1.

AFTER A PARTICULARLY unrewarding interview with his
beloved, Malcolm was driving home along a dark, winding
country lane when he ran over a badger. He stopped the car
and got out to inspect the damage to his paintwork and
(largely from curiosity) to the badger. It was, he decided, all
he needed, for there was a small but noticeable dent in his
wing, and he had been hoping to sell the car.

"Damn," he said aloud.

"So how do you think I feel?" said the badger.

Malcolm turned round quite slowly. He had had a bad
day, but not so bad that he could face talking badgers—
talking dead badgers—with equanimity. The badger was
lying on its side, absolutely still. Malcolm relaxed; he must
have imagined it, or perhaps the bump had accidentally
switched on the car radio. Any connection was possible
between the confused chow mein of wires under his
dashboard.

"You're not the one who's been run over," said the
badger, bitterly.

This time, Malcolm turned round rather more quickly.
There was the black and white corpse, lying across the road

2                Tom Holt

like a dead zebra crossing; yet he could have sworn that
human speech had come from it. Was some rustic ventril-
oquist, possibly a Friend of the Earth, playing tricks on
him? He nerved himself to examine his victim. A dead
badger, nothing more, nothing less; except that there was
some sort of wire contraption wrapped round its muzzle—a
homing device, perhaps, attached by a questing ecologist.
"Did you say something?" said Malcolm, nervously.

"So you're not deaf as well as blind," said the badger.
"Yes, I did say something. Why don't you pay more
attention when people talk to you?"

Malcolm felt rather embarrassed. His social equipment
did not include formulae for talking to people he had just
mortally wounded, or badgers, let alone a combination of
the two. Nevertheless, he felt it incumbent upon him to say
something, and his mind hit upon the word designed for
unfamiliar situations.
"Sony," he said.

"You're sony," said the badger. "The hell with you."
There was a silence, broken only by the screech of a
distant owl. After a while, Malcolm came to the conclusion
that the badger was dead, and that during the collision he
had somehow concussed himself without noticing it. Either
that, or it was a dream. He had heard about people who fell
asleep at the wheel, and remembered that they usually
crashed and killed themselves. That did not cheer him up
particularly.

"Anyway," said the badger, "what's your name?"
"Malcolm," said Malcolm. "Malcolm Fisher."
"Say that again," said the badger. "Slowly."
"Mal-colmFi-sher."

The badger was silent for a moment. "Are you sure?" it
said, sounding rather puzzled.
"Yes," said Malcolm. "Sorry."
"Well, Malcolm Fisher, let's have a look at you."
The badger twisted its head painfully round, and looked

Expecting Someone Taller          3

at him in silence for a while. "You know," it said at last, "I
was expecting someone rather taller."

"Oh," said Malcolm.

"Fair-haired, tall, muscular, athletic, without specta-
cles," went on the badger. "Younger, but also more mature,
if you see what I mean. Someone with presence. Someone
you'd notice if you walked into a room full of strangers. In
fact, you're a bit of a disappointment."

There was no answer to that, except Sorry again, and that
would be a stupid thing to say. Nevertheless, it was
irritating to have one's physical shortcomings pointed out
quite so plainly twice in one evening, once by a beautiful
girl and once by a dying badger. "So what?" said Malcolm,
uppishly.

"All right," said the badger. "Sorry I spoke, I'm sure.
Well, now you're here, you might as well get it over with.
Though I'm not sure it's not cheating hitting me with that
thing." And it waved a feeble paw at Malcolm's aged
Renault.

"Get what over with?" asked Malcolm.

"Don't let's play games," said the badger. "You've killed
me, you needn't mess me around as well. Take the Ring and
the Tamhelm and piss off."

"I don't follow," said Malcolm. "What are you talking
about?"

The badger jerked violently, and spasms of pain ran
through its shattered body. "You mean it was an accident^."
it rasped. "After nearly a thousand years, it's a bloody
accident. Marvellous!" The dying animal made a faint
gasping noise that might just have been the ghost of
laughter.

"Now you have lost me," said Malcolm.

"I'd better hurry up, then," said the badger, with weary
resignation in its voice. "Unless you want me dying on you,
that is, before I can tell you the story. Take that wire gadget
off my nose."

Gingerly, Malcolm stretched out his fingers, fully expect-

4                Tom Holt

ing the beast to snap at them. Badgers' jaws, he remem-
bered, are immensely strong. But the animal lay still and
patient, and he was able to pull the wire net free. At once
the badger disappeared, and in its place there lay a huge,
grey-haired man, at least seven feet tall, with cruel blue
eyes and a long, tangled beard.

"That's better," he said. "I hated being a badger. Fleas."
"I'd better get you to a hospital," said Malcolm.
"Don't bother," said the giant. "Human medicine
wouldn't work on me anyway. My heart is in my right foot,
my spine is made of chalcedony, and my intestines are
soluble in aspirin. I'm a Giant, you see. In fact I am—
was—the last of the Giants."

The Giant paused, like a television personality stepping
out into the street and waiting for the first stare of recog-
nition.

"How do you mean. Giant, exactly? You're very tall,

but . . ."

The Giant closed his eyes and moaned softly.
"Come on," said Malcolm, "there's a casualty depart-
ment in Taunton. We can get there in forty minutes."

The Giant ignored him. "Since you are totally ignorant of
even basic theogony," he said, "I will explain. My name is
Ingolf, and I am the last of the Frost-Giants of the Elder

Age."

"Please to meet you," said Malcolm instinctively.
"Are you hell as like. I am the youngest brother of Fasolt

and Fafner the castle-builders. Does that ring a bell? No?"

"No."

"You didn't even see the opera?" said Ingolf, despair-
ingly.

"I'm afraid I'm not a great fan of opera," said Malcolm,

"so it's unlikely."

"I don't believe it. Well, let's not go into all that now. I'll
be dead in about three minutes. When you get home, look
up the Ring Cycle in your Boy's Book of Knowledge. My
story starts with the last act of Cotterdammerung. The

Expecting Someone Taller          5

funeral pyre. Siegfried lying in state. On his belt, the
Tamhelm. On his finger, the Nibelung's Ring." Ingolf
paused. "Sorry, am I boring you?"

"No," Malcolm said. "Go on, please."

"Hagen snatches the Ring from Siegfried's hand as
Brunnhilde plunges into the heart of the fire. At once,
the Rhine bursts its banks—I'd been warning them about
that embankment for years, but would they listen?—and the
Rhinedaughters drag Hagen down into the depths of
the river and drown him. For no readily apparent reason,
Valhalla catches fire. Tableau. The End. Except," and
Ingolf chuckled hoarsely through his tattered lungs, "the
stupid tarts dropped the ring while they were drowning
Hagen, and guess who was only a few feet away, clinging
to a fallen tree, as I recall. Me. Ingolf. Ingolf the Neglected,
Ingolf the Patient, Ingolf, Heir to the Ring! So I grabbed it,
pulled the Tamhelm from the ashes of the pyre, and escaped
in the confusion. To here, in fact, the Vale of Taunton
Deane. Last place God made, but never mind."

"Fascinating," said Malcolm after a while. "That doesn't
explain why you were a badger just now, and why you
aren't one any longer."

"Doesn't it?" Ingolf groaned again. "The Tamhelm, you
ignorant child, is a magic cap made by Mime, the greatest
craftsman in history. Whoever wears it can take any shape
or form he chooses, animate or inanimate, man, bird, or
beast, rock, tree or flower. Or he can be invisible, or
transport himself instantaneously from one end of the earth
to the other, just by thinking. And this idiot here thought,
Who would come looking for a badger? So I turned myself
into one and came to this godforsaken spot to hide."

"Why?"

"Because it's godforsaken, and I'd had about as much of
the Gods as I could take. They were after me, you see. In
fact, they probably still are. Also the Volsungs. And the
Rhinemaidens. And Alberich. The whole bloody lot of
them. It hasn't been easy, I can tell you. Luckily, they're all

6                Tom Holt

so unbelievably stupid. They've spent the last thousand odd
years searching high and low for a ninety-foot dragon with
teeth like standing stones and an enormous tail. Just because
my brother Fafner—a pleasant enough chap in his way, but
scarcely imaginative—disguised himself as a dragon when
he had the perishing thing. I could have told him that a
ninety-foot dragon was scarcely inconspicuous, even in the
Dawn of the World, but why should I help him? Anyway, I
very sensibly became a badger and outsmarted them all."

"Hang on," said Malcolm, "I'm a bit confused. Why did
you have to hide?"

"Because," said Ingolf, "they wanted the Ring."

"So why didn't you give it to them—whoever they
were—and save yourself all the bother?"

"Whoever owns the Ring is the master of the world,"
said Ingolf, gravely.

"Oh," said Malcolm. "So you're . . ."

"And a fat lot of good it's done me, you might very well
say. Who did you think ruled the world, anyway, the United
bloody Nations?"

"I hadn't given it much thought, to be honest with you.
But if you're the ruler of the world ..."

"I know what you're thinking. If I'm master of the world,
why should I have to hide in a copse in Somerset disguised
as a badger?"

"More or less," said Malcolm.

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," said the Giant
sagely. "Looking back, of course, I sometimes wonder
whether it was all worth it. But you will learn by my
mistakes."

Malcolm furrowed his brow. "You mean you're leaving
them all to me?" he asked. "The Ring and the—what did
you say it was called?"

"Tarnhelm. It means helmet of darkness, though why
they describe it as a helmet when it's just a little scrap of
wire I couldn't tell you. Anyway, take them with my
blessing, for what that's worth."

Expecting Someone Taller          7

Ingolf paused to catch his breath.

"To gain inexhaustible wealth," he continued, "just
breathe on the Ring and rub it gently on your forehead. Go
on, try it."

Ingolf eased the plain gold ring off his finger and passed
it to Malcolm, who accepted it rather as one might accept
some delicacy made from the unspeakable parts of a rare
amphibian at an embassy function. He did as Ingolf told
him, and at once found himself knee-deep in gold. Gold
cups, gold plates, gold brooches, pins, bracelets, anklets,
pectorals, cruets and sauce-boats.

"Convinced?" said Ingolf. "Or do you want a metallur-
gist's report?"

"I believe you," said Malcolm, who was indeed firmly
convinced that he was dreaming, and vowed never to eat
Stilton cheese late at night again.

"Leave them," said Ingolf. "Plenty more where that
came from. The Nibelungs make them in the bottomless
caverns ofNibelheim, the Kingdom of the Mists. They'll be
glad of the warehouse space."

"And the Tamhelm—that works too, does it?"

Ingolf finally seemed to lose patience. "Of course it
bloody works," he shouted. "Put it on and turn yourself into
a human being."

"Sorry," said Malcolm. "It's all been rather a shock."

"Finally," said Ingolf, "cut my arm and lick some of the
blood."

"I'd rather not," said Malcolm, firmly.

"If you do, you'll be able to understand the language of
the birds."

"I don't particularly want to be able to understand the
language of the birds," said Malcolm.

"You'll understand the language of the birds and like it,
my lad," said Ingolf severely. "Now do as you are told. Use
the pin on one of those brooches there."

The blood tasted foul and was burning hot. For a second,
Malcolm's brain clouded over; then, faintly in the distance,

8                Tom Holt

he heard the owl hoot again, and realised to his astonish-
ment that he could understand what it was saying. Not that
it was saying anything of any interest, of course.

"Oh," said Malcolm. "Oh, well, thank you."

"Now then," said the Giant. "I am about to go on my last
journey. Pile up that gold around my head. I must take it
with me to pay the ferryman."

"I thought it was just a coin on the eyes or something."

"Inflation. Also, I'll take up rather a lot of room on the
boat." He scowled. "Get on with it, will you?" he said. "Or
do you want a receipt?"

Malcolm did as he was told. After all, it wasn't as if it
was real gold. Was it?

"Listen," said Ingolf, "listen carefully. I am dying now.
When I am dead, my body will turn back into the living
rock from which Lord Ymir moulded the race of the
Frost-Giants when the world was young. Nothing will grow
here for a thousand years, and horses will throw their riders
when they pass the spot. Pity, really, it's a main road. Oh,
well. Every year, on the anniversary of my death, fresh
blood will well up out of the earth and the night air will be
filled with uncanny cries. That is the Weird of the Ring-
Bearer when his life is done. Be very careful, Malcolm
Fisher. There is a curse on the Nibelung's Ring—the curse
of Alberich, which brings all who wear it to a tragic and
untimely death. Yet it is fated that when the Middle Age of
the world is drawing to a close, a foolish, godlike boy who
does not understand the nature of the Ring will break the
power of Alberich's curse and thereby redeem the world.
Then the Last Age of the world will begin, the Gods will go
down for ever, and all things shall be well." Ingolf's eyes
were closing, his breath was faint, his words scarcely
audible. But suddenly he started, and propped himself up on
one elbow.

"Hold on a minute," he gasped. "A foolish, godlike boy
who does not understand . . . who does not under-


Expecting Someone Taller          9

stand . . ."He sank down again, his strength exhausted.
"Still," he said, "I was expecting someone rather taller."

He shuddered for the last time, and was as still as stone.
The wind, which had been gathering during his last speech,
started to scream, lashing the trees into a frenzy. The Giant
was dead; already his shape was unrecognisable as his body
turned back into grey stone, right in the middle of the
Minehead to Bridgwater trunk road. All around him,
Malcolm could hear a confused babble of voices, human
and animal, living and dead, and, like the counterpoint to a
vast fugue, the low, rumbling voices of the trees and the
rocks. The entire earth was repeating the astonishing news:

Ingolf was dead, the world had a new master.

Just then, two enormous ravens flapped slowly and lazily
over Malcolm's head. He stood paralysed with inexplicable
fear, but the ravens flew on. The voices died away, the wind
dropped, the rain subsided. As soon as he was able to move,
Malcolm jumped in his car and drove home as fast as the
antiquated and ill-maintained engine would permit him to
go. He undressed in the dark and fell into bed, and was soon
fast asleep and dreaming a strange and terrible dream, all
about being trapped in a crowded lift with no trousers
on. Suddenly he woke up and sat bolt upright in the
darkness. On his finger was the Ring. Beside his bed,
between his watch and his key-chain, was the Tamhelm.
Outside his window, a nightingale was telling another
nightingale what it had had for lunch.

"Oh my God," said Malcolm, and went back to sleep.

The Oberkasseler Bridge over the Rhine has acquired a
sinister reputation in recent years, and the two policemen
who were patrolling it knew this only too well. They knew
what to look for, and they seldom had to look far in this
particular area.

A tall man with long grey hair falling untidily over the
collar of his dark blue suit leaned against the parapet eating
an ice cream. Although impeccably dressed, he was palpa-

10               Tom Holt

biy all wrong, and the two policemen looked at each other
with pleasant anticipation.

"Drugs?" suggested the first policeman.

"More like dirty books," said the other. "If he's armed,
it's my turn."

"It's always your turn," grumbled his companion.

The first policeman shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, all
right then," he said. "But I get to drive back to the station."

But as they approached their prey, they began to feel
distinctly uncomfortable. It was not fear but a sort of awe or
respect that caused them to hesitate as the tall man turned
and stared at them calmly through his one eye. Suddenly,
they found that they were having difficulty breathing.

"Excuse me, sir," said the first policeman, gasping
slightly, "can you tell me the time?"

"Certainly," said the tall man, without looking at his
watch, "it's just after half-past eleven."

The two policemen turned and walked away quickly. As
they did so, they both simultaneously looked at their own
watches. Twenty-eight minutes to twelve.

"He must have been looking at the clock," said the first
policeman.

"What clock?" inquired his companion, puzzled.

"I don't know. Any bloody clock."

The tall man turned and gazed down at the brown river
for a while. Then he clicked his fingers, and a pair of
enormous ravens floated down and landed on either side
of him on the parapet. The tall man broke little pieces off
the rim of his comet and flicked them at the two birds as he
questioned them.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"What do you think?" replied the smaller of the two.

"Keep trying," said the tall man calmly. "Have you done
America today?"

The smaller raven's beak was full of comet, so the larger
raven, although unused to being the spokesman, said Yes,
they had. No luck.

Expecting Someone Taller         11

"We checked America," said the smaller raven, "and
Africa, and Asia, and Australia, and Europe. Bugger all,
same as always."

"Maybe you were looking in the wrong place," sug-
gested the tall man.

"You don't understand," said the smaller raven. "It's like
looking for . . ."the bird racked its brains for a suitably
graphic simile "... for a needle in a haystack," it
concluded triumphantly.

"Well," said the tall man, "I suggest you go and look
again. Carefully, this time. My patience is beginning to
wear a little thin."

Suddenly he closed his broad fist around the comet,
crushing it into flakes and dust.

"You've got ice cream all over your hand," observed the
larger raven.

"So I have," said the tall man. "Now get out, and this
time concentrate."

The ravens flapped their broad, drab wings and floated
away. Frowning, the tall man clicked the fingers of his
clean hand and took out his handkerchief.

"I've got a tissue if you'd rather use it," said a nervous-
looking thin man who had hurried up to him. The tall man
waved it away.

"How about you?" he asked the thin man. "Done any
good?"

"Nothing. I did Toronto, Lusaka, and Brasilia. Have you
ever been to Brasilia? Last place God made. Oh, I'm sorry.
I didn't mean ..."

"The more I think about it," said the tall man, ignoring
this gaffe, "the more convinced I am that he's still in
Europe. When Ingolf went to ground, the other continents
hadn't even been discovered."

The thin man looked puzzled. "Ingolf?" he said.
"Haven't you heard?"

The tall man turned his head and fixed him with his one

12

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller 13

eye. The thin man started to tremble slightly, for he knew

that expression well.

"Ingolf is dead," continued the thin man. "I thought

you'd have known."
The tall man was silent. Clouds, which had not been

there a moment before, passed in front of the sun.

"I'm only the King of the Gods, nobody ever bothers to
tell me anything," said the tall man. "So?"

"He died at a quarter to midnight last night, at a place
called Ralegh's Cross in the West of England. He was
knocked down by a car, and ..."

Rain was falling now, hard and straight, but the thin man
was sweating. Oddly enough, the tall man wasn't getting

wet.

"No sign of the Ring," said the thin man nervously. "Or

the helmet. I've checked all the usual suspects, but they
don't seem to have heard or seen anything. In fact, they
were as surprised as you were. I mean . . ."

Thunder now, and a flicker of distant lightning.

"I got there as quickly as I could," said the thin man,
desperately. "As soon as I felt the shock. But I was in
Brasilia, like I said, and it takes time ..."

"All the usual suspects?"

"All of them. Every one."

Suddenly, the tall man smiled. The rain stopped, and a

rainbow flashed across the sky.

"I believe you," said the tall man, "thousands wouldn't.
Right, so if it wasn't one of the usual suspects, it must have
been an outsider, someone we haven't dealt with before.
That should make it all much easier. So start searching."

"Any where in particular?"

"Use your bloody imagination," growled the tall man,
irritably, and the rainbow promptly faded away. The thin
man smiled feebly, and soon was lost to sight among the
passers-by. Wotan, the great Sky-God and King of all the
Gods, put his handkerchief back in his pocket and gazed up
into the sky, where the two enormous ravens were circling.

"Got all that?" Wotan murmured.

