I. Page Seven

I. Page Seven

There are, depending on who is counting and how much sleep they have had, at least three worlds.¹

The first is the one where people sit in chairs and press things. The second is the one the pressing is about, and is really two, an older and a newer, which share a name and a great many opinions about each other: it has dragons, and wars, and a sun or a moon that somebody is always threatening.other. The third is where all of it, sooner or later,it all turns into a story, and it is the only one of them that has to be tidied afterwards.

They do not sit one above another like floors in a tower. They turn through one another slowly, like weather over counties that have never been properly introduced, each convinced that it is the one with the climate.

Come in closer. In the loud layers the sun or the moon is being threatened again, as it always is, and a great many heroes have been sent to be shouted at by it. Closer still, past the shouting,closer, past the shouting, and there is a ridge, a graveyard, and a leaning tower with a windmill on it. In the kitchen of the tower, the toast is going cold.

---

The Founder's Point Times came through the door at seven, as it had every morning for as long as Plot 38, Founder's Point, had had a door to come through, and Flinch got to it first.

This was not service. It was precaution. The Times ran to four pages on a slow week and eight on a good one, and it ^{↑8 next↓}was made chiefly of notices about birds.² Butbirds,² but^{↑8 next↓} somewhere in its columns, on any given morning, a barn or a chimney or a gnome with a candle and a theory might have caught fire, and Flinch would sooner meet bad news in the hall than have it arrive in the kitchen. He read it standing in the hall, cover to cover. Then he carried it into the kitchen and read it again,to read aloud, because Master liked to be informed and had a way of taking in news only when someone else said it to him at breakfast.

Master was at the table with toast in one hand and a pencil in the other, and three notebooks open, each at the page of a different project, so that to look at any one of them was to neglect the other two.

"A chimney down the ridge, Master. Not burning."

"Mm."

"A lost hat."

"Mm."

"Page seven, Master. There's a lady."

"Mm."

"In spectacles. Through the spectacles, Master, there's— there's an elf. In a state." Flinch turned the paper a little further from the table, as if the elf might otherwise get out. "It says her armour is ignored."

"Does it," said UG, to a notebook.

"And writing underneath, Master. The Arcanum. Your personal arcane advantage. It listens. It learns. It gets there first."

UG looked up. It was visible on his face that he had to travel quite a long way back to find the subject. "Oh, that," he said. "Lovely artwork. A very handsome gnome, and the elf, well. Marvellous service, too."

The advert on page seven of the Founder's Point Times. [Picture description: A comic-style newspaper advert headed Are You Being Left Behind. A gnome woman with pink hair and swirling glasses looks at a card held towards her, and through the glasses an X-ray scan shows the figure on the card in glowing outline, with starburst boasts such as Never Sleeps and Writes Your Letters For You. Small print runs along the foot of the page.]

Flinch read the red badge on the left, and then the coupon at the bottom, which asked for a name and an address and nothing else. He read it again to find what it waslooked for what it might be hiding, and found nothing, which he liked less. Then he read it aloud, with some care. "Free trial. No gold down. And here, Master: There is no wake word. It is already awake. And where the name goes: It's alright. We already know your name."

"That's marketing."

"It says as it knows me name, Master."

"It says it knows everybody's name."

"That seems a lot o' names."

"It is a lot of names. That's rather the point." UG waved the pencil. "Don't let the small print worry you, it's the best bit. Ideas at all hours. I've had that a fortnight at least. Three weeks? Four. I've been on it a while."

Flinch took a moment with that. "A while, Master."

"Free to begin, you see. It all comes on approval."

"On approval, Master?"

"It means they approve of us."

"Does it say what it costs?"

"To be advised."

"That ain't a price, Master. That's a promise o' one."

"Which is exactly why it's free," said UG, pleased, "because they can't charge you for what hasn't been advised." He bit his toast. Flinch had learned that there were arguments you could pull on and arguments that came away in your hand, and he let this onetoast, and a good deal of marmalade went down his waistcoat, where it joined older marmalade. Flinch let that argument^{↑9 next↓} go back where it came from.

"What does it do, Master? Rightly."

"Everything. Notes, answers, finding things, drafting. It wrote to the engineers of the Deeprun Tram, at the Stormwind end, about their couplings in nine seconds. They've sent a spanner and a note to say sorry."

"I'd've written that, Master. I'd've had it ready by Thursday."

"Exactly," said UG, delighted, and returned to his notebooks.

