, light from the setting sun reflected upon the casing and threw a ray of golden-red upon his round face. He squinted one eye at it, then closed the antique up and deposited it back into his pocket.

Not much longer now. The street that he stood on did not technically have a name but had appropriated the title “George Street Mews.” Although a public right of way, it was rarely used; too small for cars to enter, and too winding to be a shortcut between two places that few people wanted to go to anyway. His sharp hearing didn’t detect anyone at either end of the long passageway. He wouldn’t be disturbed.

He allowed himself a smile. He was happy to be back in

Oxfordshire-even if he did have to wear a different skin. The place always comforted him. It was little more than a swampy basin, really, even after all these years. Because of the hills surrounding it, the sun set early, and because of the built-up marshland, covered rivers and hidden canals flowed through many amusing areas of the city.

And then there were the people-a tidal force in themselves. Half of the year, the population swelled with the arrival of the students. When those left, the tourists descended from the skies. And always throughout there was the steady pulse of ordinary people trying to scratch out an existence. Living and dying, ebbing and flowing, it was a city of flux-always moving from one state into another, and so never really changing at all. A town rife with opportunities.

Robin’s smile twisted into a frown. Come now, surely it was time. How much longer did he have to- Ah, there it was. The stone face in front of him shifted soundlessly to reveal a door-plain, ordinary, and painted blue. It bore the number 141b above a cast-iron knocker, a small flap for letters, and a worn stone step. Apart from the fact that it hadn’t been there eight seconds ago, it was completely unremarkable.

Robin produced a key and opened the door, which admitted entry not into a building but into a sparse courtyard containing a hill.

The high, blank stone walls crowded the hill, which might properly be described as no more than a mound, except that there was a luscious covering of bright green grass that was dotted with bluebells and buttercups. From the far side, a dead, withered tree protruded. It had grown once but had not bloomed in several thousand years.

Robin Ploughwright, Lord of the Boggy Marshes and eighteenth Earl of Shotover Hill, shut the door up behind him and turned to the hill, which was growing blue and cold in the falling twilight.

He found its entrance easily and went in.

The air inside the hill was musty and wet-it obviously hadn’t been aired recently. Still, he wasn’t setting up a guesthouse; he was here on business.

The way was dirty and he had to dodge many low-hanging roots before he came, with obvious relief, to the meeting hall. A small bonfire had been prepared and he drew near it, trying to hide his trepidation. He swallowed a mouth of bitter saliva and turned his eyes to the platform.

The throne was occupied. He flashed a smile and tried to will himself to stop twitching, sweating, and mumbling, his eyes flicking rapidly to and from the four armed guards surrounding the seated figure who blended perfectly into the shadows. This unassuming person was dressed in a casual white shirt unbuttoned at the top, a blue suit jacket, jeans, and brown loafers. His hair was white and flowing, but his skin was uncreased.

Robin bowed hastily. “Greetings, glorious grinner,” he said, smiling.

The man in the throne shifted his weight. “Ploughwright,” he acknowledged. “What news?”

“I have proceeded as you instructed-as we agreed. All is in place. I await your word.”

“I give that word now. Put the plan into action.”

Ploughwright turned his head slightly and regarded the man on the throne. He was obviously in earnest-he was always so drearily in earnest. “Very well, it will be as you say.”

The man on the throne made a gesture, permitting him to leave.

Robin had walked a few steps when he turned. “With respect,” he said, “I know I shouldn’t question-never have before, but I must ask . . . why not simply kill them or detain them in a more conventional manner?” He held his breath to await reply-or punishment-from perhaps the only man in the world whom he truly feared.

The man on the throne raised a hand to his chin. Robin nearly flinched at the action. “Really, Robin,” he said. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”

Robin bowed and turned. He didn’t expect an answer anyway. He never should have said anything.

He retraced his steps quickly and drew the watch out of his pocket once more. Good, the door would still be open. No need to make other arrangements.

Exiting the hill, he swiftly made his way through the blue door and back into George Street Mews. And since there was still no one in sight, he stretched out his arms and scaled the wall. Slinking along the rooftops, he made his way back to the rooms he occupied where he lived under the disguise of a human.