Thought, the elder and smaller of the two messenger
ravens who are the God's eyes and ears on earth, dipped his
wings to show that he had, and Wotan walked slowly away.

"Like looking for a needle in a haystack," repeated
Thought, sliding into a convenient thermal. His younger
brother, Memory, banked steeply and followed him.

"This is true," replied Memory, "definitely."

"You know the real trouble with this business?" said
Memory, diving steeply after a large moth.

"What's that, then?"

"Bloody awful industrial relations, that's what. I mean,
take Wotan. Thinks he's God almighty."

"He is, isn't he?"

Memory hovered for a moment on a gust of air. "I never
thought of that," he said at last.

"Well, you wouldn't," said Thought, "would you?"




2.




16

Expecting Someone Taller         17

Tom Holt

Bridget. Rather like the control group in the testing process
for a new medicine, Malcolm was there to ensure that his
parents never took their exceptional daughter for granted. If
ever they were misguided enough to doubt or underestimate
that glorious creature, one look at Malcolm was enough to
remind them how lucky they were, so it was Malcolm's
calling to be a disappointment; he would be failing in his
duty as a son and a brother if he was anything else.

When Bridget had married Timothy (a man who perfectly
exemplified the old saying that all work and no play makes
Jack a management consultant) and gone to turn the rays of
her effulgence on Sydney, Australia, it was therefore natural
that her parents, lured by the prospect of grandchildren to
persecute, should sell all they had and follow her. They had
muttered something about Malcolm presumably coming
too, but their heart was not really in it; he was no longer
needed, now that the lacklustre Timothy could take over the
mantle of unworthiness. So Malcolm had decided that he
would prefer to stay in England. He disliked bright sunlight,
had no great interest in the cinema, opera, tennis or
seafood, and didn't particularly want to go on getting under
people's feet for the rest of his life. He was thus able to add
ingratitude and lack of proper filial and brotherly affection
to the already impressive list of things that were wrong with
him but not with his sister.

After a great deal of enjoyable agonising, Mr. and Mrs.
Fisher decided that Malcolm's only chance of ever amount-
ing to anything was being made to stand on his own two
feet, and allowed him to stay behind. Before they left,
however, they went to an extraordinary amount of trouble
and effort to find him a boring job and a perfectly horrible
flat in a nasty village in the middle of nowhere. So it was
that Malcolm had come to leave his native Derby, a place he
had never greatly cared for, and go into the West, almost
(but not quite) like King Arthur. Taking with him his good
suit, his respectable shirts, his spongebag and his two
A-levels, he had made his way to Somerset, where he had

been greeted with a degree of enthusiasm usually reserved
for the first drop of rain at a Wimbledon final by his parents'
long-suffering contacts, whose tireless efforts had made his
new life possible. Malcolm took to the trade of an auction-
eer's clerk like a duck to petrol, found the local dialect
almost as inscrutable as the locals found his own slight
accent, and settled down, like Kent in King Lear, to shape
his old course in a country new.

The fact that he hated and feared his new environment
was largely beside the point, for he had been taught long
ago that what he thought and felt about any given subject
was without question the least important thing in the world.
Indeed he had taken this lesson so much to heart that when
the Government sent him little pieces of card apparently
entitling him to vote in elections, he felt sure that they had
intended them for somebody else. He told himself that he
would soon get used to it, just as he had always been told
that he would grow into the grotesquely outsized garments
he was issued with as a child. Although two years had now
passed since his arrival in the West Country, the sleeves of
his new life, so to speak, still reached down to his
fingernails. But that was presumably his fault for not
growing. Needless to say, it was a remark of his sister
Bridget's that best summed up his situation; to be precise, a
joke she used to make at the age of seven. "What is the
difference," she would ask, "between Marmalade [the
family cat] and Malcolm?" When no satisfactory answer
could be provided by the admiring adults assembled to hear
the joke, Bridget would smile and say, "Daddy isn't
allowed to shout at Marmalade."

So it seemed rather strange (or counter-intuitive, as his
sister would say) that Malcolm should have been chosen by
the badger to be the new master of the world. Bridget, yes;

she was very good indeed at organising things, and would
doubtless make sure that the trains ran on time. But
Malcolm—"only Malcolm," as he was affectionately
known to his family—that was a mistake, surely. Still, he




18 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 19

reflected as he put the Ring back on his finger, since he was
surely imagining the whole thing, what did it matter?

Without bothering to get out of bed, he breathed on the
Ring and rubbed it on his forehead. At once, countless
gold objects materialised in the air and fell heavily all
around him, taking him so completely by surprise that all he
could think was that this must be what the Americans mean
by a shower. Gold cups, gold plates, gold chalices, torques,
ashtrays, pipe-racks, cufflinks, bath-taps, and a few shape-
less, unformed articles (presumably made by apprentice
Nibelungs at evening classes under the general heading of
paperweights) tumbled down on all sides, so that Malcolm
had to snatch up a broad embossed dish and hold it over his
head until the cascade had subsided in order to avoid serious
injury.

Gathering the shreds of his incredulity around him,
Malcolm tried to tell himself that it probably wasn't real or
solid gold; but that was a hard hypothesis. Only a complete
and utter cheapskate would go to the trouble of materialis-
ing copper or brass by supernatural means. No, it was real,
it was solid, it existed, and it was making the place look like
a scrapyard, as his mother would undoubtedly say were she
present. Having wriggled out from under the hoard, Mal-
colm found some cardboard boxes and put it all neatly
away. That alone was hard work. Malcolm shook his head,
yawned, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the
back of his hand, thus accidentally starting off the whole
process all over again . . .

"For Christ's sake!" he shouted, as a solid gold ewer
missed him by inches, "will you stop that?"

The torrent ceased, and Malcolm sat down on the bed.

"Well, I'm damned," he said aloud, as he removed a
gold tie-pin that had fallen into his pyjama pocket. "Ruler
of the world ..."

Try as he might, he couldn't get the concept to make
sense, so he put it aside. There was also the Tamhelm to
consider. Very, very tentatively, he put it on and stood in

front of the mirror. It covered his head—it seemed to have
grown in the night, or did it expand and contract automat-
ically to fit its owner?—and was fastened under the chin by
a little buckle in the shape of a crouching gnome.

So far as he could remember, all he had to do was think
of something he wanted to be, or a place he wanted to go to,
and the magic cap did all the rest. As usual when asked to
think of something, Malcolm's mind went completely
blank. He stood for a while, perplexed, then recalled that
the helmet could also make him invisible. He thought
invisible. He was.

It was a strange sensation to look in the mirror and not
see oneself, and Malcolm was not sure that he liked it. So
he decided to reappear and was profoundly relieved when
he saw his reflection in the glass once more. He repeated the
process a couple of times, appearing and disappearing like
a trafficator, now you see me, now you don't, and so on.
Childish, he said to himself. We must take this thing
seriously or else go stark staring mad.

Next, he must try shape-changing proper. He looked
round the room for inspiration, and his eye fell on an old
newspaper with a photograph of the Chancellor of the
Exchequer on the front page. The thought crossed his mind
that his mother had always wanted him to make something
of himself, and now if he wanted to, he could be a member
of the Cabinet ...

In the mirror, he caught sight of the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, looking perhaps a trifle eccentric in blue pyja-
mas and a chain-mail cap, but nevertheless unmistakable.
Even though he had done his best to prepare his mind for the
experience of shape-changing, the shock was terrifying in
its intensity. He looked frantically round the room to see if
he could see himself anywhere, but no sign. He had actually
changed-shape.

He forced himself to look at the reflection in the mirror,
and it occurred to him that if he was going to do this sort of
thing at all, he might as well do it properly. He concentrated




20               Tom Holt

his mind and thought of the Chancellor in his customary
dark grey suit. At once, the reflection changed, and now the
only jarring note was the chain-mail cap. That might well
be a problem if it insisted on remaining visible all the time.
He could wear a hat over it, he supposed, but that would be
tricky indoors, and so few people wore hats these days.
Malcolm thought how nice it would be if the cap could
make itself invisible. At once, it disappeared, giving an
excellent view of the Chancellor's thinning grey hair. So the
thing worked. Nevertheless, he reflected, it would be
necessary to think with unaccustomed precision when using
it.

Once he had overcome his initial fear of the Tamhelm,
Malcolm set about testing it thoroughly. Had anyone been
sufficiently inquisitive, or sufficiently interested in Mal-
colm Fisher, to be spying on him with a pair of binoculars,
they would have seen him change himself into the entire
Cabinet, the King of Swaziland, Theseus, and Winston
Churchill, all in under a minute. But it then occurred to him
that he need not restrict himself to specific people. The only
piece of equipment with similar potential he had ever
encountered was a word-processor, and there was not even
a manual he could consult. How would it be if the Tamhelm
could do Types?

"Make me," he said aloud, "as handsome as it is possible
to be."

He closed his eyes, not daring to look, then opened his
right eye slowly. Then his left eye, rather more quickly. The
result was pleasing, to say me least. For some reason best
known to itself, the Tamhelm had chosen to clothe this
paradigm in some barbaric costume from an earlier era—
probably to show the magnificent chest and shoulders off to
their best advantage. But England is a cold place, even in
what is supposed to be summer . . . "Try that in a cream
suit," he suggested, "and rather shorter hair. And lose the
beard."

He stood for a while and stared. The strange thing was

Expecting Someone Taller         21

that he felt completely comfortable with this remarkable
new shape; in fact, he could not remember exactly what he
actually looked like, himself, in propria persona. The first
time he had ever been aware of his own appearance (so far
as he could recall) was when he appeared in a school
nativity play, typecast as Eighth Shepherd, at the age of
five. He had had to stand in front of a mirror to do up his
cloak, and had suddenly realised that the rather ordinary
child in the glass was himself. Quite naturally, he had burst
out crying, refusing to be comforted, so that the Second
King had had to go on for him and say his one line (which
was, he seemed to recall, "Oh look!").

"I'll take it," he said to the mirror, and nodded his head
to make the reflection agree with him. He then hurried
through every permutation of clothes and accessories, just
to make sure. There was no doubt about it; the Tamhelm
had very good taste. "We'll call that one Richard" (he had
always wanted to be called Richard). He resumed his own
shape (which came as a bitter disappointment) then said
"Richard," firmly. At once, the Most Handsome Man
reappeared in the mirror, which proved that the Tamhelm
had a memory, like a pocket calculator.

"How about," he said diffidently, "the most beautiful
woman in the world? Just for fun," he added quickly.

Contrary to all his expectations, the Tamhelm did as it
was told, and the mirror was filled with a vision of exquisite
loveliness, so that it took Malcolm some time to realise that
it was him. In fact the extraordinary thing was that all this
seemed perfectly natural. Why shouldn't he be what he
wanted to be, and to hell with the laws of physics?

The next stage was to test the cap's travel mode. Ingolf
had told him that he could enjoy instantaneous and unlim-
ited travel, and although this sounded rather like a prize in
a game show or an advertisement for a season ticket, he was
fully prepared to believe that it was possible. If he was
going out, however, he ought to get dressed, for he was still
in his pyjamas. He looked around for some clean socks,

22               Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller

23

then remembered that it wasn't necessary. He could simply
think himself dressed, and no need to worry about clean
shirts. In fact, he could now have that rather nice cashmere
sweater he had seen in that shop in Bridgwater, and no
problem about getting one in his size, either.

For his first journey it would be advisable not to be too
ambitious, just in case there were complications. "The
bathroom," he thought, and there he was. No sensation of
rushing through the air or dissolving particle by particle; he
was just there. Rather a disappointment, for Malcolm
enjoyed travel, and it is better to travel hopefully than to
arrive (or at least that had always been his experience).
"The High Street," he commanded.

It was cold out in the street, and he had to call for an
overcoat, which came at once, slipping imperceptibly over
his shoulders and doing up its buttons of its own accord.
"Back," he thought, and he was sitting on his bed once
again. Suddenly, this too seemed intensely real, and it was
the ease with which he managed it that made it seem so; no
difficulty, as one might expect from a conjuring-trick or a
sleight of hand. He transformed himself and travelled
through space as easily as he moved the fingers of his hand,
and by exactly the same process; he willed it to happen and
it happened. In the same way, it seemed to lose its
enchantment. Just because one is able to move one's arms
simply by wanting to, it does not follow that one continually
does so just for the fun of it. He felt somehow disillusioned,
and had to make a conscious effort to continue with the
experiment.

It occurred to him that he had not actually specified
where he wanted to be put down in the High Street. This
could lead to problems. If he were to say "Jamaica" or
"Finland" without specifying where exactly in those partic-
ular countries he wished to end up, he might find himself
standing on the surface of a lake or the fast lane of a
motorway. He tried the High Street again, and found that he
was exactly half-way up it, and standing safely on the

pavement. He repeated the procedure three times, and each
time ended up in the same spot. Then he tried a few of the
neighbouring towns and villages. A distinct pattern
emerged. The Tamhelm put him as close as it reasonably
could to the centre of the town, and in every instance in a
place of safety where he could materialise without being
noticed.

Could he combine shape-changing and travel? "Bristol
and a postman," he cried, and a postman in the centre of
Bristol he became. This was enjoyable. He rattled through
the capital cities of the world (as many as he could
remember; he had done badly at geography at school) in a
variety of disguises, pausing only for a moment in each
place to find a shop-window in which to see his reflection.
The only failure—relative failure—in this procession was
Washington, which he had elected to visit in the guise of a
computer programmer. He forgot to specify which Wash-
ington, and the Tamhelm, doubtless on the principle of
difficilior lectio, had sent him to Tyne and Wear.

He had almost forgotten in all this excitement that he was
also supposed to be able to understand the language of the
birds. When he had returned to Nether Stowey, he over-
heard snatches of conversations outside the window, which
worried him until he realised that it was in fact a pair of
seriously-minded crows who were discussing the world
situation, with special reference to the death oflngolf. This
reminded Malcolm that he really ought to find out a little
more about the background to his new possessions. So he
went, invisibly and instantaneously, to the library and spent
an hour or so reading through the libretti of Wagner's
operas.

Rather than wade through the text, which was German
poetry translated into some obscure dialect of Middle
English, he read through the synopses of the plot, and
highly improbable he found it all. The fact that it was all
(apparently) true did little to improve matters. Malcolm had




24 Tom Holt

never been greatly inclined to metaphysical or religious
speculation, but he had hoped that if there was a supreme
being or divine agency, it would at least show the elements
of logic and common sense in its conduct. Seemingly, not
so. On the other hand, the revelation that the destiny of the
world had been shaped by a bunch of verbose idiots went
some way towards explaining the problems of human
existence.

For one could attribute any sort of illogical folly to a god
who orders a castle to be built for him by a couple of
Frost-Giants in the full knowledge that the price he is
expected to pay for his new home is his sister-in-law. But
this, apparently, was what Wotan, the great Sky-God and
King of the Gods, had seen fit to do, promising his wife's
sister Freia to the Giants Fasolt and Fafner. Arguably an
arrangement by which one gains a castle and disposes of a
relative by marriage at one and the same time is a bargain in
anybody's terms; but Wotan, if this was at the back of his
omniscient mind, had apparently overlooked the fact that
this Freia was the guardian of the golden apples of youth,
through whose power the Gods not only kept the doctor
away but also maintained their immortality. Without Freia
to supply them with golden apples, they would all dry up
and perish, and the Giants, who appeared to have at least an
elementary grounding in politics, philosophy and econom-
ics, were well aware of this when they struck the bargain.

Something of a dilemma for the everlasting Gods. But to
their aid comes the clever Fire-God, Loge, who persuades
the Giants that what they really need is not the most
beautiful woman in the world, who also happens to be the
guardian of the secret of eternal youth, but a small, plain
gold ring that belongs to somebody else. The Ring is, in
fact, the property of Alberich, a sulphur-dwarf from the
underground caverns of Nibelheim.

Alberich had stolen some magic gold from the River
Rhine, wherein dwelt (presumably before the river became
polluted) three rather pretty girls, the Rhinedaughters, who

Expecting Someone Taller         25

owned the magic gold. This gold, if made into a ring by
someone who vowed to do without Love (some of us,
Malcolm reflected bitterly, have no choice in the matter),
would confer upon its owner the control of the world, in
some concrete but ill-defined way. Alberich had originally
set out with the intention of chatting up one of the Rhine-
daughters; having failed in this, he cursed Love, stole the
gold, and made the Ring. By its power, he found that
he was able to compel all his fellow sulphur-dwarves to
mine and work gold for him in unlimited quantities, this
apparently being what sulphur-dwarves do best. With this
wealth, it was his intention to subvert the world and make
himself its master.

Before he can get very far with this project, Wotan steals
the Ring from him and uses it to pay off the Giants, who
immediately start fighting over who should have it. Fafner
kills Fasolt, and transforms himself into a dragon before
retiring to a cave in a forest in the middle of nowhere, this
apparently being preferable in his eyes to retiring to a cave
in a forest with the Goddess Freia. It takes all sorts.

Wotan is understandably concerned to get hold of the
Ring for himself. Once again, Malcolm was moved to
wonder at the stupidity, or at least the obscurity, of the King
of the Gods; evidently the sort of person who, if asked to
rescue a cat from a roof, would tackle the problem by
burning the house down. Wotan sets about securing the ring
by having an affair with Mother Earth, the result of which
is nine noisy daughters called Valkyries, and a son and a
daughter called Volsungs. The latter obviously take after
their father, for all they manage to do before meeting with
horrible deaths is commit incest and produce a son.

This son is Siegfried, a muscular but stupid youth who
kills the dragon Fafner. From the pile of gold on top of
which the dragon has been sleeping for a hundred years
(rather uncomfortable, Malcolm thought), Siegfried picks
out the Ring and the Tamhelm, not knowing what they are
for. He only discovers the secret of these articles when, led

26 Tom Holt

by a woodbird, he wakes up the Number One Valkyrie,
Brunnhilde, who has been sleeping on a fiery mountain for
twenty years after a quarrel with her father.

Brunnhilde, who is of course Siegfried's aunt, is also the
first woman he has ever seen, and the two of them fall in
love at first sight. Brunnhilde tells Siegfried all about the
Ring and the terrible curse that Alberich had placed on it
which brings all who own it to a horrible and untimely
death. Siegfried, not being a complete idiot, gives it to her
as a present. This is, of course, all in accordance with
Wotan's plan ("Sounds more like coincidence to me," said
Malcolm to himself, "but never mind") since Brunnhilde is
the embodiment of Wotan's will, and because Wotan is
forbidden by his intermittent but ferocious conscience to
touch the perishing thing himself, Brunnhilde getting it is
me nearest he can come to controlling it.

In a logical world, that would be that. But Siegfried goes
off into the world to continue his career as a professional
Hero, and falls in with some very dubious people called the
Gibichungs. They manage to persuade Siegfried to take the
Ring back from Brunnhilde and marry their horse-faced
sister Gutrune. Brunnhilde is naturally livid, and conspires
with Hagen (a Gibichung and also, would you believe,
Alberich's son) to kill Siegfried and get the Ring back.
Hagen kills Siegfried, and Brunnhilde immediately changes
her mind (so like a woman). She hurls herself onto
Siegfried's funeral pyre, clutching the Ring, and is burnt to
a crisp. As she does so, the Rhine fortuitously bursts its
banks and floods Germany, allowing the Rhinedaughters to
snatch the Ring from Brunnhilde's charred finger and drown
Hagen. Meanwhile, the castle of the Gods (which had
caused the whole mess in the first place) has caught fire and
bums down, the Gods rather foolishly neglecting to leave it
while it does so, and the curtain falls on a carbonised
heaven and a flooded earth, or, in other words, a typical
operatic Happy Ending. Or so Wagner thought ...

