Nightside 11 - A Hard Days Knight

I’m your partner, not your nanny. I dropped into the Mammon Emporium and put a little pressure on an oracle in a well to tell me exactly when you’d be back. It didn’t really want to talk to me, but I persuaded it.”
    “Tell me you didn’t drop a grenade in.”
    “Of course not. That would have attracted attention. I pissed in it.”
    I sighed, quietly. “You’re a class act, Suzie.”
    She slipped an arm through mine, and we headed off down the street. I was pleased to note that everyone was getting out of my way again. It’s the little things you miss the most.
    “Did you visit your old haunts in London Proper?” said Suzie, after a while.
    “Yes,” I said. “A lot had changed, but not enough. Never go back.”
    “I could have told you that. In fact, I’m pretty sure I did. How did you get on with the London Knights?”
    “Hard to tell,” I said. “I think I was doing quite well ... right up to the point where I lost Excalibur.”
    Suzie gave me a hard look. “How can anyone lose Excalibur?”
    “It wasn’t easy! And I didn’t exactly lose it. More ... had it stolen while I was distracted.”
    “Ah,” said Suzie. “That’s more like it. You always were easily distracted. Do you know where the sword is now?”
    “Not yet. But I will. I need the right setting, and preparations, before I fire up my gift.”
    “And then we’ll go get it,” Suzie said comfortably. “Will I by any chance get to kill a whole bunch of people?”
    “Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said.
    We strolled along, under the night sky that never ends, contemplating justice and violence. Wild things rode the night skies, starlight gleaming on their outstretched wings, while dangerous traffic thundered unceasingly up and down; and something foul and fierce went somersaulting over the vehicles, howling and cackling and spitting sparks in all directions. It was good to be back.
    “So,” I said, “have you finished dealing with all the suddenly deceased persons who were cluttering up our property when I left?”
    “All gone,” she said cheerfully.
    “I won’t ask.”
    “Best not to. But we’re going to have some really big flowers in the garden this time next year.”
    “You hate flowers,” I said, amused.
    “All right then, I’ll plant some fruit trees. I’ve always wanted to make my own jam.”
    “You are an endless source of surprises to me,” I said solemnly. “Now, let us away to Strangefellows. I need to pick up something I left there with Alex, sometime back. Something I’d really hoped I’d never need to see again.”

    And so Suzie and I came to Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world, and still our favourite watering hole. Quite possibly the sleaziest and most disreputable drinking den in the whole of the Nightside, Strangefellows has the saving grace that no-one there will ever give a damn who or what you were. And most of my enemies are too scared to go in. The perfect place to drink and brood and plan revenges against a manifestly unfair and uncaring world. When Suzie and I clattered down the long, metal stairs into the great stone pit that was the bar proper, the background music was already playing Rick Wakeman’s King Arthur album. Just the bar owner’s little way of letting me know he knew what was going on. Alex Morrisey knows everything, except for when he doesn’t; and then he fakes it so convincingly that the world often changes to accommodate him. Because his gossip is always more entertaining than mere facts could ever be.
    It was a pretty usual night, for Strangefellows. An unfrocked hair-stylist with a piercing through her left eye-ball was busy shaving complicated patterns into the thick body fur of a teenage werewolf. The things people will put themselves through to appear fashionable. Over in the large open fireplace, a pleasant fire was burning in a miniature Wicker Man, while a group of young business men in smart City suits, each with one eye missing, toasted bread against the flames before dipping it into a vat of steaming goat’s-cheese fondue. Alex must be trying to drive the bar up-market again. He’d have better luck with a chair and a whip. Two Japanese teenage girl vampires were draining the blood out of a resigned-looking goat through two straws, racing each other to the middle. And a quartet of fuzzy post-nuclear mutants were showing each other strange alien porn on the televisions they had implanted in their stomachs.
    At the bar, the owner, bartender,