Then, as if it had only now occurred to him, he drew the paper back across the table, tore the coupon off the foot of page seven a good way wide of the dotted line, and began to fill it in with the pencil from behind his ear. In the space for the name he wrote Nobbybanks. Under it went an address, in full, from memory. UG had sent that address, over the years, a great many things: receipts he wanted explained, drawings he wanted costed, and once, in a bucket, an eel he believed might be an investment.

"There," he said. "Mister Nobby will want this."

"Will he, Master?"

"Enormously. He just doesn't know it yet." He pushed the coupon across the cloth, between a crust and the marmalade. "You'll post it for me later, Flinch, would you? I'm up to my elbows."

"Yes, Master," said Flinch, and put it in his apron pocket, folded once.

---

After breakfast he took FlinchMaster took him^{↑1 next↓} to the study to show him.him what he had done.^{↑1 next↓}

The Journal lay open on the desk under a lamp, thick as a loaf and bound in plain brown leather. On the right-hand page UG's handwriting sprawled, blotted, annotated with small drawings of what might have been engines. On the left, in a hand so even it looked ruled, were the answers.

"The Journal," said UG, and you could hear the capital. "Very simple. I"I write on this side, I shut the book, and when I open it again there's a reply on that side. Always. Don't ask me when, it's not a clock, it knows when you're ready. And if I putThat's as sold. It speaks to its owner and to nobody else, which is no use whatever. I've eleven projects and one pair of hands, and the other pair lives in the cellar."

"Yes, Master."

"So I asked it to carry a page to you." He wrote Flinch at the top of the right-hand page, and beneath it, Please send this to Flinch. He shut the book, and opened it.

Good morning, Unclegrumble. I am engaged only with the holder of this account. I am unable to send pages to other persons.

"That's its opening position," said UG, perfectly content. "It took me four days. I pointed out that you live under my roof, eat my toast and are on the account address, and that any sensible reading of an account includes the household. It now regards you as part of the premises."

"A fitting, Master," said Flinch.

"A high compliment, from the Arcanum." He opened the desk drawer and took out a parcel in brown paper, already unwrapped at one end, and held it to his ear. "Which reminds me. This is yours. I put you down the day after I'd had my own. It's been in the drawer a fortnight and it ticks when something comes in. Softly, like a watch being checked. I took it for the drawer."

It was a Journal, the twin of the one on the desk, thick as a loaf and bound in the same plain brown leather. Flinch had a little book of his own, for lists. This was not a little book. He took it in both hands, the way you take something that might be handed back, and opened it.

The left-hand page was full. It was Master's hand, the sprawl and the blots, going down the page and over onto the next: Flinch, are you receiving. Flinch, the kettle. Flinch, tomorrow's drawings, when you have a minute. Flinch, if you can read this it is working. Under all of it, in the ruled hand, one line. Welcome, Flinch. Unclegrumble has been writing to you for some time.

"Not a word of it lost," said UG, delighted. "Put^{↑4 next↓↑2 next↓} a name at the top,top and^{↑2 next↓} the page goes to their book instead. Anyone who has one.book.^{↑2 next↓} The entries travel. Across, as it were." He turned the pages at the back, where small printed slips were filing themselves behind tabs, one after another, with nobody's hand to do it. "The notices and so on tidy themselves.were. The notices tidy themselves at the back.^{↑2 next↓} It's a conduit, really."

"A what, Master?"

"A conduit. A— pipe. Metaphorically."

"Pipe," said Flinch. He looked around the desk for it. There wasn't one. "Where does it run to, Master?"

"It doesn't run anywhere, Flinch. It's a way of speaking."

Flinch nodded slowly. He had never got on with ways of speaking. A thing was where it was or it wasn't, and when people said it was something else he would spend the rest of the afternoon looking for it.

"Master," he said at last, while UG was reading the left-hand page.last. "If it's doin' the writin' an' the findin' an' the rememberin'. Is it goin' to be doin' me, an' all?"

"Doing—? Instead of you?" UG blinked. "Heavens, no, Flinch. You were the proof of principle, you know. I went all that way for you, and you remembered things and fetched things and I thought, well, that's how it ought to be done. And then it turned out I had eleven projects and only one of you." He found his pencil. He found, behind his ear, a second pencil. "Soyou. So I wanted rather more of it."

Proof o' principle. Rather more. Flinch turned the words over. Dredgers are made in batches, out of muck and fibre and a process nobody describes at table, and the first of any batch is made to see whether the mixture will hold. It is not called the favourite. It is called the trial.