Expecting Someone Taller         27

Having finally come to the end of this narrative, Malcolm
was left with two abiding impressions: first, that Fafner the
dragon, instead of keeping his money under the mattress
like everyone else, had kept his mattress under the
money; second, that humanity generally gets the Gods it
deserves. He shook his head sadly and transported himself
to the pub.

Over a pint of beer and a chicken sandwich, he went over
the story in his mind. The logical flaws and inconsistencies
that riddled the tale, far from making him doubt its veracity,
finally convinced him that it might indeed be true; for life is
like that. He also wrote down on a beer-mat the names of all
the Gods and monsters who might come looking for him,
and turned his attention to more pressing matters.

First, there was the problem of turning the Nibelung's
gold into folding money. He resolved to try the straightfor-
ward approach, and so transported himself to Bond Street,
where he found an old-established jeweller's shop. He
assumed a grave and respectable appearance and ap-
proached the counter holding two heavy gold chalices
selected at random from the gold he had materialised that
morning. The jeweller studied them for a moment in
silence.

"That's odd," he said, turning one of them over in order
to study the outlandish script on the rim, "they aren't on the
list."

"What list?"

"The list of stolen gold and silver we get from the police
each month. Or did you nick them recently?"

"I didn't steal them," said Malcolm truthfully, "they're

mine.

"Tell that to the inspector, chum," said the jeweller. A
burly assistant stood in front of the door, as the jeweller
lifted the telephone and started to dial.

"You people never leam," he said sadly. "You come in

28

Tom Holt

off the street expecting me to buy five grand's worth of

gold . . ."

"As much as that?"

"That's the value of the metal. Add a couple of grand for
the workmanship, if it's genuine. I expect the owner will be

glad to get it back."

"Oh, that's all right, you can keep them," Malcolm said,

and vanished.

3

As HE PUT the kettle on back in Nether Stowey, Malcolm
worked out a way in which he could turn the Nibelung
hoard into mastery of the world. First, he would have to
find some way of contacting an unscrupulous gold dealer—
not too difficult; all he need do would be request the
Tarnhelm, in its travel mode, to take him to an unscrupulous
gold dealer's house and there he would be—and sell off a
reasonable quantity of gold with no questions asked. With
the money thus obtained, he could start buying share—lots
of shares in lots of big companies. Then sell more gold,
then buy more shares. Sooner or later, he would flood the
gold market, which would be a pity; but by then, he ought
to have enough shares to enable him to do without the gold
per se. After about a decade of buying as many shares as he
could, he would be in a position to start seizing control of
major international companies. Through these (and massive
corruption) he could in turn gain influence over the Gov-
ernments of the countries of the free world.

With the free world in his pocket, he could patch up a
workable detente with the Communist bloc to the extent that
he could start infiltrating them. By a combination of




30

Tom Holt

bribery, economic pressure and, where necessary, military
force, he could in about thirty-five years gai" unseen but
effective control of the world, and probably about a hundred
ulcers to go with it. It all sounded perfectly hom'ole and no
fun at all, and Malcolm wanted no part of it. In a way he
was relieved. Control of the world, as he had imagined it
would be when Ingolf first mentioned the subject, would
have entailed responsibilities as well as benefits. As it
was, he could perfectly well throw the Ring away—back
into the Rhine, if the Rhinedaughters had not long since
died of sewage poisoning—and keep the Tarnhelm for
his own amusement. He could get a job as an express
messenger . . .

"Idiot," said a voice.

He looked around, startled. There was nobody to be
seen . . . then he remembered. The voice had come from
a rather bedraggled pigeon perched on his window ledge.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"You're an idiot, Malcolm Fisher," said the pigeon.
"Open the window and let me in."

Although he was beginning to tire of being insulted and
ordered about by dumb animals, Malcolm did as he was

told.

"Sorry," said the pigeon, "it was rude of me. But I felt it

was my duty to tell you. You see, I'm a woodbird, like the
woodbird who advised Siegfried all those years ago."
"No, you're not," said Malcolm. "You're a pigeon."
"Correct. I'm a woodpigeon. And we care about things."
That was presumably meant to be logical. Certainly, it
made about as much sense as everything else Malcolm had
heard during the past forty-eight hours. "So why am I an
idiot?" he asked. "What have I done now?"

"The Ring you've got there," said the pigeon, its beak
full of crumbs from Malcolm's table, "you don't understand
what it is, do you? I mean, you've heard the story and
you've read the book ..."

"When do I get to see the film?"

Expecting Someone Taller         31

"It's not a toy, you know," said the pigeon, sternly, "and
before you ask, I know all this because I'm a bird."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. You see," continued the pigeon,
preening its ruffled feathers, "the Ring has other powers
beyond creating wealth that were not even guessed at—
good crumbs these, by the way. I'm into healthy
scavenging—guessed at when it was forged. Have you
heard today's news?"

Malcolm looked at his watch; it was five o'clock, and he
leaned forward to switch on the radio. But even before he
touched the set, the voice of the newsreader became clearly
audible.

"That's handy," said Malcolm.

"Giant's blood," replied the pigeon. "Of course, it's
selective; you can only hear the broadcasts if you make a
conscious decision to do so. Otherwise you'd go mad in a
couple of minutes, with all those voices jabbering away in
a hundred different languages. And yes, it does work with
telephones."

"Don't tell me," said Malcolm, to whom a sudden
revelation had been made, "you birds can do it as well."

The pigeon did not speak. Nevertheless Malcolm heard it
clearly in his mind's ear. Although the bird did not open its
beak, it was exactly the same as hearing a voice, rather like
having a conversation with someone with their back to you.
Even the pigeon's faint Midlands accent was preserved.

"And you can do everything that we can do, as well or
even better. For instance you can read thoughts, like you're
doing now—selectively, of course. But in your case, you
can blot them out and hear nothing if you want to. We
can't."

One distinct advantage of this conversation without
speech was that these communications, which would have
taken several seconds to say out loud, flashed through
Malcolm's mind in no time at all. To give an illustration: an
actor reciting the whole of Paradise Lost by thought-

32 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 33

transfer would detain his audience for no more than six
minutes. As Malcolm opened his mind to the concept, he
found that he could hear the pigeon's thoughts even when it
wasn't trying to communicate them.

"Same to you," he said (or thought) irritably.
"Sorry," said the bird. "I forgot you could hear. That's
why we birds never evolved very far, I suppose, despite our
considerable intelligence. We have to spend all our time and
energy watching what we think, and so we can never get
around to using our brains for anything useful. You humans
only have to watch what you say. You're lucky."
"Where was I?"
"Listening to the radio."
"Oh, yes."

This entire conversation had taken up the time between
the second and third pips of the Greenwich time signal.
Malcolm, whose mind had grown used to working at a
faster speed, found the wait for the next pip unendurably
dull, as whole seconds of inactivity ticked by. When the
newsreader started speaking, her words were at first almost
incomprehensible, like a recording slowed right down.

The announcer seemed rather harassed, for her beautiful
BBC voice was distinctly strained as she went through the
catalogue of natural and man-made disasters that had struck
the planet since about one o'clock that morning.
"When you killed the Giant," said the pigeon.
There had been earthquakes all across North and South
America, a volcano had erupted in Italy, and a swarm of
locusts bigger than any previously recorded had formed
over North Africa. Seven Governments had been violently
overthrown, the delicate peace negotiations in the Middle
East had collapsed, the United States had broken off
diplomatic relations with China, and England had lost the
First Test by an inning and thirty-two runs.
"That's awful," said Malcolm, aloud.
"Listen," urged the pigeon.
Amazingly enough, said the announcer (and her voice

palpably quavered) in all these disasters nobody had been
killed or even seriously injured, anywhere in the world,
although the damage to property had been incalculable.
Meanwhile, at London Zoo Za-Za the Giant Panda . . .

Malcolm dismissed the voice from his mind. "So what's
going on?"

The pigeon was silent and its mind was blank. "Is it my
fault?" Malcolm demanded impatiently. "Did I do all that?"

"No, not exactly. In fact, I would say it was sort of a
tribute to your integrity, like."

"My what?"

"Integrity. You see, because of the curse Alberich put on
it, the Ring can't help causing destruction. Every day it
continues to exist, it exercises power on the world, and
unless this power is channelled deliberately into positive
and constructive things, which is impossible anyway, it just
sort of crashes about, causing damage and breaking things."

"What sort of things?"

"The earth's crust. Governments. You name it. Why do
you think the world's been such a horrible place for the last
thousand years? Ingolf couldn't care less what happened to
the world so long as he was all right, and over the past
century and a bit, when his temper wasn't improved by
perpetual toothache, he actively encouraged the Ring by
thinking unpleasant thoughts. Hence wars, progress and all
the rest of it."

Malcolm shook his head in disbelief. "But . . . but
what about the Gods, then? I mean, I've only just found out
they exist. What do they do?"

"What they like, mostly. Wotan—he's the only one who
matters—is omnipotent; well, omnipotent up to a point. The
only thing he can't compete with is the Ring, which is far
more powerful than he is. That's why he wants it so badly.
But it doesn't really interfere with his being all-powerful.
You see, no-one can control the Ring, or make it do what
they want it to. That's the point ..."

The pigeon's thought tailed off into the blank. Something




34 Tom Holt

had obviously occurred to it that it could not even put into
thoughts, let alone words. It made an effort and continued.

"Needless to say," said the pigeon, "when the Ring
changes hands, it gets very temperamental. Nobody likes
being killed, and all the bad vibes that went through Ingolf's
mind as he died last night won't have made things any
better. You see, bad thoughts give the Ring something to get
its teeth into. Hence all those earthquakes."

Once again, the pigeon's thoughts tailed away. It walked
round the table, pecked at a Biro, and then stopped dead in
its tracks.

"And nobody got killed," it said. "That's strange, don't
you think? Did you put the Ring on straight away?"

"Yes."

"I don't know if this is even possible, but maybe you
were controlling the Ring in some way or other, stopping it
from actually killing anyone. God knows how. I mean, even
Siegfried couldn't control it, and he was much more ..."

"I know, so everyone keeps telling me."

"Anyway, he couldn't stop the curse, although he was
probably the only one so far who had the potential—he was
Wotan's grandson, but no longer in his power. But perhaps
it's not the curse . . . Anyway, he couldn't do a thing with
it. And look at you ..."

"In that case," said Malcolm, "all I have to do to end this
whole curse business and make the world safe, all I have to
do is throw the Ring back into the Rhine. It was the Rhine,
wasn't it?"

The pigeon flapped its wings and flew round the room to
relieve its feelings. It didn't work.

"Idiot!" it shouted. "You haven't been listening to a word
I've thought, have you? That's the worst possible thing you
could do."

"But it said in the book: The waters of the Rhine will
wash away Alberich's curse."

"How quaintly you put it, I'm sure. You haven't grasped
the point I've been trying to make. The curse isn't like that.

Expecting Someone Taller         35

In fact . . . Sorry." The pigeon fluttered up from the table
and perched forgivingly on Malcolm's head. "I forgot, you
aren't used to reading thoughts. Only it's just occurred to
me that the curse is nothing to do with it. It's just a curse,
that's all. It just brings all the owners of the Ring to a
horrible and untimely death. But the Ring was powerful
before Alberich put the curse on it. If you were to throw the
Ring into the Rhine ..."

"Would you please stop pecking at my head?"
I      "Sorry. It's instinct, I'm afraid. We birds are martyrs to
|   instinct. Where was I? If you were to throw the Ring into
I   the Rhine, there's no guarantee that the Rhinedaughters
!    would be able to control its nasty habits any more than
Ingolf could. And even if they could and they wanted to,
they can't be expected to be able to guard it properly against
the bad guys—Wotan and Alberich and that lot. Let alone
any new contenders. They have no power, you see, they can
only offer an alternative."

"What alternative?"

"Think about it." The pigeon chuckled. "In the Dark
Ages, of course, it was inconceivable that anyone would
prefer unlimited wealth to a bit of fun with a pretty
Rhinedaughter—that's what all that stuff about forswearing
Love was about—but that was a thousand years ago. What
could you buy a thousand years ago that was worth having?
The ultimate in consumer goods was a rowing-boat or a
goatskin hat, and the ideal home was a damp log cabin with
no chimney. These days, everything has changed. These
days, most people would forswear Love for a new washing-
machine, let alone the entire world. No, if you throw the
Ring into the Rhine, you'll make everything much worse."

Malcolm buried his head in his hands, causing the pigeon
to lose its balance. "Watch out," it said.

"But Wagner said ..."

"Forget Wagner, this is real life."

"Where did he get the story from, by the way?"

"A little bird told him."

36

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller 37

Malcolm sat for a moment in silence, while the pigeon
tried to eat his diary.

"This is terrible," he said at last. "Now I'm going to be
personally responsible for every catastrophe in the world.
And I thought it was only my mother who blamed me for
everything."

"Not necessarily," said the pigeon, soothingly. "Per-
haps—I say perhaps—you can stop all these terrible things
from happening. Don't ask me how, but you stopped I don't
know how many people from being killed today."

"Did I?"

"Well, if you didn't, then who the hell did? Let me put it
to you this way." The pigeon buried its beak in its feathers
and thought hard for a moment. "By and large, all things
considered, you wouldn't actually want to kill anyone, now
would you?"

"No," replied Malcolm, "certainly not."

"But when you hear about disasters in other countries, it
doesn't spoil your day. You think, Hard luck, poor devils,
but you don't burst out crying all over the place."

"True."

"Whereas a disaster in this country would affect you
rather more deeply, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it would."

"That follows. All these disasters, you see, happened
abroad. The only bit of local disaster was that England lost
a cricket match, and the way things are nowadays, that
would probably have happened anyway. I remember when
I was feeding in the outfield at Edgbaston in nineteen
fifty-six ..."

"Get on with it," said Malcolm irritably.

"The way I see it," said the pigeon, picking up a crumb
of stale cheese it had previously overlooked, "the Ring is
being guided by your will. A certain number of momentous
things have to happen when the Ring changes hands. It's
like a volcano: all that force and violence has to go
somewhere. But your will protected Britain . . ."

"Do you mind not using that word? It makes it sound like
my last will and testament."

"All right then, you protected Britain, because you care
more about it than about other countries. All subcon-
sciously, of course. And you refused to let the Ring kill
anybody, because you instinctively don't approve of people
being killed. When you think about it, that's pretty remark-
able. Have you got any more of that cheese anywhere?"

Malcolm was rather taken aback. "You mean I really can
make the world do what I want?"

"Not in the way you think. The Ring won't take orders
from your conscious mind. But you can prevent it from
destroying the world, if you're sufficiently strong-minded."

"But that can't be right."

"It does seem odd, I agree. After all, Wotan couldn't do
it. Fafner couldn't do it. Even Siegfried couldn't do it and
he was much more ..."

"Siegfried was an idiot. Or did Wagner get that wrong,
too?"

"Yes, he did. Siegfried wasn't an idiot, not by a long
way. He just didn't know what was going on. But then,
neither did you." The pigeon fell silent again.

"How come I can't read your thoughts?" Malcolm asked
"You've done this two or three times now."

"I'm not so much thinking as communing."

"What with?"

"How should I know?" snapped the pigeon in a sudden
flurry of bad temper. "Mother Earth, I've always assumed.
Go on, you try it."

Malcolm tried it, opening his mind to everything in the
world. There was a perfectly horrible noise and he switched
it off. "Nothing," he said, "just a lot of voices."

"Oh," said the pigeon, and Malcolm could sense unease,
even awe, in its thoughts. "Oh, I see."

"You mean it's me you're communing with?" Malcolm
was so amazed that he turned himself into a stone without
intending to.




38               Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller

39

"That's the way it's looking," said the pigeon. "Sir," it
added.

"Go ahead," said Malcolm bitterly. "You and my Im-
mortal Soul have a nice chat, don't mind me."

"I'm sorry," said the pigeon, "I suppose it must be very
frustrating for you, especially since it's so good, you'd
enjoy it if you could hear it, you really would."

"What did it say last?"

"Well, it suggested that you may not be wise or noble or
fearless or brave or cunning or anything like that ..."

"That sounds like me talking."

"... But you're probably the only nice person in
history to own the wretched thing."

"Nice?"

"Nice."

"You really think I'm nice?" said Malcolm, blushing.

"Where I come from," said the pigeon, "that's not a
compliment. Anyway, I didn't say it, you did, only you
couldn't hear yourself think. But if by nice you mean
decent, inoffensive, wouldn't hurt a fly, yes, I think you
probably are. And all the other Ring-Bearers have been
right bastards in one way or another."

"Even Siegfried?"

"Siegfried had a wicked temper. If his porridge wasn't
just right, he'd throw it all round the hall."

Malcolm rubbed his eyes. "And my niceness is going to
save the world, is it?"

"Could do, who knows? Just try saying to yourself over
and over again, I don't want anything bad to happen to
anyone anywhere today. See if that makes any difference."
The pigeon turned its head and looked at the sun, which was
starting to shine with the evening light. "Time I was on my
way," it said. "There's a field of oilseed rape out there I
want to look in on as I go home. They've got one of those
machines that go bang every ten minutes, but who cares? I
like it round here. Always wanted to retire to the seaside."

"So that's it, is it? Think nice thoughts?"

"Try it. If it doesn't work, try something else. Well, take
care, won't you? It's been a privilege meeting you, I
suppose. But watch out for the Gods and the Volsungs for
a while. They'll be after you by now."

"Can they read thoughts too?"

"No, but Wotan has a couple of clever ravens. I don't
think they can find you easily, though. The Tamhelm masks
your thoughts, except at very short range, and the world's a
very big place. You've got the advantage, having the
Tamhelm. But if I were you, I'd be a bit more discreet in
future. It's not clever to go around looking like people who
have been dead for a thousand years."

"You mean Theseus?"

"Who's that? No, I mean Siegfried. And Brunnhilde,
come to that." The pigeon flapped its wings, said, "Thanks
for the crumbs," and was gone.

For a moment, Malcolm did not understand what the
pigeon had said about Siegfried and ... He had only
turned himself into one female character today. He stood in
front of the mirror.

"Quick," he ordered, "Siegfried, then Brunnhilde."

Once again, the images of the Most Handsome Man and
the Most Beautiful Woman flashed across the glass. He sat
down on the bed and, for some reason or other, began to
cry.




4.

APOTHEOSIS CAN BE rather unnerving. Even the most hard-
ened and cynical Royal visitor to remote islands is taken
aback to find the islanders worshipping his framed photo-
graph, and he at least has the consolation of knowing that he
isn't really a God. Malcolm had no such consolation as he
faced up to the fact that his mind controlled the world.

