Nightside 06 - Sharper Than a Serpents Tooth

with a nasty-sounding click. I think I was supposed to be impressed, but then, I knew Razor Eddie. And Shotgun Suzie. The punk girl snarled at me. "What are you smirking at? You think I won't use this? This is Time's house. I look after him, because, well… someone has to. Otherwise, he goes wandering… Look, we don't like unexpected, uninvited visitors, so you can just turn around and go straight back where you came from. Or there's going to be trouble."
    "Actually, I'm afraid I'm stuck here," I said. "I came by train. From the Nightside."
    She sniffed loudly. "That shit-hole? I wouldn't go there on a bet."
    "Yes, well, a lot of people have been known to feel that way, but… I really do need to speak to Old Father Time."
    "Well he doesn't need to see you, so piss off, before I decide to start cutting lumps off you."
    I thought for a moment. "Is there anyone else I could talk to?"
    "No! I'm Mad!"
    "Yes, we've already established that… Is there perhaps someone who looks after you, makes sure you don't hurt yourself, that sort of thing?"
    "Right! That's it! You're going back to the Nightside inside thirty-seven chutney jars!"
    I think we were both about to do something unfortunate at that point, so it's just as well Old Father Time finally decided to make himself known. He appeared out of nowhere, looking exactly the way I remembered him from our last encounter in the Time Tower. A tall gaunt man in his late fifties, dressed to the height of Victorian fashion. Mien Advent would have loved it. Time wore a long black frock coat of a most severe cut, over severely tailored grey trousers, and, except for the gold watch chain stretched across his waistcoat, the only splash of colour in his outfit was the apricot cravat at his throat. He was handsome enough, in an old-fashioned way, with a determined chin held high, a steely smile, and old old eyes. A thinning mane of long white hair had been brushed back from a noble brow, and left to lie where it fell. An air of quiet authority hung about him like an old comfortable cloak, only slightly undermined by a certain vagueness in his gaze.
    "It's all right, Madeleine," he said calmly. "I know who this is. I've been expecting him. Now go and find something useful to do, there's a dear, while I tell this gentleman things he almost certainly doesn't want to hear."
    Madeleine sniffed loudly again, and made her flick knife disappear. "Well, that's something, I suppose. Are you sure you can trust him?"
    "Absolutely not, but it's been that sort of a day for several centuries now."
    Madeleine walked around the hourglass and disappeared, leaving Time and me alone in the great Hall. He smiled briefly as he looked down at himself.
    "I really should change this image for something more appropriate. I am a Transient Being, after all… but so many of you seem to find this appearance comforting, these days. I think I know why, and the Travelling Doctor has a lot to answer for…"
    "Quite," I said, because you have to say something, into pauses like that. "I'm sorry to intrude, but…"
    "Yes, yes, my boy, I know. Lilith has come to the Nightside at last, and it's all falling apart at the seams. But unfortunately, I can't intervene. I can't help you. No-one can."
    "Ah." Not what I wanted to hear. "I came here because…"
    "Oh I know why you're here, John Taylor. I know what you want from me. I've got it right here. But you won't like it."
    He gestured vaguely with his left hand, and there floating on the air between us was a small black case with a dull matte surface. The lid rose up on its own, revealing the Speaking Gun, lying nestled in bloodred velvet. It lay there quietly, for the moment, the ugliest gun ever made. Just looking at it made me feel as though a mad dog had just entered the Hall. The Gun had been fashioned from meat, from flesh and bone, with dark-veined gristle and shards of cartilage, all held together with strips of colourless skin. Living tissues, shaped into a killing tool. Thin slabs of bone made up the handle, held in place by tightly stretched skin with a hot sweaty look. The trigger was a long canine tooth. The red meat of the barrel gleamed wetly. I wondered just how much of my mother's body had gone into making this awful thing, this Speaking Gun. Up close, the ancient weapon smelled like an animal in heat. And I could hear it, breathing, in its case.
    "I really don't care for the thought of such a powerful weapon in the hands of the infamous John Taylor," Old