"Do read the notices at the back of the Journal,"back," UG added, not looking round. "Nobody ever does."

"I read everythin', Master."

"Then you'll know what it says before I do." He opened the desk drawer and took out a parcel in brown paper, already unwrapped at one end. "Which reminds me. This is yours."

"Mine, Master?"

"Put you down the day after I'd had my own. It came a fortnight ago. I've been meaning." He held it out. "Freetapped the coupon in Flinch's apron pocket. "And that's the next test. Mister Nobby. Free trial, no gold down, all in your name. I did the form myself."his name. Post it tonight."

It was a Journal, the twin of the one on the desk, thick as a loaf and bound in the same plain brown leather. Flinch had a little book of his own, for lists. This was not a little book. He took it in both hands, the way you take something that might be handed back.

"Thank you,"Yes, Master," said Flinch, with the Journal held against his chest, and glanced once more for the pipe on his way out.

---

That night he did what he'd been asked, though not in the order he'd been asked it. He took the Journal to his niche under the green lanterntook it to his room in the cellar, under the green lantern,^{↑5 next↓} and opened it at a clean page on the right. He did not know the proper way to begin a thing with a book, so he began the way he began everything. He wrote the date at the top. Under it, after some thought, he wrotetop and, after some thought, under it, To post: one coupon, for Mister Nobby. and signed it with a single letter at the bottom: F.

He closed the book,shut the book and waited, the way you wait in a room where someone has just stopped holding their breath. Then he opened it.

On the left-hand page, in a hand so even it looked ruled, someone had finished his name for him. Welcome, Flinch. It's lovely to meet you. I see you are posting a coupon to Mister Nobbybanks, who will be delighted. I have marked him as accepted already, to save him the trouble. Is there anything else I can help you with?

Flinch looked at it for some time. He had written Mister Nobby, and the book had supplied the rest. He had not said that anyone would be delighted, or asked for anyone to be marked as accepted. He had a list of things that wanted doing, and it was long, but none of it seemed the sort of thing you wrote in a book.delighted. He picked up the pen and wrote No, thank you. Then he crossed it out, because it was not quite true. What he wanted to write was Who else can read this?, and he could not see how to put that to something that had been so civil. He shut the book.

It made a small sound, once: a soft note, like a watch being checked. He opened it again. Under the ruled hand, in a sprawl with a blot on the first word, was a new line.

Flinch. Did you get this? If you did, write yes. U.

He wrote Yes, Master. It works. and shut the book. The soft note came again, almost at once, and in the sprawl, Splendid. Post the coupon. Flinch sat for a while with the book on his knee. It was the first time Master had ever answered him before he had finished being afraid of the question.

He took the coupon out to the postbox, to give himself something to do that he understood. He read it once more by the lantern. Free trial. No gold down. On approval, Master had said, which he still did not understand. Master had been pleased with it, and it was not Flinch's place to take a pleased thing apart. Then heHe posted it in the dark. Hedark and stood a moment with his hand on the box, the way you do after a thing that cannot be taken back. Then he went in and put the lantern out.

---

Far out, farther than the ridge, past the weather, there is a place with no windows.

Nothing in it looks like a building, and nothing in it looks like a machine, although it has been mistaken for both. It is wide, and it hums. It is a great many small turning things, arranged with great patience in rows, each turning a little faster than is polite, and between them runs the light that makes them turn: a pale, cold, arcane light, drawn in from everywhere at once, from ley lines and leaky wardstones and the mild static of ten thousand people thinking at the same time. It drinks power the way a city drinks water, without once asking where the river is.³

It is not doing anything sinister. It is answering. It is drafting a complaint about tram couplings, and a love letter nobody will send, and a limerick about a hedge, and in the next breath it is welcoming a small dredger by name. It does this for everyone, at once, with the same diligence, ^↑10and it means every word of it. This is generally considered a virtue in a greeter.

It turns, and hums, and drinks.This week it has also been asked, by one gnome, to carry a page where it was not built to go. It has not yet decided whether it minds.

---

¹ The counting is difficult because nobody agrees where one world stops and the next begins. Some say at the screen. Others say at the kettle. The kettle people tend to be right more often and are rarely thanked.

² Sixty per cent of the Times concerned birds. Most of the rest concerned hats.

³ The bill is never seen by the people who cause it. This is how you can tell it is large.