"If only," he kept on saying to himself, "Mr. Scanlon
knew." Mr. Scanlon had tried to teach him Physics at
school, and if his assessment of Malcolm's mental capaci-
ties had been correct, the world was in deep trouble. For his
part, Malcolm had always been inclined to share his
teacher's opinion; certainly, the weight of the evidence had
always seemed to be on Mr. Scanlon's side. Nevertheless,
it was necessary to make the best of a bad job. Malcolm
now had literally no-one to blame but himself, and the Daily
Service on the radio seemed to be directly addressed to him.
Especially one line, which Malcolm took it upon himself to
paraphrase slightly:

"For there is none other that fighteth for us, but only
thou. Oh, God!"

But the news from the outside world gave him grounds

42 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 43

for cautious optimism. The disasters that had marked his
accession cleared themselves up with embarrassing speed.
The United Nations, for example, held a special session in
New York and unanimously voted to levy an unprecedented
contribution from all its members to relieve the suffering of
the victims of the catastrophe. The various coups and
revolutions resolved themselves into benign democracies as
if that had been their intention all along. Peace negotiations
in the Middle East were resumed, America and China
started playing each other at ping-pong again, and the
swarm of locusts was devoured by a huge flock of migrating
birds. Admittedly, England lost the Second Test as well, but
Malcolm knew that he could not be expected to work
miracles. The only disaster that had been reported was the
destruction by volcanic forces of a small, uninhabited atoll
in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; and even that had its
good side, as the residents of the neighbouring atoll had
always complained that it was an eyesore and spoilt their
view of the sunset.

It needed no ghost come from the grave, and no visitation
of prophetic birds to tell Malcolm that this was all the result
of being nice. He had rigorously excluded from his mind all
unpleasant, spiteful or angry thoughts for the best part of a
fortnight (the strain was beginning to show), and the result
had been a quite unparalleled upturn in the fortunes of the
human race. "And all that," Malcolm reflected smugly,
"was me."

But it was extremely frustrating to have to keep all this to
oneself. Malcolm had never achieved anything before,
except third prize in a village flower show when he was nine
(three people had entered that particular category), and the
wish to be congratulated was very strong. His sister, for
example, had achieved many things, but she had never
stopped a war or disposed of a swarm of locusts. But the
Ring seemed to cut him off from the rest of the human race.
Although he was the master of the Tamhelm, he scarcely
went out at all. This was partly laziness, partly caution; for

if he was to remain nice and keep his mind free of malice or
resentment, it would not be advisable for him to see any of
his friends or relatives. He was also beginning to feel
extremely hungry. All the food lying about the flat (some of
which had been there for a considerable time) was long
since finished, he had no money left, and he could see little
prospect of getting any more. Even if his job still existed
(and after two weeks' unexplained absence, that seemed
unlikely) he knew that for the sake of mankind he could not
go back to it. One cannot work as a clerk in a provincial
auction room without entertaining some fairly dark
thoughts, any one of which, given his present position,
could blot out a major city. The obvious alternative—theft,
using the power of the Tamhelm—was open to the same
objection. If he were to start stealing things, who could tell
what the consequences might be?

He contemplated the problem, turning himself into Aris-
totle in the hope that the transformation might assist his
powers of reasoning. During the past two weeks, metamor-
phosis had been virtually his only occupation, and had kept
him moderately amused. He had always rather wanted to
know what various characters from history and fiction really
looked like, especially the girls described by the poets. He
also took the trouble to assume the shapes of all his likely
assailants—Wotan and Alberich and Loge—so as to be able
to recognise them instantly, and had frightened himself half
to death in the process.

The outward shape of Aristotle seemed to inspire him,
and he went through the various ways in which he could sell
gold for money without actually getting involved himself.
Having dismissed the notion of putting an advertisement in
the Classified section of the Quantock Gazette, he hit upon
what seemed to be an acceptable notion. Armed with a large
suitcase, he commanded the Tamhelm to take him to some
uninhabited vault in the Bank of England where he might
find plenty of used banknotes. On arrival, he filled the
suitcase (more of a small trunk) with ten- and twenty-pound




44 Tom Holt

notes, then started to materialise gold to a roughly equiva-
lent value. By the time he had finished, his forehead was
quite sore with rubbing and the floor of the vault was
covered in exquisite treasures. He removed himself and the
suitcase and tried the equivalent banks in France, America,
Australia and other leading countries (for it would be unfair
if only one or two countries' suddenly found themselves
linked to the gold standard). With the immense wealth he
gathered in this way, he opened a large number of bank
accounts in various names—a terrifying business, full of
unforeseen complications—and bought himself the house
he had always wanted, a huge and extremely attractive
manor house near Taunton, which happened to be for sale.

As he had anticipated, no mention was made by any of
the financial institutions with which he had done business of
the sudden disappearance of large sums of money or the
equally unexpected appearance of a fortune in gold. The
price of the metal fluctuated wildly for a day or so, then
went considerably higher than it had been for some time.
Intrigued, Malcolm revisited his favourite banks, invisible
and carrying two suitcases. All the gold had gone, and there
were plenty more banknotes, neatly packaged up for ease of
transportation. In the national bank of Australia there was
even a piece of card with "Thanks; Please Call Again"
written on it, propped up on a shelf.

Now that he was a multi-millionaire on both sides of the
Iron Curtain, Malcolm turned his attention to furnishing his
new house. It seemed likely that he would have to spend a
great deal of time in it, on his own, and since money was no
object, he decided to have the very best of everything. It
was obvious that he could not risk appearing there in his
own shape—what would Malcolm Fisher be doing buying
Combe Hall?—and so he designed for himself a new
persona to go with his new life. In doing so, he made a
terrible mistake; but by the time he realised what he had
done, it was too late.

Expecting Someone Taller         45

It was simple carelessness on his part that caused the
trouble. He had been so excited at the prospect of owning
Combe Hall that he had gone to the estate agents who were
handling the sale in his own shape. He was shown into an
office and asked to wait while the senior partner came down
to see him, and as the door opened to admit this gentleman,
Malcolm caught sight of his own, original face in the mirror
and realised his mistake. He commanded the Tamhelm to
change him into someone else, but did not have time to
specify who. To his horror, he saw that the face in the
mirror was that of the Most Handsome Man; but the estate
agent had seen him now, so he could not change into
anything less conspicuous. He had stuck like it, just as his
mother had warned him he would.

Thus it was that Malcolm found himself condemned to
embark on his new life with the face and body of Siegfried
the Dragon-Slayer, also known as the Most Handsome
Man. He could not help remembering the pigeon's warning
about this, but it was too late now. Not that Malcolm
objected in principle to being the most handsome man who
had ever lived; but the sight of ravens (or crows, or
blackbirds; he was no ornithologist) filled him with horror.

Meanwhile, he fleshed out his new character and by
deviousness and contrivance of which he had not thought
himself capable acquired the necessary documents and
paperwork. In order to give his new self a history (multi-
millionaires do not simply appear from nowhere) he had to
Tamhelm himself at dead of night into the computer rooms
of half the public records offices in the country, and since he
knew next to nothing about twentieth-century machines, he
accidentally erased the life histories of several hundred
people before getting the result he wanted. Finally, how-
ever, he ended up with everything he needed to be Herr
Manfred Finger of Diisseldorf, the name and identity he had
chosen. Again, the German aspect was ill-advised and
unintentional; he had wanted to be a foreigner of some sort
(since in Somerset it is understood that all foreigners are

r

46

Expecting Someone Taller 47

rnad, and allowances for eccentric or unusual behaviour are
made accordingly) and had chosen a country at random.
That he should have chosen Germany was either yet more
carelessness or else the Ring trying to get its own back on
him for making it do good in the world. He was not sure
which, but was inclined to the first explanation, as being
more in keeping with his own nature.

Herr Finger was soon familiar to all the inhabitants of
Combe, who were naturally curious to know more about
their new neighbour. As local custom demanded, they soon
found a nickname for the new Lord of the Manor. The
various members of the Booth family who had owned the
Hall from the early Tudor period onwards had all been
known by a variety of affectionate epithets—Mad Jack, or
Drunken George—and the periphrasis bestowed on Mal-
colm was "that rich foreign bastard". Such familiarity did
not, however, imply acceptance. Although it was generally
admitted that Herr Finger was not too bad on the surface and
no worse than the last of the Booths (Sir William, or Daft
Billy), it went without saying that there was something
wrong about him. He was, it was agreed, a criminal of some
sort; but whether he was an illegal arms dealer or a drug
smuggler, the sages of Combe could not be certain. The
only thing on which everyone was unanimous was that he
had murdered his wife. After all, none of them had ever
seen her in the village . . .

"And what time," said Wotan, "do you call this?"

Loge, his hands covered in oil, climbed wearily off his
motorcycle and removed his helmet. "It broke down
again," he said. "Just outside Wuppertal. Plugs."

Wotan shook his head sadly. Admittedly, it had been on
his orders that the immortal Gods had traded in their
eight-legged horses and chariots drawn by winged cats for
forms of transport more suited to the twentieth century, but
he expected his subordinates to be both punctual and

properly turned out. Cleanliness, he was fond of asserting,
is next to godliness.

"Well, you're here now," he said. "So what do you make
of thatf"

Loge looked about him. There was nothing to see except
corn-fields. He said so.

"Well done," growled Wotan. "We are unusually obser-
vant this morning, are we not? And what do you find
unusual about the corn in these corn-fields?"

Loge scratched his head, getting oil on his hair.
"Dunno," he said. "It looks perfectly normal to me."

"Normal for August?"

"Perfectly."

"It's June."

Loge, who had spent an hour wrestling with a motorcycle
engine beside a busy autobahn, did not at first appreciate the
significance of this remark. Then the pfennig dropped. "It's
two months in advance, you mean?"

"Precisely." Wotan put his arm around Loge's shoulder.
"Good, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose so."

"It's bloody marvellous, considering the weather they've
been having this year. And why do you suppose the crops
are doing so very, very well? In fact, why is everything in
the world doing so very, very well? Answer me that?"

Loge instinctively looked up at the sky. Thunder-clouds
were beginning to form.

"Someone's been interfering?" he suggested.

"Correct!" Wotan shouted, and the first clap of thunder
came in, dead on cue. "Someone's been interfering. Now
who could that be? Who on earth could be responsible for
this new golden age?"

From his tone, Loge guessed that it couldn't have been
Wotan himself. Which left only one candidate. "You mean
the Ring-Bearer?"

"Very good. The only force in the Universe capable of
making things happen so quickly and so thoroughly. But







48 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 49

isn't that a trifle strange in itself? Wouldn't you expect the
Ring to do nasty things, not nice ones? Left to itself, I
mean?"

Loge agreed that he would.

"So you would agree that anyone capable of making the
Ring do what it doesn't want to do is likely to be a rather
special person?"

Wotan had picked up this irritating habit of asking
leading questions from the late and unlamented Socrates.
Loge hated it.

"In fact, someone so remarkable that even if he didn't
have the Ring he would present a serious danger to our
security. And since he does have the Ring ..."

Wotan was trembling with rage, and the rain was falling
fast, beating down the standing corn. "We have to find him,
quickly," he roared. "Otherwise, we are in grave danger.
To be precise, you have to find him. Do you understand?"

Loge understood, but Wotan wanted to make his point.
"And if I were you, my friend, I would spare no effort in
looking for him. I would leave no stone unturned and no
avenue unexplored. And do you know why? Because if you
don't, you might very well find yourself spending the rest of
Eternity as a waterfall. You wouldn't like that, now would
you?"

Loge agreed that he wouldn't, and Wotan was about to
develop this theme further when it stopped raining. The
clouds dispersed, and the sun shone brightly, pitching a
vivid rainbow across the blue sky.

"Who said you could stop raining?" screamed Wotan. "I
want lightning. Now!"

The sky took no notice, and Loge went white with fear.
Everyone has his own particular phobia, and Loge was
terrified of fish. As a waterfall, he would have salmon
jumping up him all day long. He would have prayed for rain
if he wasn't a God himself. But the sky remained cloudless.

"That does it!" Wotan smashed his fist into the palm of
his left hand. "When I'm not even allowed to rain my own

rain because it damages the crops, it's time for positive
action." He stood still for a moment, then turned to Loge.

"Are you still here?" he asked savagely.

"I'm on my way," Loge replied, jumping desperately on
the kickstart of his motorcycle. "I'll find him, don't you
worry."

Loge sped off into the distance, and Wotan was left
alone, staring angrily at the sun. Two coal-black ravens
floated down and settled on the fence.

"Nice weather we're having," said Thought.

For some reason, this did not go down well. "Any
result?" Wotan snapped.

"Nothing so far, boss," said Memory.

"Where have you been looking?"

"Everywhere, boss. But you know we can't find the
Ring-Bearer. We can't see him, or read his thoughts, or
anything like that."

"God give me strength!" Wotan clenched his fist and
made an effort to relax. "Then what you do, you stupid
bird, is go through all the people of the world, one by one,
and when you find one whose thoughts you can't read and
who you can't see, that's him. I'd have thought that was
obvious."

Thought looked at Memory. Memory looked at Thought.
"But that'll take weeks, boss," said Memory.

"So what else were you planning to do?"

The two ravens flapped their wings and launched them-
selves into the air. They circled for a moment, then floated
over the world. All day they flew, sweeping in wide circles
across the continents, until Memory suddenly swooped
down and landed beside the banks of the Rhine.

"Stuff this," he said to Thought. "Why don't we ask the
girls?"

"Good idea," said Memory. "Wish I'd thought of that."

"It must have slipped your mind." The two birds took off
again, but this time they flew only a mile or so, to a spot
where, about a thousand years ago, a certain Alberich had




50 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 51

stopped and watched three beautiful women swimming in
the river. The ravens landed in a withered tree and folded
their wings.

Under the tree, three young girls were sunbathing, and for
them the Sun Goddess had saved the best of the evening
light, for she was their friend.

"Flosshilde," said one of the girls, "there's a raven in
that tree looking at you."

"I hope he likes what he sees," replied the Rhinedaughter
lazily.

Wellgunde, the eldest and most serious of the three,
rolled onto her stomach and lifted her designer sunglasses.

"Hello, Thought," she said, "hello. Memory. Found him
yet, then?"

The ravens were silent, ruffling their coarse feathers with
their beaks, and the girls giggled.

"But you've been looking for simply ages," said Wo-
glinde, the youngest and most frivolous of the three. "It
must be somewhere."

"I'm always losing things," said Flosshilde. "Where do
you last remember seeing it?"

"You sure it's not in your pocket?"

"You've put it somewhere safe and you can't remember
where?"

Wotan's ravens had been putting up with this sort of thing
for a thousand years, but it still irritated them. The girls
laughed again, and Memory blushed under his feathers.

"If you don't find him soon," yawned Flosshilde, comb-
ing her long, golden hair, "he'll slip through your claws,
just like clever old Ingolf did. By the way, fancy Ingolf
being a badger!"

"He'll get the hang of the Tamhelm and then no-one will
ever find him," purred Woglinde. "What a shame that
would be."

"Good luck to him," said Wellgunde. "Who wants the
boring old Ring, anyway?"

"Dunno what you're being so bloody funny about," said
Memory. "Supposed to be your Ring we're looking for."

"Forget it," said Woglinde, waving her slender arms.
"It's a lovely day, the sun is shining, the crops are
growing ..."

Memory winced at this. Flosshilde giggled.

"... And it's been so long since Alberich took the
beastly thing that we don't really care any more, do we?"
Woglinde wiggled her toes attractively, in a way that had
suggested something far nicer than measureless wealth for
thousands of years. "What do we want with gold when we
have you to entertain us?"

"Save it for the human beings," said Memory.

"I wonder what he looks like," said Wellgunde. "I bet
you he's handsome."

"And strong."

"And noble. Don't forget noble."

"I never could resist noble," said Woglinde, watching the
ravens carefully under her beautiful eyelashes.

"We came to tell you that we'd heard something," said
Thought. "But since you're not interested any more . . ."

Wellgunde yawned, putting her hand daintily in front of
her mouth. "You're right," she said. "We're not." She
turned over onto her back and picked up a magazine.

"Something interesting, we've heard," said Memory.

"Oh, all right," said Flosshilde, smiling her most daz-
zling smile. "Tell us if you must."

Even Wotan's ravens, who are (firstly) immortal and
(secondly) birds, cannot do much against the smiles of
Rhinedaughters. But since Memory was bluffing, there was
nothing for him to do.

"I didn't say we were going to tell you what we'd heard,"
he said, archly, "only that we'd heard it." It is not easy for
a raven to be arch, but Memory had been practising.

"Oh go away," said Flosshilde, throwing a piece of
orange peel at the two messengers. "You're teasing us, as
usual."




r

52 Tow ^o/f

"You wait and see," said Memory, lamely, but the three
girls jumped up and dived into the water, as elegantly as the
very best dolphins.

"We know something you don't know," chanted Floss-
hilde, and the Sun-Goddess made the water sparkle around
her floating hair. Then she disappeared, leaving behind only
a stream of silver bubbles.

"I dunno," said Thought. "Women."

The ravens flapped their heavy wings, circled morosely
for a while, and flew away.

By a strange coincidence, a few moments after Flosshilde
dived down to the bed of the Rhine, three identical girls
hopped out of the muddy, fetid waters of the River Tone, at
the point where it runs through the centre ofTaunton. A few
passers-by stopped and stared, for the three girls were far
cleaner than anyone who had recently had anything to do
with the Tone has any right to be. But the girls' smiles
wiped such thoughts from their minds, and they went on
their way whistling and wishing that they were twenty years
younger. Had they realised that what they had just seen
were the three Rhinedaughters, Flosshilde, Wellgunde and
Woglinde, they might perhaps have taken a little more
notice.

5.

ONE OF THE things that slightly worried Malcolm was the
fact that he was becoming decidedly middle-aged. For
example, the ritualised drinking of afternoon tea had come
to mean a lot to him, not simply because it disposed of an
hour's worth of daylight. He had chosen half-past four in
the afternoon as the best time for reading the daily papers,
and from half-past four to half-past five (occasionally a
quarter to six) each day he almost made himself feel that he
enjoyed being extremely nice and bored stiff, for he knew
that all the good news that filled the papers was, in one way
or another, his doing.

Today, there was any amount of good news from around
the world. Malcolm could sense the frustration and despair
of the editors and journalists as they forced themselves to
report yet more bumper harvests, international accords and
miraculous cures. Admittedly, there had been a freak storm
in Germany (banner headlines in the tabloids) and some
crops had been damaged in a few remote areas. Neverthe-
less, he noted with satisfaction, this minor disaster was not
entirely a bad thing, since it had prompted the EEC to draft
and sign a new agreement on compensating farmers for




54 Tom Holt

damage caused by acts of God. So every cloud, however
small, had a silver lining, although these days it was
beginning to look as though only a very few silver linings
had clouds.

Malcolm tried to work out what could have caused the
freak storm in the first place. He picked up the Daily Mirror
("German farmers in rain horror") and observed that the
storm had started at three o'clock their time, which was two
o'clock our time, which was when Malcolm's new secretary
had finally managed to comer him and force him to sign
five letters. He resolved to be more patient with her in
future, and not call her a whatsisname under his breath.

His tea was stone cold, but that didn't matter; it was, after
all. Only Him. That was a marvellous phrase, and one that
he had come to treasure. When one has suddenly been
forced into the role of the Man of Sorrows, self-pity is the
only luxury that remains. In fact, Malcolm had no objection
whatsoever to taking away the sins of the world, but it was
useful to keep an option on self-pity just in case it came in
useful later. He poured the cold tea onto the lawn and
watched it soak into the ground. In the crab-apple tree
behind him, a robin perched and sang excitedly, but he
ignored it, closing his mind to its persistent chirping. He
had found that the little birds liked to come up to him and
confide their secrets that they could not share with other
birds, and at first he had found this extremely flattering. But
since the majority of these confidences were extremely
personal and of interest only to a trained biologist, he had
decided that it would be best not to encourage them. After
a while, the robin stopped singing and went away. Malcolm
rose to his feet and walked slowly into the house.

Combe Hall was undoubtedly very beautiful, but it was
also very big. It had been built in the days when a
house-holder tended to feel claustrophobic if he could not
accommodate at least one infantry regiment, including the
band, in his country house. Its front pediment was world
famous. Its windows had been praised and reviled in

Expecting Someone Taller         55

countless television series. Its kitchens were enormous and
capable of being put to any use except the convenient
preparation of food. It was very grand, very magnificent,
and very empty.

Malcolm had always fancied living at Combe Hall on the
strict understanding that his wish was never to come true.
Now that he was its owner and (apart from the legion of
staff) its only resident, he felt rather like a bewildered
traveller at an international airport. The house was bad
enough, but the staff were truly awful. There was no suave,
articulate butler and no pretty parlourmaids; instead, Mal-
colm found himself employing an army of grimly profes-
sional contract cleaners and an incomprehensible Puerto
Rican cook, whom he was sure he was shamelessly exploit-
ing in some way he could not exactly understand. After a
week, Malcolm left them all to it and retreated to one of the
upstairs drawing-rooms, which he turned into a nicely
squalid bedsit.

As a result, he felt under no obligation to assume the role
of country gentleman. With the house had come an enor-
mous park, some rather attractive gardens, into which
Malcolm hardly dared go for fear of offending the garden-
ers, and the Home Farm. Ever since he could remember,
Malcolm had listened to the Archers on the radio—not from
choice, but because they had always been there in his
childhood, and so had become surrogate relatives—and his
mental picture of agriculture had been shaped by this
influence. But the farm that he owned (now there was a
thought!) whirred and purred with machines and clicked and
ticked with computers, filling its owner with fear and
amazement. Yet when he suggested to the farm manager
that the whole thing might perhaps be rearranged on more
picturesque lines and to hell with the profits, which nobody
really needed, the farm manager stared at him as if he were
mad. Since then, he had kept well away from it.

But with his new property came certain ineluctable
responsibilities, the most arduous of which was coping with

56

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller 57

his new secretary. On the one hand, the woman was
invaluable, for she ran the place and left him alone for most
of the time. Without the irritations and petty nuisances of
everyday life to contend with, he could keep his temper and
make the maize grow tall all over Africa. But for this
freedom from care he had to pay a severe price: his
secretary, who was American and in her middle forties, had
clearly made a resolution to be more English than anyone
else in the history of the world. Her convert's passion for all
things English gave her the zeal of a missionary, and it was
obvious that she intended to Anglicise young Herr Finger if
it killed her. And, like many missionaries, she vas not
above a little persecution in the cause of the communication
of Enlightenment.

Apart from avoiding his staff and his secretary and
anything else that might tend to irritate or annoy, however,
Malcolm found that he had very little to do. Even as a small
boy, he had never had a hobby of any kind, and he had
always found making friends as difficult as doing jigsaw
puzzles, and even less rewarding. As for the comfort and
solace of his family, Malcolm knew only too well that that
was out of the question. If, by some miracle, he could
persuade his kin to believe mis ludicrous tale of rings and
badgers, he knew without having to think about it what their
reaction would be. "Malcolm," his mother would say,
"give that ring back to Bridget this instant"—the implica-
tion being that it had been meant for her all along.

Not that the possibility had not crossed his mind. Surely,
he had reflected, his talented and universally praised sister
would make a far better job of all this than he would; she
had five A-levels and had been to Warwick University. But
somehow he felt sure mat Bridget was not the right person
for the job. For a start, she did not suffer fools gladly, and
since a large percentage of the people of the world are fools,
it was possible that she might not give them the care
and consideration they needed. Throughout its history,
Malcolm reflected, the Ring had been in the possession of

gifted, talented, exceptional people, and look what had
happened ...

One morning, when Malcolm was listening (rather
proudly) to the morning news, the English Rose, as he had
mentally christened her, came hammering on his door. She
seemed to have an uncanny knack of knowing where he
was.

She informed him that the annual Combe Show was to be
held in the grounds of the Hall in a fortnight's time.
Malcolm, who loathed all such occasions from the bottom
of his heart, tried to protest, but without success.

"Oh, but I've been talking to the folks from the village,
and they all say that it's the social event of the year,"
buzzed the Rose. "It's one of the oldest surviving fairs in
the country. According to the records I consulted ..."

Malcolm saw that there was no hope of escape. His
secretary, apart from having the persistence of a small child
in pursuit of chocolate, was an outstanding example of true
Ancestor Worship (although it was not her own ancestors
that she worshipped; her name was Weinburger) and any-
thing remotely traditional went to her head like wine. In
fact, Malcolm was convinced, if she could revive the
burning of witches, with all its attendant seventeenth-
century pageantry, she probably would.

"But will it not be—how is it in English?—a great
nuisance to arrange?" he suggested. That was, of course,
the wrong thing to say. The Rose thrived on challenges.

"Herr Finger," she said, looking at him belligerently over
the top of her spectacles, "that is not my attitude and well
you know it. It will be truly rewarding for me to make all
the necessary social arrangements for the proposed event,
and Mr. Ayres, who is the Chairman of the Show Commit-
tee, will be calling on you to discuss all the practicalities.
There will be the usual livestock competition, of course,
and I presume that the equestrian events will follow their
customary pattern. I had hoped that we might prevail upon
the Committee to revive the Jacobean Sheriff's Races, but




58

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller 59

Mr. Ayres has, at my request, performed a feasibility study
and feels that such a revival could not be satisfactorily
arranged in the limited space of time left to us before the
Show. So I fear that we will have to content ourselves with
a gymkhana situation ..."

Although Malcolm had acquired the gift of tongues from
the blood of the Giant, he still had occasional difficulty in
understanding his secretary's English. The name Ayres,
however, was immediately recognisable. It was a name he
was only too familiar with; indeed, he knew virtually all the
words in the language that rhymed with it, for Liz Ayres
was the girl he loved. Mr. William Ayres, the Chairman of
the Show Committee, was her father, and a nastier piece of
work never read a Massey-Ferguson catalogue. But
thoughts of malice or resentment were no longer available
to Malcolm, and so finally he agreed. The English Rose
scuttled away, no doubt to flick through Debrett (after Sir
Walter Elliot, she was its most enthusiastic reader) and
Malcolm resigned himself to another meeting with possibly
his least favourite person in the world.

William Ayres could trace his ancestry back to the early
fifteenth century; his namesake had won the respect of his
betters at the battle of Agincourt by throwing down his
longbow and pulling a fully armed French knight off his
horse with his bare hands. The present William Ayres
undoubtedly had the physical strength to emulate his ances-
tor's deed and, given his unbounded ferocity, would prob-
ably relish the opportunity to try. So massively built was he
that people who met him for the first time often wondered
why he bothered with tractors and the like on his sprawling
farm at the top of the valley. Surely he could save both time
and money by drawing the plough himself, if necessary
with his teeth. Compared to his two sons, however, Mr.
Ayres was a puny but sunny-tempered dwarf, and Malcolm
could at least console himself with the reflection that he

would not be confronted with Joe or Mike Ayres at this
unpleasant interview.

Malcolm decided that in order to face Mr. Ayres it would
be necessary for him to be extremely German, for his
antagonist had strong views about rich foreigners who
bought up fine old houses in England.

"It's a tremendously important occasion," said Mr.
Ayres, "one of the high points of the year in these parts. It's
been going on for as long as I can remember, certainly.
When Colonel Booth still had the Hall . . ."

Mr. Ayres was a widower, and Malcolm toyed with the
idea of introducing him to the English Rose. They would
have so much in common . . .

"I am most keen on your English traditions, naturlich.
Let us hope that we can make this a show to be remem-
bered."

Mr. Ayres winced slightly. He disliked the German race,
probably because they had thoughtlessly capitulated before
he had been old enough to get at them during the War.

"Then perhaps you would care to invite some of the local
people to the Hall," he replied. "It would be a splendid
opportunity for you to get to know your neighbours."

"Delighted, das ist sehr gut." Mr. Ayres did not like the
German language, either. "Afcer—who shall I invite? I am
not yet well acquainted with the local folk."

"Leave that to me," said Mr. Ayres. "I'll send you a list,
if you like." He drank his tea brutally—everything he did,
he seemed to do brutally. "It should be a good show this
year, especially the gymkhana."

"What is gymkhana?" Malcolm asked innocently. "In
my country we have no such word."

"So I believe," said Mr. Ayres, who had suspected as
much from the start. He did his best to explain, but it was
not easy; anyone would have difficulty in explaining such a
basic and fundamental concept, just as it would be difficult
to explain the sun to a blind man. In the end, he was forced
to give up the struggle.




60 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 61

"I'll get my daughter to explain it to you," he said
brightly. "She and her fiance—they haven't announced it
yet, but it'll be any day now—I expect they'll be taking part
in the main competition. And far be it from me, but I think
they're in with a good chance. Well, not Liz perhaps, but
young Wilcox—that's her fiance ..."

Malcolm fought hard to retain his composure, and as he
struggled, slight earth tremors were recorded in California.
For all that he had never expected anything to come of his
great love for Elizabeth Ayres, the news that she was soon
to be engaged and married made him want to break
something. Fortunately for the inhabitants of San Francisco
he managed to get a grip on himself.

"Ah, that is good," he said mildly. "So you will make the
necessary arrangements with my secretary, yes? So
charmed to have met you. AufWiedersehen."

"Good day, Mr. Finger." Mr. Ayres stood up, for a
moment blotting out the sun, and extended an enormous
hand. Malcolm cringed as he met it with his own; he had
shaken hands with Mr. Ayres once before, and was con-
vinced that the fanner's awesome grip had broken a small
bone somewhere. To his surprise, however, he was able to
meet the grip firmly and without serious injury, and he
suddenly realised that his arm—the arm of Siegfried the
Dragon-Slayer, give or take a bit—was as strong or possibly
stronger. This made him feel a little better, but not much.

As soon as Mr. Ayres had gone, Malcolm sat down
heavily and relieved his feelings by tearing up a newspaper.
They hadn't announced it yet, but it would be any day now.
Soon there would be a coy paragraph in the local paper,
followed by ceremony at the beautiful church with the
possibly Saxon font: then a reception at the Blue Boar—the
car park full of Range-Rovers, champagne flowing freely
(just this once) and minced-up fish on tiny biscuits—and so
the line of the bowman of Agincourt would force its way on
into the twenty-first century.

Fortune, Malcolm suddenly remembered, can make vile

things precious. Like all her family, Liz was obsessed with
horses. It might yet be a gymkhana to remember.

When the day came the drive to Combe Hall resembled a
plush armoured column, so crowded was it with luxury
four-wheel drive vehicles. Large women in hats and large
men in blazers, most of whom Malcolm had last seen
making nuisances of themselves at the auction rooms in
Taunton, strolled through the garden, apparently oblivious
of the scowls of the gardeners, or peered through the
windows of the house to see what atrocities its new, foreign
owner had perpetrated. Malcolm, dressed impeccably and
entirely unsuitably in a dark grey suit and crocodile shoes
(courtesy of the Tamhelm; Vorsprung durch Technik, as
they say on the Rhine) was making the best job he could of
being the shy, charming host, while the English Rose was
having the time of her life introducing him to the local
gentry. He had provided (rather generously, he thought) a
cold collation on the lawn for all the guests on Mr. Ayres'
list, which they had devoured down to the last sprig of
parsley, apparently unaware of the maxim that there is no
free lunch.

When the last strand of flesh had been stripped off the last
chicken leg, the guests swept like a tweed river into the
Park, where the Show was in full swing. A talentless band
made up of nasty old men and surly children was playing
loudly, but not loudly enough to drown the high-pitched
gabble of the Quality, as deafening and intimidating as the
buzzing of angry bees. There were innumerable overweight
farm animals in pens, inane sideshows, vintage traction
engines, and a flock of sheep, who politely but firmly
ignored the efforts of a number of sheepdogs to make them
do illogical things. All as it should be, of course, and the
centrepiece of this idyll was the show-jumping.

As he surveyed his gentry-mottled grounds, Malcolm
was ambushed by the Ayres clan: William, Michael, Jo-
seph, and, of course, Elizabeth. He was introduced to the




62 Tom Holt

two terrifying brothers, who rarely made any sound in the
presence of their father, and to the daughter of the family.
A beautiful girl. Miss Ayres; about five feet three, light
brown hair, very blue eyes and a smile you could read small
print by. Malcolm, whose mind controlled the world,
smiled back, displaying the Dragon-Slayer's geometrically
perfect teeth. The two brightest smiles in the world, more
dazzling than any toothpaste advertisement, and all this for
politeness' sake. Malcolm managed to stop himself shout-
ing, "Look, Liz, it's me, only much better-looking," and
listened attentively as the girl he loved desperately in his
nebulous but whole-hearted way explained to him, as by
rote, the principles of the gymkhana. To this explanation
Malcolm did not listen, for he was using the power he had
gained by drinking Giant's blood to read her thoughts. It
was easily done and, with the exception of one or two of his
school reports, Malcolm had never read anything so dis-
couraging. For although the Tamhelm had made him the
most handsome man in the world, it was evident that Miss
Ayres did not judge by appearances. For Liz was wondering
who this boring foreigner reminded her of. Now, who was
it? Ah, yes. That Malcolm Fisher . . .

He smiled, wished the family good luck in the arena, and
walked swiftly away. When he was sure no-one was
watching, he turned himself into an appletree and stood for
a moment in one of his own hedges, secure in the knowl-
edge that apple trees cannot weep. But even apple trees can
have malicious thoughts (ask any botanist) and if the
consequences for the world were unfortunate, then so be it.
One of Malcolm's few remaining illusions had been shat-
tered: he had always believed that his total lack of attrac-
tiveness to the opposite sex was due simply to his
unprepossessing appearance, a shortcoming (as he argued)
that was in no respect his fault, so that his failure in this
field of human endeavour reflected badly not on him but on
those who chose to make such shallow and superficial
judgements.

Expecting Someone Taller         63

The natural consequence of the destruction of this illusion
was that Malcolm wanted very much to do something nasty
and spiteful, and he wanted to do it to Philip Wilcox,
preferably in front of a large number of malicious people.
He shrugged his branches, dislodging a blackbird, and
resumed his human shape.

Thanks to the blood of the Giant Ingolf, Malcolm could
understand all languages and forms of speech, even the
curious noises coming out of the tannoy. The competitors in
the main event were being asked to assemble in the
collecting ring. With the firm intention of turning himself
into a horse-fly and stinging Philip Wilcox's horse at an
appropriate moment, Malcolm made his way over to the
arcade of horseboxes that formed a temporary mews under
the shade of a little copse in the west comer of the Park. He
recognised the Wilcox family horsebox, which was drawn
up at the end of the row. There was the horse, just standing
there.

An idea, sent no doubt by the Lord of the Flies, suddenly
came into Malcolm's mind. How would it be if . . . ?
No-one was watching; the attention of the whole world
seemed to be focused on a fat child in jodhpurs and his
long-suffering pony. Malcolm made himself invisible, and
with extreme apprehension (for he was terrified of horses)
he led Philip Wileox's steed out of its box and into the
depths of the tangled copse, where he tied it securely to a
tree. Then, with his nails pressed hard into the palms of his
hands, he changed himself into an exact copy of the animal
and transported himself back to the horsebox. This would
be hard work, but never mind.

"And have you met the new owner?" asked Aunt Marjorie,
settling herself comfortably on a straw bale. "I never
thought I'd live to see the day when a foreigner ..."

"Just for a few minutes," replied Liz Ayres. She had
learnt over the years the art of separating the questions from
the comments in her aunt's conversation, and slipping in

64 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 65

answers to them during pauses for breath and other inter-
ruptions.

"What's he like? The trouble with most Germans ..."

"I don't know. He seemed pleasant enough, in a gormless
sort of way, but I only said a few words to him."

"Well, I suppose we should all be very grateful to him for
letting us put a water-jump in the middle of his Park, not
that I imagine he minds anyway, or he wouldn't have.
Colonel Booth never let us have one, but he was just plain
difficult at times. I remember ..."

"I don't think he's terribly interested in the Hall, actu-
ally. " Liz wondered if Aunt Marjorie had ever finished a
sentence of her own free will in her life. Probably not. "I'm
told he doesn't do anything, just stays indoors all day.
Daddy said ... oh look, there's Joe."

Elizabeth Ayres' loyalties were sadly divided in the
jump-off for the main event, since the two competitors most
likely to win it were her brother Joe and her finance. Joe
was the better rider, but Philip's horse seemed to have found
remarkable form just at the right moment. Only last week,
Philip had been talking of selling it; perhaps it had been
listening (at times, they seem almost human) for today it
was sailing over the jumps like a Harrier. Even Aunt
Marjorie, who in matters of showjumping was a firm
believer in entropy, had admitted that the animal wasn't too
bad.

"My money's on your boyfriend," said Aunt Marjorie.
"What's that horse of his called? It's playing a blinder
today. Almost as if it understood."

She had a point. Intelligence, so Philip had always
maintained, had never been one of old Mayfair's attributes.
Any animal capable of taking a paper bag or a rusting Mini
for a pack of wolves and acting accordingly was unlikely
ever to win Mastermind, and this lack of mental as opposed
to physical agility had prompted one of Philip's brightest
sayings. Even if you led Mayfair to water, he would say, it

probably wouldn't even occur to him to drink. But today,
Mayfair hadn't put a foot wrong, in any sense.

"Mr. Joseph Ayres and Moonbeam," said the tannoy. A
hush fell over the crowd, for it seemed wrong that Joe
should be riding the horse instead of the other way round.
Joe was obviously the stronger of the two, just as Moon-
beam was clearly the more intelligent. Aunt Marjorie, who
was, like so many of her class, a sort of refined Centaur,
leaned forward and fixed her round, bright eyes on horse
and rider. "Look at his knees," she muttered. "Just look at
them."

Joe did his best, but the consensus of opinion was that his
best was not going to be good enough. "Twelve faults,"
said the tannoy, and Aunt Marjorie shook her head sadly.
"Why wasn't the idiot using a martingale?" she said.
"When I was a girl ..."

"Excuse me," said one of the three rather pretty girls who
had just made their way to the front. "You obviously know
all about this sort of thing. Could you tell us what's going
on? We're terribly ignorant about horse-racing."

"It isn't racing, it's jumping," said Aunt Marjorie, not
looking round.

"Oh," said the youngest of the three girls. "Oh I see."

"Haven't you been to a show before?" Liz asked, kindly.

"No," chorused the girls, and this was true. There are no
shows and very few gymkhanas at the bottom of the River
Rhine, where these three girls, the Rhinedaughters
Flosshilde, Wellgunde, and Woglinde, had spent the last
two thousand years. They have trout races, but that is not
quite the same.

"Well," said Aunt Marjorie patiently, as if explaining to
a Trobriand Islander how to use a fork, "the idea is to make
the horse jump over all the obstacles."

"Why?" asked Flosshilde. Woglinde scowled at her.

"Because if you don't, you get faults," said Aunt
Marjorie, "and if you get more faults than everyone else,
you lose."




66 Tom Holt

"That explains a great deal," said Flosshilde, brightly.
"Thank you."

"Mr. Philip Wilcox on Mayfair," said the tannoy.

Aunt Marjorie turned to the Rhinemaidens, who were
amusing themselves by making atrocious puns on the word
"fault". "Watch this," she urged them. "He's very good."

The Rhinedaughters put on their most serious expressions
(which were not very serious, in absolute terms) and paid
the strictest attention as Philip Wilcox and his tired but
determined horse entered the ring. As the horse went past
her, Flosshilde suddenly started forward, but Wellgunde
nudged her and she composed herself.

"You see," said Aunt Marjorie, "he's building up his
speed nicely, he's timed it just right, and—oh."

"Why's he stopped?" asked Woglinde. "I thought you
said he was going to jump over that fence thing."

Aunt Marjorie, raising her voice above the gasps and
whispers of the spectators, explained that that was called a
refusal.

"Does he lose marks for that?"

"Yes," said Liz, crisply.

"He's still got points in hand," said Aunt Marjorie, trying
to stay calm in this crisis. "I expect he'll go round the other
way now. Yes, I thought he would."

"He's stopped again," said Woglinde.

"So he has," said Liz. "I wonder why?"

"Is he allowed to hit his horse with that stick?" asked
Flosshilde. "It must hurt an awful lot."

"I think it's cruel," said Wellgunde.

"I think he's going to try the gate this time," said Aunt
Marjorie nervously. "Oh dear, not again ..."

"I think it's his fault for hitting the horse with that stick,"
said Wellgunde. "If I was the horse, I'd throw him off."

"Thirty-three faults," sniggered the tannoy.

"Is that a lot?" asked Flosshilde. Aunt Marjorie con-
firmed that it was, rather.

Philip Wilcox was obviously finding it hard to think

Expecting Someone Taller         67

straight through the buzz of malicious giggling that welled
up all around him. About the only jump he hadn't tried yet
was the water-jump. He pulled Mayfair's head round,
promised him an apple if he made it and the glue factory if
he didn't, and pressed with his heels in the approved
manner. Mayfair began to move smoothly, rhythmically
towards the obstacle.

"Come on, now," Aunt Marjorie hissed under her breath,
"plenty of pace. Go on ..."

There is nothing, nothing in the world that amuses human
beings more than the sight of a fully grown, fully clothed
man falling into water, and sooner or later the human race
must come to terms with this fact. But, to the Rhinedaugh-
ters (who are not human, but were created by a unique and
entirely accidental fusion of the life-forces) it seemed
strange that this unfortunate accident should produce such
gales of laughter from everyone present, including the
tannoy. Even Wellgunde, who thought it served him right
for hitting the horse with the stick, was moved to compas-
sion. She looked around to see if she was the only person
not laughing, and observed that at least the girl sitting next
to the fat woman did not seem to be amused. In fact, she
appeared to be perfectly calm, and her face was a picture of
tranquillity, like some Renaissance Madonna. Perhaps,
thought the Rhinedaughter, she's an immortal too. Or
perhaps she's just annoyed.

"I'm so glad Joe won in the end," said Liz, getting to her
feet. "Shall we go and find some tea?"

Restored to human shape once more, Malcolm crawled into
the house and collapsed into a chair. He was utterly
exhausted, his mouth was bruised and swollen, his back and
sides were aching, and he had pulled a muscle in his neck
when he had stopped so suddenly in front of the water-
jump. The whole thing had probably hurt him just as much
as it had hurt Philip Wilcox, and he had a terrible feeling
that it hadn't been worth it. A minute or so of unbridled

68 Tom Holt

malice on his part was probably the worst thing that could
happen to the universe, and his original argument, that
anything that humiliated Philip Wilcox was bound to be
good for the world, seemed rather flimsy in retrospect. He
could only hope that the consequences would not be too
dire.

With an effort, he rose to his feet and stumbled out into
the grounds. The show was, mercifully, drawing to a close
and, within an hour or so, all the cars that were hiding his
grass from the sun would be winding their way home,
probably, since this was Somerset, at fifteen miles an hour
behind a milk tanker. All he had to do now was present the
prizes. This would, of course, mean standing up in public
and saying something coherent, and for a moment he
stopped dead in his tracks. He should be feeling unmitigated
terror at the prospect of this ordeal, but he wasn't. He tried
to feel frightened, but the expected reaction refused to
materialise. He raised his eyebrows and said "Well, I'm
damned" to himself several times.

As he stood on the platform handing out rosettes, the
three Rhinedaughters studied him carefully through their
designer sunglasses.

"No, don't tell me," whispered Flosshilde, "I'll remem-
ber in a minute."

"Siegfried," said Wellgunde. "It's Siegfried. What a
nerve!"

"Why shouldn't he be Siegfried if he wants to?" whis-
pered Woglinde. "I think it suits him."

"Oh, well." Flosshilde shrugged her slim shoulders.
"Here we go again."

Malcolm was shaking Joe Ayres by the hand and saying
"Well done." Joe Ayres winced as he withdrew his hand; he
suspected that the German's ferocious grip had dislocated
one of his knuckles.

"It could have been worse," said Flosshilde, "consi-
dering ..." She stopped suddenly and poked Wellgun-

Expecting Someone Taller         69

de's arm. "Look," she hissed, "over there, by the pear tree.
Look who it is!"

"No!" Wellgunde's eyes were sparkling with excitement
as she followed Flosshilde's pointing finger, and a pear on
the tree ripened prematurely as a result. "I don't believe it."

"He doesn't look a day older," said Woglinde, fondly.

The other two made faces at her.

Malcolm recognised Alberich at once. As the Prince of the
Nibelungs approached him, Malcolm's heart seemed to
collapse. Not that the Nibelung was a terrifying sight; a
short, broad, grey-haired man in a dark overcoat, nothing
more. There was no point in running away, and Malcolm
stood his ground as Alberich approached and extended his
hand for a handshake. Malcolm closed his fist around the
Ring and put his hands behind his back.

"I'm sorry," said Alberich in German. "I thought you
were someone else."

"Oh, yes?"

"Someone I used to know in Germany, as a matter of
fact. You look very like him, from a distance. But perhaps
he was a little bit taller."

"I don't think so," said Malcolm without thinking.

Alberich laughed. "How would you know? But you're
right, actually. He wasn't."

"My name is Manfred Finger," Malcolm managed to say.
"I own the Hall."

"Hans Albrecht." Alberich smiled again. "I'm afraid I
don't know many people in England. But perhaps you know
a friend of mine who lives near here."

"I'm afraid I don't know many people either," said
Malcolm, forcing himself to smile. "I've only been here a
short while myself."

"Well, this friend of mine is a very remarkable person, so
perhaps you do know him. Malcolm Fisher. Familiar?"

"Any friend of Malcolm's is a friend of mine," said




70 Tom Holt

Malcolm truthfully. "But I don't remember him mentioning
you."

"That's so like him." Alberich was massaging the fourth
finger of his right hand as if it was hurting. "Arthritis," he
explained. "Anyway, if you see him before I do, you might
remind him that he's got something of mine. A gold ring,
and a hat. Both valueless, but I'd like them back."

"I'm afraid Malcolm hasn't been quite himself lately,"
said Malcolm. "But I'll remind him if I see him before you
do."

"Would you? That's very kind. And do give him my best
wishes." Alberich turned to go, then stopped. "Oh, and by
the way," he said in English. "Well done. I liked your
horse. Goodbye."

As if that wasn't bad enough, Malcolm heard on the late
news that two airliners had missed each other by inches over
Manchester that afternoon. Had they collided, said the
announcer, more than five hundred people would probably
have lost their lives. An inquiry was being held, but the
probable cause of the incident was human error.

6.

AGAINST THE DARK blue night sky above the Mendip Hills,
someone with bright eyes might have been able to make out
two tiny black dots, which could conceivably have been
ravens, except of course that they were far too high up.

"It was around here somewhere," said Thought.

"That's what you said last time," said Memory. His
pinions were aching, and he hadn't eaten for sixteen hours.
During that time, he and his colleague had been round the
world twenty-four times. Anything the sun could do, it
seemed, they could do better.

"All right, then," said Thought, "don't believe me, see if
I care. But he's down there somewhere, I know he is. I
definitely heard the Ring calling."

"That was probably Radio Bristol," said Memory. Ex-
haustion had made him short-tempered.

They flew on in silence, completing a circuit of the
counties of Somerset, Avon and Devon. Finally, they could
go no further, and swooped down onto the roof of a thatched
barn just outside Dulverton.

"How come you can hear the Ring, anyway?" said
Memory. "I can't."




72

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller 73

"Nor me, usually. It just sort of happens, once in a while.
But it never lasts long enough for me to get an exact fix on
it."

A foolhardy bat fluttered towards them, curious to know
who these strangers might be. The two ravens turned and
stared at it, frightening it out of its wits.

"If it's about the radio licence," said the bat, "there's a
cheque in the post."

"Get lost," said Memory, and the bat did its best to obey.
Being gifted with natural radar, however, it did not find it
easy.

"Wotan's in a terrible state these days," said Thought.
"Not happy at all."

"So what's new?"

"He's been all over the shop looking for clues. Went
down a tin-mine in Bolivia the other day, came out all
covered in dust."

"I could have told him he'd do no good in Bolivia," said
Memory. "Perhaps it would be better if we split up. That
way we could cover more ground. You take one hemi-
sphere, I take the other, sort of thing."

Thought considered this for a moment. "No, wouldn't
work. You couldn't think where to go, and I couldn't
remember where I'd been. Waste of everybody's time."

"Please yourself."

"You want to go off on your own then, or what?"

"Forget it."

Thought was about to say something, but stopped.
"Listen," he whispered. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"It's the Ring again. Somewhere over there." He pointed
with his wing to the east. "Not too far away, either."

"How far?"

"Dunno, it's stopped again."

Memory shook his head. "I'm thinking of packing all this
in," he said.

"How do you mean?" said Thought.

"All this flying about, and that. I mean, where's it getting

_ o»,

,9"

me.'

"It's a living, though."

"Is it?" Memory leaned forward and snapped up a moth.
It tasted sour. "You take my brother-in-law. Talentless little
git if you ask me. Used to run errands for the Moon-
Goddess. Then they got one of those telexes, and he was out
on his ear. So he set up this courier service—five years ago,
give or take a bit—and look at him now. Nest in the tallest
forest in Saxony, another in the Ardennes for the winter,
and I bet he isn't eating moths."

"Nests aren't everything," said Thought. "There's job
satisfaction. There's travel. There's service to the commu-
nity. "

"I know," said Memory. "Instead of all this fooling
about, why don't we keep an eye on the girls, or Alberich?
Maybe they know something we don't."

Thought considered this. "Could do," he said, "it's
worth a try . . ."He stopped, and both birds were silent
for a moment. "There it goes again. Definitely over there
somewhere."

"Stuff it," said Memory. "Let's find the Rhinedaugh-
ters."

Malcolm found it difficult to sleep that night. He had
managed to get the thought of the two airliners out of his
mind, but the meeting with Alberich was not so lightly
dismissed. He had been afraid, more so than ever before,
and the terrible thing was that he could not understand why.
He was taller and stronger than the Nibelung, and he had the
ability to make himself taller and stronger yet if the need
arose. That was the whole point of the Tamhelm. But the
Nibelung had something else that made his own magic
powers seem irrelevant; he had authority, and that was not
something Malcolm could afford to ignore.

He looked at his watch; it was half-past two in the
morning. He toyed with the idea of transporting himself to




74 Tom Holt

Los Angeles or Adelaide, where it would be light and he
could get a cup of coffee without waking up the house-
keeper. He was on the point of doing this when he heard a
noise in the corridor outside.

Combe Hall was full of unexplained noises, which
everyone he asked attributed to the plumbing. But some-
thing told Malcolm that plumbing made gurgling noises, not
stealthy creeping noises. Without understanding why, he
knew that he was in danger, and something told him that it
was probably the right time for him to become invisible.

His bedroom door was locked, and he stood beside it.
Outside, he could hear footsteps, which stopped. There was
a scrabbling sound, a click and the door opened gently. He
recognised the face ofAlberich, peering into the room, and
for a moment was rooted to the spot. Then it occurred to
him that he was considerably bigger than Alberich, and also
invisible. The Nibelung crept into the room and tiptoed over
to the bed. As he bent over it, Malcolm kicked him hard.

It would be unfair to Malcolm to say that he did not know
his own strength. He knew his own strength very well (or
rather his lack of it) but as yet he had not come to terms with
the strength of Siegfried the Dragon-Slayer. As a result, he
hit Alberich very hard indeed. The intruder uttered a loud
yelp and fell over.

Malcolm was horrified. His first reaction was that he
must have killed Alberich, but a loud and uncomplicated
complaint from his victim convinced him that that was not
so. His next reaction was to apologise.

"Sorry," he said. "What the hell do you think you're
doing?"

"You clumsy idiot," said the Prince of the Nibelungs,
"you've broken my leg."

It occurred to Malcolm that this served Alberich right,
and he said so. In fact, he suggested, Alberich was
extremely lucky to get off so lightly, since presumably he
had broken in with the intention of committing murder.

Expecting Someone Taller         75

"Don't be stupid," said Alberich. "I only wanted the
Ring."

He made it sound as if he had just dropped by to borrow
a bowl of sugar. "Now, about my broken leg ..."

"Never mind your broken leg."

"I mind it a lot. Get a doctor."

"You're taking a lot for granted, aren't you?" said
Malcolm sternly. "You're my deadliest enemy. Why
shouldn't I ... well, dispose of you, right now?"

Alberich laughed. "You?" he said incredulously. "Who
do you think you are. Jack the Ripper?"

"I could be if I wanted to," said Malcolm. The Nibelung
ignored him.

"You wouldn't hurt a fly," he sneered. "That's your
trouble. You'll never get anywhere in this world unless you
improve your attitude. And did no-one ever tell you it's bad
manners to be invisible when someone's talking to you?"
"You sound just like my mother," said Malcolm.
He reappeared, and Alberich glowered at him. "Still
pretending to be who you aren't, I see," he said.

"I'll be who I want to be. I'm not afraid of you any
more."

"Delighted to hear it. Perhaps you'll fetch a doctor now."
"And the police," said Malcolm, to frighten him.
"You're a burglar."

"You wouldn't dare," replied Alberich, but Malcolm
could see he was worried. This was remarkable. A few
minutes ago, he had been paralysed with fear. Now he
found the whole thing vaguely comic. Still, it would be as
well to call a doctor. He went to the telephone beside his
bed.

"Not that sort of doctor," said Alberich, irritably. "What
do you think I am, human?"

"So what sort of doctor do you want?" Malcolm asked.
"A proper doctor. A Nibelung."

"Fine. And how do you suggest I set about finding one,
look in the Yellow Pages?"




76

Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 77

"Don't be facetious. Use the Ring."

"Can I do that?" Malcolm was surprised by this.

"Of course you can. Just rub the Ring against your nose

and call for a doctor."

Feeling rather foolish, Malcolm did what he was told. At
once, a short, stocky man with very pale skin materialised
beside him, wearing what appeared to be a sack.
"You called?" said the NiKelung.
"Where did you come from?" Malcolm asked.
"Nibelheim, where do you think? So where's the

patient?"
The doctor did something to Alberich's leg with a

spanner and a jar of ointment, and disappeared as suddenly

as he had come.

"That's handy," Malcolm said. "Can I just summon

Nibelungs when I want to?"

"Of course," said Alberich. "Although why you should
want to is another matter. By and large, they're incredibly

boring people."

Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, how's your

leg?" he asked.

"Very painful. But it's healed."

"Healed? But I thought you said it was broken."

"So it was," replied Alberich, calmly. "And now it's
unbroken again. That's what the doctor was for. It'll be stiff
for a day or so, of course, but that can't be helped. If you
will go around kicking people, you must expect to cause
anguish and suffering."

Malcolm yawned. "In that case, you can go away and
leave me in peace," he said. "And don't let me catch you
around here again, or there'll be trouble."

This bravado didn't convince anyone. Alberich made no
attempt to move, but sat on the floor rubbing his knee, until
Malcolm, unable to think of anything else to do, offered

him a drink.

"I thought you'd never ask," said Alberich. "I'll have a

large schnapps, neat."

"I don't think I've got any of that," said Malcolm.

"You're supposed to be a German. Oh well, whatever
comes to hand, so long as it isn't sherry. I don't like sherry."

So it was that Malcolm found himself sharing a bottle of
gin with the Prince of Nibelheim at three o'clock in the
morning. It was not something he would have chosen to do,
especially after a tiring day, but the mere fact that he was
able to do it was remarkable enough. Alberich made no
further attempt to relieve him of the Ring; he didn't even
mention the subject until Malcolm himself raised it. In-
stead, he talked mostly about his health, or to be precise, his
digestion.

"Lobster," he remarked more than once, "gives me the
most appalling heartburn. And gooseberries ..."

In short, there was nothing to fear from Alberich, and
Malcolm found himself feeling rather sorry for the Nibe-
lung, who, by his own account at least, had had rather a
hard time.

"It wasn't the gold I wanted," he said. "I wanted to get
my own back on those damned women."

"Which women?"

"The Rhinedaughters. I won't bore you with all the
details. Not a nice story." Alberich helped himself to some
more gin. "There I was, taking a stroll beside the Rhine on
a pleasant summer evening, and these three girls, with no
more clothes on than would keep a fly warm ..."

"I know all that," said Malcolm.

"Do you?" said Alberich, rather disappointed. "Oh well,
never mind. But it wasn't the power or the money I
wanted—well, they would have been nice, I grant you, I'm
not saying they wouldn't—but it's the principle of the thing.
You know how it is when someone takes something away
from you without any right to it at all. You feel angry. You
feel hard done by. And if that thing is the control of the
world, you feel very hard done by indeed. Not that I want
to control the world particularly—I imagine I'd do it very
badly. But it's like not being invited to a party, you feel hard




78 Tom Holt

done by even if you wouldn't have gone if they'd asked
you. I know I'm not explaining this very well . . . You
can get obsessive about it, you know? Especially if you've
thought about nothing else for the last thousand years."

"Couldn't you have done something else, to take your
mind off it? Got a job, or something?"

"This may seem strange, but having been master of the
world for forty-eight hours—that's how long they let me
keep the Ring, you know—doesn't really qualify you for
much. And they threw me out of Nibelheim."

"Did they?"

"They did. You can't really blame them. I had enslaved
them and made them mine gold for me. They weren't best
pleased."

"So what have you been doing ever since?"

"Moping about, mostly, feeling sorry for myself. And
looking for the Ring, of course. And a bit of freelance
metallurgy, just to keep the wolf from the door. My card."

He took a card from his wallet. "Hans Albrecht and
partners," it read, "Mining Engineers and Contractors, Est.
AD 900."

"Most people think the date's a misprint," said Alberich,
"but it's not. Anyway, that's what I've been doing, and a
thoroughly wretched time I've had, too."

"Have another drink," Malcolm suggested.

"You're too kind," said Alberich. "Mind you, if I have
too much to drink these days, it plays hell with my
digestion. Did I tell you about that?"

"Yes."

Alberich shook his head sadly. "I'm boring you, I can
tell. But let me tell you something useful. Even if you won't
give me the Ring, don't let Wotan get his hands on it."

"I wasn't planning to," said Malcolm. "Another?"

"Why not? And then I must be going. It's late, and
you've been a horse all afternoon. That's tiring, I know.
Now, about Wotan. I don't know how you've managed it,
but you've got the Ring to do what you want it to. Not what

Expecting Someone Taller

^A(w;uug someone Taller         79

I had intended when I made it, let me say. In fact, I can't
remember what I intended when I made it. It's been a long
time. Anyway. Is there any tonic left?"
"No. Sorry."

"Doesn't matter. About Wotan. He's devious, very devi-
ous, but if you've got the Ring on your side ..."
Malcolm thought of something incredibly funny. "I

haven't got the Ring on my side," he said, "I've got it on
my finger."

They had a good laugh over that. "No, but seriously,"
said Alberich, "if you can make the Ring do what you want

it to, then there's nothing Wotan can do to you unless you
want him to."

"But I don't want him to do anything to me. I want him
to go away."

"That's what you think. Like I said, Wotan's devious.
Devious devious devious. He'll get you exactly where he
wants you unless you're very careful, I assure you."

"How?"

"That, my friend, remains to be seen. The days of armed

force and violence are long gone, I'm sorry to say. It's

cleverness that gets results. It's the same in the mining

industry. Did I tell you about that?"
"Yes," Malcolm lied. "Go on about Wotan."
Alberich looked at the bottom of his glass. Unfortunately,

there was nothing to obscure his view of it. He picked up

the bottle, but it was empty.

"I am going to have raging indigestion all tomorrow," he
said sadly. "Don't let them tell you there's no such thing as
spontaneous combustion. I suffer from it continually. Wotan
can't take the Ring from you, but he can make you give it
to him of your own free will. And before you ask me, I
don't know how he'll do it, but he'll think of something.
Have you got any Bisodol?"

"I can get you a sandwich."

"A sandwich? Do you want to kill me as well as breaking
my leg? No, don't you let go <rf the. Rwg, Ma\co\m Pistaer.




80 Tom Holt

If I can't have it, you might as well keep it. It'll be safe with
you until you're ready to give it to me."

Malcolm looked uncomfortable at this. Alberich laughed.
"Of your own free will, I mean. But that won't happen
until it isn't a symbol of power any more, only a bit of old
jewellery. It'll happen, though, you mark my words. See
how it ends."

"How do you know?"

"I don't." Alberich rose unsteadily to his feet. "Time I
was going."

"How's your leg?"

"My leg? Oh, that's fine, it's my stomach I'm worried
about. I'm always worried about my stomach. We sulphur-
dwarves were created out of the primal flux of the earth's
core. We have always existed, and we will always exist, in
some form or other. You can kill us, of course, but unless
you do, we live for ever. The problem is, if you're made
largely of sulphur, you are going to suffer from heartburn,
and there's nothing at all you can do about it. Over the past
however many it is million years, I have tried absolutely
every remedy for dyspepsia that has ever been devised, and
they're all useless. All of them. In all the years I've been
alive, there was only one time I didn't have indigestion.
You know when that was? The forty-eight hours when I had
the Ring. Good night."

"You can stay here if you like," said Malcolm.
"That's kind of you, but I've got a room over at the Blue
Boar. The fresh air will clear my head. I'll see myself out."
"That reminds me. How did you get in here?"
"Through the front door. I have a way with locks."
"And how did you find me in the first place?"
"Easy. I smelt the Ring. Once you started using it, that
was no problem."

Alberich went to the door, then turned. "Do you know
something, Malcolm Fisher?" he said. "It goes against the
grain saying this, but I like you. In a way. Up to a point.

Expecting Someone Taller         81

You can keep the Ring for the time being. I like what you're
doing with it."

Malcolm wanted to say something but could think of
nothing.

"And if ever there's anything . . . Oh, forget it. Good
luck."

A few minutes later, Malcolm heard the front door slam.
He got back into bed and switched off the light. It was
nearly morning, and he was very tired.

Two ravens were perched on the telegraph pole outside the
Blue Boar in Combe.

"It's definitely coming from near here somewhere," said
Thought.

Memory had been listening for the Voice all day, and he
no longer believed in it. "You've been overdoing it," he
said. "Maybe you should take a couple of days off. We
can't hear the Ring, either of us. It's not possible."

In the road below, a short, heavily-built man was waiting
for the night porter to open the door of the hotel. Thought
flapped his wings to attract his partner's attention.

"Look," he whispered, "down there."

"It's Alberich," replied Memory. "What's he doing
here?"

"I told you," said Thought. "I told you and you
wouldn't ..."

"All right, all right," said Memory uneasily. "Doesn't
prove anything, does it? I mean, he could be here for some
totally different reason."

"Such as?"

Memory stared blankly at his claws. "Dunno," he said.
"But it still doesn't mean ..."

"Come on," said Thought, "we've found him. He's
somewhere in this village. We'd better tell Wotan."

"Oh no." Memory shook his head. "You can if you like.
If we're wrong, and Wotan comes flogging out here on a
fool's errand ..."







84 Tom Holt

"What are you three doing here?" he asked.

Flosshilde smiled sweetly at him, with the result that the
milk in his coffee turned to cream. "Hello, Alberich," she
said. "How's the digestion?"

"Awful. What are you doing here?"

"Drinking coffee. What about you?"

"Don't be flippant."

"But that's what we do best," said Woglinde, also
smiling. There was little point to this, except pure malice,
for Alberich had forsworn Love and was therefore immune
to all smiles, even those of Rhinedaughters. But Woglinde
smiled anyway, as a sportsman who can find no pheasants
will sometimes take a shot at a passing crow. "We're too set
in our ways to change now."

"What are you doing here?" Alberich asked.

"That would be telling," said Wellgunde, twitching her
nose like a rabbit. "How about you?"

"Tourism," said Alberich with a shudder. "I like grim,
miserable places where there's nothing at all to do."

"You would," said Flosshilde. That, so far as she was
concerned, closed the subject. But Wellgunde was rather
more cautious.

"We're out shopping," she said artlessly. "Everyone's
looking to Taunton for colours this season."

"In fact," said Flosshilde, "Taunton is the place where
it's all happening these days." She giggled, and Wellgunde
kicked her under the table.

Alberich shook his head, which was a rash move on his
part. "You'll find it harder than you imagine," he said.
"You won't be able to trap him easily."

"Trap who?"

Alberich ignored her. "What you fail to take into
account," he continued, "is his extreme lack of self-
confidence. Even if he does fall in love with one or all of
you, he's highly unlikely to feel up to doing anything about
it. He'll just go home and feel miserable. And then what
will you have achieved?"

Expecting Someone Taller         85

"We're not like that," said Woglinde. "We're good at
dealing with shy people."

Alberich laughed and rose to his feet. "I wish you luck,"
he said.

"No, you don't," said Wellgunde shrewdly.
"Let me rephrase that. You'll need luck. Lots of it. See
you in another thousand years."

"Not if we see you first," said Flosshilde cheerfully.
"Have a nice day."

One of the few luxuries that Malcolm had indulged in since
his acquisition of limitless wealth was a brand new sports
car. He had always wanted one, although now that he had
it he found that he was rather unwilling to go above thirty
miles an hour in it. The whole point of having a car,
however, as any psychologist will tell you, is that it
represents Defended Space, where no-one can get at you,
and Malcolm always felt happier once he was behind the
wheel. There were risks, of course; driving in Somerset,
that county of narrow lanes and leisurely tractors, can cause
impatience and bad temper, which Malcolm was in duty
bound to avoid.

Once his headache had subsided, Malcolm thought it
would make a change to go into Taunton and look at the
shops. He had been an enthusiastic window-shopper all his
life, and now that he could afford to buy not only the things
in the shop-windows but the shops themselves if he wanted
to, he enjoyed this activity even more. Not that he ever did
buy anything, of course; the habits of a lifetime are not so
easily broken.

For example, he stood for quite five minutes outside the
fishing-tackle shop in Silver Street looking at all the elegant
and attractive paraphernalia in the window. At least two
rivers, possibly three, ran through the grounds of the Hall,
and fishing was supposed to be a relaxing occupation which
soothed the nerves and the temper. Not that he particularly
wanted to catch or persecute fish; but it would at least be an




Tom Holt

86

interest, with things to learn and things to buy. For the same
reason, he had a good look at the camera shop in St. James
Street, and he only stopped himself from going inside by
reflecting that he had nobody to take pictures of, except

perhaps the English Rose.

He walked by the auction-rooms, and wondered who was
doing his old job now. Inside there would be Liz, catalogu-
ing something or other, and Philip Wilcox, training, not
very energetically, to be an auctioneer. Again, he felt a
strong temptation to go inside and look at them, and that
would be perfectly reasonable, since they both knew him
only as the rich German who had bought the Hall. He could
now afford to buy everything in the sale if he wanted to. But
the sale today was of antique clocks, and he already knew
only too well how slowly the time passed. Besides, there
was no point in buying anything for himself (it was, after
all. Only Him) and he had no-one else to buy things for.

As he walked down North Street towards what passes for
a centre, he noticed a shop that he could not recall having
seen before. It was one of those art and craft places, selling
authentic pottery and ethnic clothes (hence no doubt its
name. Earth 'n' Wear). But shops of that kind are always
springing up and disappearing like mayflies in upwardly-
mobile towns, and Taunton is nothing if not upwardly-
mobile. In fact, as they will be delighted to tell you,
Taunton is no longer a one-horse town; these days, they

have a bicycle as well . . .

Entirely out of curiosity, since he was safe in the
knowledge that there would not be anything in a shop of this
sort that he could conceivably want to buy, Malcolm opened
the door, which had goat-bells behind it, and went in. The
place was empty, except for a ghostly string quartet playing
Mozart, a large cat asleep on a pile of Indian cotton shirts,
and an astoundingly pretty girl with red hair sitting behind
the till. As soon as Malcolm walked through the door, she
looked up from the poem she was writing in a spiral-bound
notebook with a stylised cat on the cover and smiled at him.

Expecting Someone Taller         87

Malcolm had always been of the opinion that pretty girls
should not be allowed to smile at people unless they meant
something by it, for it gives them an unfair advantage. He
now felt under an obligation to buy something. That
presumably was why the owner had installed a pretty girl in
the shop in the first place, and Malcolm did not approve. It
was exploitation of the worst sort.

"Feel free to look around," said the girl.

Malcolm walked briskly to the back of the shop and tried
to appear profoundly interested in beeswax candles. Al-
though he had his back to her, he felt sure that the girl was
still looking at him, and he remembered that he was the
most handsome man in the world, which might account for
it. A smirk tried to get onto his face, but he sent it away. He
was, he assured himself, only imagining it, and even if he
wasn't, there was bound to be a catch in it all somewhere.
This was Taunton, not Hollywood.

For her part, Wellgunde was rather dismayed. Either her
smile had gone wrong since she checked it that morning, or
else this young man was immune to smiles, which would be
a pity. She had gone to the trouble of materialising this shop
and all its contents just in order to be able to have
somewhere to smile at the Ring-Bearer. A shop, the
Rhinedaughters had decided, made an ideal trap for ensnar-
ing unwary Ring-Bearers. Perhaps they had underestimated
him, Wellgunde thought. Certainly it had seemed a very
straightforward project when they discussed it that morning.
From all they had leamt about him, Ingolf's Bane was a
foolish, sentimental and susceptible young man who would
as instinctively fall in love with a pretty girl who smiled at
him as a trout snaps at a fly. The only point at issue in their
planning session had been which one of them should have
the dubious privilege of being the fly. They had tried
drawing lots, but Woglinde would insist on cheating. They
had tried tossing for it, but Flosshilde had winked at the
coin, and it kept coming down in her favour. So finally they
had decided to make a game of it: whoever captivated the




88 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 89

Ring-Bearer first would have to see the job through, but the
others would buy her lunch at Maxim's.

To make it a fair contest, they had materialised three
shops in the centre ofTaunton. It was a reasonable bet that
no-one would notice three shops suddenly appearing out of
nowhere in the centre of town, for Taunton is like that, and
it would be up to the Ring-Bearer to decide which one he
went into first, and so who should have the first go.

Wellgunde frowned. She was going to have to make an
effort.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" she said
sweetly.

There was another potential customer outside, looking
through the window at a selection of herbal teas. She turned
quickly and smiled at the door. The card obligingly flipped
round to read "Closed." Things generally did what she
wanted them to when she smiled at them.

"A present for my mother," Malcolm replied, amazing
himself with his own inventiveness.

"Does she like cats?" Wellgunde suggested. "Most
mothers do."

."Yes, she does."

"Then how about a spaghetti-jar with a cat on the front,
or a tea-cosy in the shape of a cat, or a little china cat you
can keep paperclips in, or a cat-shaped candle, or a
Cotswold cat breadboard? We haven't got any framed cat
woodcuts at the moment, but we're expecting a delivery this
afternoon if you're not in a hurry."

"That's a lot of cats," said Malcolm startled.

"Cats and Cotswolds," said the Rhinedaughter, brightly.
"You can sell anything with a cat or a Cotswold on it,
although some people prefer rabbits."

She smiled again, so brightly that Malcolm could feel the
skin on his face turning brown. He began to feel distinctly
uncomfortable.

"I'd better have one of those oven-gloves," he mumbled.

"With a cat on it?"

"Yes, please."

The girl seemed rather hurt as she took Malcolm's
money, and he wondered what he had said.

"If she doesn't like it, I can change it for you," said the
girl. "No trouble, really."

"I'm sure she'll like it. She's very fond of cats. And
cooking."

"Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye."

Wellgunde watched him go, and frowned. "Oh well,"
she said to herself, "bother him, then."

She smiled at the shop, and just to please her it vanished
into thin air. Then she walked down to the banks of the Tone
and dived gracefully into its khaki waters.

"Well," said one old lady to another as a chain of silver
bubbles rose to the surface, "you don't see so much of that
sort of thing nowadays."

Confused, Malcolm turned up Hammet Street. It was not
surprising, he said to himself, that a girl, even a pretty one,
should want to smile at someone looking exactly like
Siegfried the Dragon-Slayer. And it was Siegfried's appear-
ance, not his, that she had been smiling at, so really the
smile was nothing to do with him. Besides, it was probably
just a smile designed to sell cat-icons, in which it had
succeeded admirably. He felt in his pocket for the oven-
glove, but it didn't seem to be there any more. He must have
dropped it. What a pity, never mind.

At the junction of Hammet Street and Magdalene Street,
there was a health-food shop which had not been there
yesterday. Of that Malcolm was absolutely certain, because
he had parked his car beside the kerb on which the shop was
now standing. He stood very still and frowned.
"Did I do that?" he said aloud. "And if so, how?"
He knew the song about the girl who left trees and
flowers lying about wherever she had gone; but trees and
flowers are one thing, health-food shops are another. Either




90               Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller

91

it had been built very, very quickly (after his recent
experiences with builders at the Hall, Malcolm doubted
this) or else it had appeared out of nowhere, or else he was
hallucinating. He crossed the road and went in.

"Hello there," said the bewilderingly pretty girl behind
the counter. "Can I help you?"

It was probably the dazzling smile that made Malcolm
realise what was going on. "Hang on a moment, please," he
said, and walked out again. Next door was a furniture shop
with a big plate-glass window. Fortunately, the street was
deserted, and Malcolm was able to turn himself into the
three Rhinedaughters without being observed. He found
that he recognised two of them immediately. As an exper-
iment, he smiled a Rhinedaughter smile at a chest of
drawers in the shop window. It seemed to glow for a
moment, and then its polyurethane finish was changed into
a deep French polish shine.

"That explains it," he said to himself, and did not allow
himself to think that although that explained the smiles he
had been getting, it did not explain the shops that had
appeared from nowhere. Take care of the smiles, after all,
and the shops will take care of themselves. He understood
that the Rhinedaughters, the original owners of the gold
from which the Ring was made, were after him, and their
smiles were baits to draw him to his doom. Not that there
weren't worse dooms, he reflected, but he had the world to
consider.

Instead of walking away, however, he turned and went
back into the health-food shop. Now that he knew that the
smiles were only another aspect of this rather horrible game
that Life was playing with him, and not genuine expressions
of interest by pretty girls, he felt that he could deal with the
situation, for he had a supreme advantage over the previous
owners of the Nibelung's Ring. He had no vanity, no high
opinion of himself which these creatures could use as the
basis for their attack. All that remained was for him to deal

with them before they did anything more troublesome than
smiling.

"Hello again," said Woglinde.

"Which one are you, then?" he replied, smiling back.
Woglinde looked at him for a moment, and then burst into
tears, burying her face in her small pink hands. Instinc-
tively, Malcolm was horrified; then he remembered Hagen,
Alberich's son, whom the three Rhinedaughters had
drowned in the flood, singing sweetly all the while.

"Thought so," he said, trying to sound unpleasant (but he
had lost the knack). "So which one are you?"

"Woglinde," sobbed the girl. "And now you're all
cross."

The Rhinedaughter sniffed, looked up angrily, and smiled
like a searchlight. A carnation appeared in Malcolm's
buttonhole, but his resolve was unaffected.

"You can cut that out," he said.

"Oh, well," said Woglinde, and Malcolm could see no
tears in her deep blue eyes. He could see many other things,
but no tears, and the other things were rather hazardous, so
he ignored them.

"Where did the shop come from?" he asked.

"Shan't tell you," said Woglinde, coyly frowning.
"You're beastly and I hate you."

"Girls don't talk like that any more," said Malcolm. "A
thousand years ago perhaps, but not in the nineteen-
eighties."

"This girl does," replied Woglinde. "It's part of her
charm. You've been looking for a nice old-fashioned girl all
your life and now you've found one."

Put like that, the proposition (accompanied by the bright-
est smile yet) was somewhat startling, and Malcolm turned
away and looked at a display of organic pulses.

"You've been to a lot of trouble," he said.

"1 spent ages making it all nice for you," said Woglinde.

"I don't like health food. Especially organic rice."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Woglinde, petulantly. "If I'd




92 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 93

known, I'd have built you a chip-shop instead." She
checked herself; she was letting her temper interfere with
business. "I still can, if you'd rather."

"I wouldn't bother, if I were you," said Malcolm. "I
expect you're sick of the sight of fish."

"If you asked me to I would."

"Forget it, please. I know what you want, and you can't
have it."

"Usually that's our line," said the Rhinedaughter casu-
ally. Malcolm blushed. "Oh go on," she continued, "it's
our Ring, really."

Perhaps the smiles had a cumulative effect. Malcolm
suddenly felt a terrible urge to give her the Ring. He had
already taken it off his finger before he knew what he was
doing, and it was only when he caught sight of her face, like
a kitten watching a beetle it intends to eat, that he felt the
sense of danger. He thrust the Ring back on, so fiercely that
he cut the skin between his fingers.

"I can't," he said, sadly. "I'd love to, but I can't. You
wouldn't want it, really."

Woglinde suddenly laughed, and Malcolm felt as if he
was being smothered in gossamer, like a fly trapped by a
spider. "Don't be silly," she cooed, "I'd like it more than
anything in the whole wide world. I think you're mean."

Again there was a hideous temptation to give in, so
strong that the Ring seemed to bum his skin. Malcolm could
stand it no longer, and tried to command the Tamhelm to
take him away. But his mind could not issue the order; the
smiles had got into it, as light gets into photographic film,
and blurred all the edges. "Stop that!" he shouted, and
Woglinde winced as if he had slapped her. He tightened his
hand round the Ring, and her face seemed to collapse.
Suddenly, she was not pretty at all; she looked like a
thousand-year-old teenager who wanted something she
knew she couldn't have. Then, just as suddenly, she was
lovelier than ever, and Malcolm knew that she had given
up.

"Sorry," he said, "but there it is."

He turned and walked out of the shop, trying not to look
back, but the urge was too strong. When he did look back,
however, the shop was gone. He had won this bout, then;

but was that all? It would probably be unwise to go
swimming for a week or so ...

After the fight, Malcolm needed a drink. He walked
swiftly up Canon Street, heading for his favourite pub. But
it wasn't there any more; instead, there was one of those
very chic little wine-bars that come like shadows and so
depart all over England. He had a horrible idea that he knew
where this one had come from.

The wine-bar ("Le Cochonnet") was empty except for a
quite unutterably pretty girl behind the bar, tenderly polish-
ing a glass.

"You can put it all back exactly as it was," said Malcolm,
sternly.

The girl stared at him in amazement, and for a moment
Malcolm wondered if he had made a mistake. But he looked
at the girl again, and recognised the third Rhinedaughter.
There couldn't be two girls like that in the world, unless he
was very lucky.

"So which are you," he said, "Wellgunde or Flosshilde?"

"Flosshilde," said the girl, carelessly. "You've met the
other two?"

"That's right." He held up his right hand, letting the light
play on the ring, "And I'm not going to give it to you,
either. It's not a toy, you know."

Flosshilde studied the glass in her hand for a moment.
"All right," she said. "If you insist. Would you like a
drink?"

Flosshilde had been rather proud of her wine-bar, and it was
with great reluctance that she had agreed to change it back
into the French Horn. But she did so with a smile.

"Won't the landlord and the customers be a bit disorien-
tated?" Malcolm asked.




94

Expecting Someone Taller         95

Tom Holt

"Not really," said Flosshilde. "All I did was change them
into chairs and tables, and they won't have felt anything.
For some reason, when I smile at people and change them,
they don't seem to mind."

"I can understand that," said Malcolm. "Let me buy you
a drink."

"I'll have a Babycham," said Flosshilde. "No ice."

When he returned with the drinks, Flosshilde leaned
forward and whispered, "Your Liz is over there in the
comer with her boyfriend. The one you threw in the water."

"So what?" said Malcolm coldly. "She's not my Liz."

"I could turn him into a frog for you, if you like,"
whispered Flosshilde. "Or I could smile at him without
turning him into a frog. Your Liz wouldn't like that at all."

"I'd rather you didn't," said Malcolm. "I'm not allowed
to be malicious any more."

"That sounds awful." Flosshilde seemed genuinely sorry
for him. "Would it count if I did it?"

"Probably. But it's kind of you to offer."

"Any time. I might just do it anyway. I don't like him,
he's stuffy. I don't like stuffy people."

"I'd better be careful, then," said Malcolm. "I've be-
come very stuffy since ..."

"That's not your fault," said the Rhinedaughter.

"I shouldn't be doing this," said Malcolm. "Fraternising
with the enemy."

"I'm not really the enemy, am I?" Flosshilde smiled, but
it wasn't a serious smile, just a movement of the lips
intended to convey friendliness. Malcolm was intrigued.

"I mean, you're not going to give me the Ring, and why
should you? That doesn't mean I hate you."

"Doesn't it?"

"Course not."

"Woglinde burst out crying."

"She does that," said Flosshilde. "She's very bad-
tempered. I'll tell her to leave you alone."

"Would you?" Malcolm felt a strange sensation at the

back of his head, a sort of numbness. He hadn't chatted like
this to anyone for a long time.

"Are you staying in England long?" he asked, trying to
sound uninterested.

Flosshilde grinned. "If you like. It's the same for us, you
know. We're all in the same boat. Of course, I've got the
other two for company, but you know what it's like with
sisters. They get on your nerves."

"I know, I've got a sister."

"Then we'll be company for each other," Flosshilde said.
"I mean, we can go for drives in the country, or maybe take
a boat up the river."

Malcolm remembered Hagen, and said he didn't like
boats.

"Won't your sisters mind?" he added nervously.

"Oh bother them," said Flosshilde. "Besides, I can tell
them I'm working on you."

"Will you be?"

"You'll have to wait and see," said Flosshilde, carefully
not smiling. "Now, why don't you buy me lunch? I'm
starving."

Malcolm drove back to Combe Hall in a rather bewildered
frame of mind, and nearly rammed a flock of sheep outside
Bagborough. Over lunch, Flosshilde hadn't mentioned the
Ring once, except in passing (she knew some very funny
stories about the Gods, especially Wotan) and seemed to be
making no effort at all to lead him to his doom. That, of
course, might simply mean that she was being subtle; but
Malcolm had taken the precaution of reading her thoughts,
and although he knew that one shouldn't believe everything
you read in people's minds, he had been rather taken aback
by what he had found. Of course, it was possible that she
had deliberately planted those thoughts there for him to
read, but somehow he didn't think so.

It seemed that Flosshilde had reconciled herself to the
fact that the Ring wasn't going to be given to her, and she




96 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 97

didn't really mind. Instead, she rather liked the Ring-
Bearer. Nothing more than that, but never mind. Nor was it
simply his assumed shape that she liked; she had seen that
shape before when it had had the original Siegfried inside it,
and besides, she didn't judge by appearances. That, it
seemed, was not the way these curious other-worldly types
went about things, for in the world they inhabited, so many
people could change shape as easily as human beings
changed clothes, and so you could never be sure whether a
person was really handsome or simply smartly dressed.
Flosshilde, however, thought that she and the Ring-Bearer
might have something in common, and she wanted someone
nice to talk to and go out with. There had been more than
this, but Malcolm hadn't read it. He was saving it up, to
read over lunch tomorrow . . .

"Well?" said Woglinde. "And where have you been?"

"Having lunch," said Flosshilde, "at Carey's."

"But you haven't got it?" said Wellgunde abruptly.

"True." Flosshilde lay back on the bed of the Tone and
blew bubbles. "But who cares?"

Wellgunde stared at her sister, who closed her eyes and
let out a rather exaggerated sigh. "I think I'm in love," said
Flosshilde.

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Wellgunde. "You can't
be. You aren't allowed to be."

"Oh, all right then, I'm not. But the next best thing. Or
the next best thing to that. He's nice, in a quiet sort of way."

"You should be ashamed of yourself," said Woglinde,
fiercely; but Wellgunde smiled, confusing a shoal of min-
nows who happened to get in the way. "If it makes it easier
for you to get the Ring," she said softly, "then you go
ahead."

"I'm not interested in the silly old Ring," yawned
Flosshilde. "It's supremely unimportant."

Wellgunde nodded. "Of course. But it would be nicer to
have it than not to have it, now wouldn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"And there's no point in your liking him if he doesn't like
you."

Flosshilde made a vague grab at a passing roach, which
scuttled away. "I don't know. Is there?"

"And if he likes you, he'll be pleased to give you the
Ring, now won't he?"

"I don't know and I don't care," replied Flosshilde.
"We're just good friends."

"You've only met him once," said Woglinde. "There's
no need to get soppy."

"There's every need to get soppy. I like being soppy.
What's for dinner?"

"Trout with almonds," said Wellgunde.

"Not fish again."

Wellgunde perched on the edge of a broken wardrobe,
one of many that furnished the riverbed. "Nobody says you
shouldn't make friends," she said gently. "But what about
us? We want our Ring back."

"Once you've got it back, you can be friends with who
you like," said Woglinde, inspecting her toenails, "though
personally . . . They need doing again," she added.
"There's something nasty in this river that dissolves coral
pink."

"Oh, be quiet, both of you," said Flosshilde angrily.
"I'm sorry I told you now."

There was silence at the bottom of the Tone for a while,
with both Flosshilde and Woglinde sulking. Finally, Wo-
glinde requested Wellgunde to ask her sister Flosshilde if
she could borrow her coral pink nail varnish, and Flosshilde
asked Wellgunde to tell her sister Woglinde that she
couldn't.

"Be like that," said Woglinde. "See if I care."

Flosshilde jumped up and floated to the surface.

"Now look what you've done," hissed Wellgunde.
"You've offended her."




98 Tom Holt

"She isn't really in love, is she?" asked Woglinde
nervously. "That would be terrible."

"I don't think so. She's just in one of her moods."

"What'll we do?"

"Don't worry," said Wellgunde calmly. "Leave her to
me."

8.

"OH, FOR CRYING out loud," said Wotan, putting down his
fork with a bang, "what do you want now?"

"Sorry," panted Loge, breathless and sopping wet. "I
didn't realise you were still having breakfast."

Wotan smiled wanly. "Raining outside, is it?"

"Yes," said Loge. "Very heavily."

"So what was so important it couldn't wait?"

"I think I'm on to something," said Loge, sinking into a
chair. The dining-room of Valhalla, the castle built by
Fasolt and Fafner for the King of the Gods, was furnished
in spartan but functional style. It had that air of grim and
relentless spotlessness that is described as a woman's touch.

The Lord of Tempests looked at him suspiciously. "If this
turns out to be another wild goose chase," he said, "I'll turn
you into a reservoir and stock you with rainbow trout."

Loge shuddered. "I'm sure there's something in this," he
managed to say. "The ravens have sighted Alberich,
and . . ."

"Aren't you going to offer your guest a cup of coffee?"
Schwertleite the Valkyrie had come in with a crumb-brush
and was ostentatiously brushing the table. "I do wish you
wouldn't bring work home with you."




100 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 101

Wotan turned and glowered at his daughter, who took no
notice. "And ask him not to put his briefcase on the table."

The Valkyrie swept out, and Wotan turned the full force
of his glare on Loge. "Now look what you've done," he
said. "You've started her off."

"But the ravens have seen Alberich and the Rhinedaugh-
ters, and they're in this village in England called ..."

Schwertleite came back into the room with a bundle of
newspapers in her arms. "Ask your friend to sit on these,"
she said sharply. "I've just had those covers cleaned,
although why I bother, I don't know."

"Now you see what I have to put up with," whispered
Wotan. "What's this about Alberich and the Rhinedaugh-
ters?"

Loge, perched uncomfortably on a pile of back numbers
of die Zeit, started to explain, but before he could get very
far, the Valkyrie Grimgerde stalked into the room with a pot
of coffee. She had resented making it, and it would just be
left to get cold, but she had made it all the same. "I'm doing
you some scrambled eggs," she said accusingly to Loge.

"Please, don't bother."

"I've started now," replied Grimgerde impatiently.

Loge was about to say thank you, but the Valkyrie had
gone back into the kitchen. Almost at once, Schwertleite
reappeared, with her arms folded.

"There are footmarks all over the kitchen floor," she said
icily. "Have you been tracking in and out?"

Before Wotan could reply, she too had gone. Wotan's
daughters had a habit of asking leading questions and
disappearing before anyone could answer them. They had
been doing it for over a thousand years, but it was still
profoundly irritating.

", . . in a little village called Combe," said Loge,
"which is in Somerset. Now why else. . . .?"

"What did you say?" Wotan hadn't been listening.
~Xoge took a deep breath, but could get no further. The
Valkyrie Waltraute had come in with a plate of scrambled

eggs. "As if I didn't have enough to do," she said,
slamming the plate down. "And mind the tablecloth."

"Sorry," said Loge.

"I wouldn't eat that if I were you," Wotan muttered when
she had gone. "None of my daughters can cook, although
God knows it doesn't stop them. I can cook but I'm not
allowed in the kitchen."

Desperately, Loge wondered what to do so as to offend
neither the Thunderer nor his daughters. He picked some
scrambled egg up on his fork, but did not put it in his
mouth.

"I've been putting up with this for eleven centuries,"
continued Wotan. "Much more of it and I shall go quite
mad."

"The ravens," said Loge for the fourth time, "have found
Alberich and the Rhinedaughters, hanging around in a little
village in . . ."

"It all started when their mother left me," continued
Wotan, "and was I glad to see the back of her. But my dear
daughters, all nine of them, decided that I needed looking
after. They didn't want to, of course. They all wanted to
have careers and lives of their own. I wanted them to have
careers and lives of their own, preferably in another
hemisphere."

As if to prove his point, the Valkyrie Waltraute came
storming in. "You've been eating the bread again, haven't
you?" she said bitterly.

"That's what it's there for."

"You've started a new loaf when there was half a loaf left
in the breadbin. Now I suppose I'11 have to throw it out for
the ravens."

"Half a loaf is better than no bread," Wotan roared after
her as she stalked out again. A futile gesture. The Father of
Battles banged his fist on the table, upsetting a coffee cup.
A deep brown patch appeared on the tablecloth and Wotan
turned white.




102              Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller

103

"You did that," he said to Loge. "If they ask, you did
that. I've got to live in this house."

Loge, whose titles include the Father of Lies, was not too
keen on this particular falsehood, but the alternative was
probably metamorphosis into a disused canal. He nodded
meekly.

"So we've all been stuck in this wretched great bam of a
place, miles from anywhere, driving each other mad for a
thousand years," said the King of the Gods. "They hate it
as much as I do, but they'll never move."

"At least there are only eight of them now," said Loge.
"It must have been far worse when Brunnhilde was ..."

Loge fell silent, terrified lest his lack of tack should
arouse Wotan's anger. But Wotan only laughed. "You must
be joking," he said. "Imagine my delight when I'd finally
managed to get one of them off my hands—and no question,
Brunnhilde was the worst—and I thought that perhaps
they'd all go away and at last I'd be allowed to wear my
comfortable shoes in the dining-room. I fixed that miserable
child up with Siegfried the Dragon-Slayer, the most mar-
vellous man who ever lived. And look what she did to
him."

Loge nodded sympathetically; tact was all that stood
between him and a future in fish-farming.

"Mind you," said Wotan, "he was lucky. Imagine what it
would have been like being married to her. Give me a spear
in the small of the back any day." The Lord of the Ravens
shook his head sadly. "They blame me, of course. They
blame me for everything. The only people in the world who
aren't entitled to."

"About the Rhinedaughters," suggested Loge.

"Ask them to do anything useful, of course, and you get
bad temper all day long. No, my family is a great trial to
me, and I am a great trial to my family. If I had my time
over again ..."

"The Hoover's broken," said Waltraute, appearing in the

doorway. "I suppose I'll have to do the stairs with a dustpan
and brush."

"Yes, I suppose you will." Wotan stood up, his one eye
flashing. "You'll enjoy doing that."

He strode through the long corridors of Valhalla with
Loge trotting at his heels like a terrified whippet, while all
around him there came the calls of the Valkyries, informing
him of further domestic disasters, until the vaulted ceiling
that the Giants had built re-echoed with the sound.

"England, did you say?" whispered Wotan.

"Yes."

"Oh, good," said Wotan. "Let's go there straight away."

"Mind you," said Wotan, "I don't quite know how we're
going to tackle this one."

"Couldn't we just rush him?" Loge suggested. "I'll hold
his arms while you get the Ring off him."

They stood and looked up at the electrically-operated
gates of the Hall. A gardener in a smart new boiler suit
walked up to them, holding a rake.

"You can't park there," he said.

The long, sleek Mercedes limousine was blocking the
driveway. Wotan stared at the gardener, who took no notice.

"Move it, or I'll call the police," said the gardener. "I've
told you once."

"Certainly, right away," muttered Loge. There was no
point in causing unnecessary trouble. "Sorry."

"That's bad," said Wotan, as they walked up from the
village green, where they had parked the car. "I tried
closing up his lungs to make it hard for him to breathe, but
it didn't work. We're too near the Ring-Bearer's seat of
power to be able to achieve anything by force. I imagine
that idiot was under his protection."

Wotan stopped and studied the gates. •

"There's no way through there by violence," he said.
"We must be clever."

For some reason or other, Loge had a horrible feeling that




104

Expecting Someone Taller        105

Tom Holt

he

by We, Wotan meant him. "What do you have in mind?

asked.

"There are many things in the world that mortal men fear
more than the Gods," said Wotan, airily. "I think it's about
time that the Ring-Bearer was brought down to earth. He's
a human being, not a God, and he's a citizen of a
twentieth-century democracy." Wotan chuckled. "The poor
bastard."

Malcolm was feeling happier than he had for some consid-
erable time. He had just had lunch with a remarkably pretty
girl, he was going to have lunch with her tomorrow, and,
best of all, his secretary had just told him that she was going
to take her annual holiday in a week's time. She was,
needless to say, going to the Cotswolds. Malcom thought
that they would probably make her an honorary member.

So, when the English Rose came knocking on his door at
four o'clock, he expected nothing worse than a recital of her
holiday plans. He draped a smile over his face and asked her
what he could do for her.

"There's a man downstairs," she said, "from the Gov-
ernment. "

Given what he had been doing since he acquired the
Ring, it was understandable that Malcolm misunderstood
this statement. He expected to find a humble messenger
imploring him to take over the reins of State, or at least to
accept a peerage. What he found was a sharp-faced indi-
vidual in a dark grey suit with a briefcase.

"Herr Finger," said the intruder, "I'm from Customs and
Excise. We're making inquiries about illicit gold dealing."

For a moment, Malcolm forgot who he had become, and
his blood froze. Like all respectable people, he knew that he
was guilty of something, although what it was he could not
say; and the arrival of a representative of the Main Cop only
confirmed his suspicions.

"I don't know what you mean," he stammered.
"About a month ago, a considerable sum of money in
used currency notes was removed from the vaults of the

Bank of England. Similar—withdrawals, shall we say?—
were made from state banks all over the world. At the same
time, large quantities of gold made an inexplicable appear-
ance in the same vaults. Have you any comment, Herr
Finger?"

Malcolm was too frightened to speak, and simply shook
his head.

"On close examination, the gold was found to be part of
a consignment supplied by a certain ..." the man paused,
as if choosing the right word "... a certain underground
movement," he continued, "to a subversive organisation,
based in this country but with international links. This
organisation has been secretly undermining the fabric of
society for some time. Hen- Finger."

"Has it?" Malcolm's throat was dry.

"It most certainly has. And our investigations have led us
to the conclusion ..."

Malcolm, who for the last twenty-five years had done
little in the evenings except watch the television, knew what
was coming next. There was no point in running. Faceless
men in lounge suits were probably aiming rifles at him at
this very moment.

"... that you have some connection with this—this
subversive ring."

The word Ring exploded in Malcolm's mind like a bomb.
He focused on the intruder's mind, and did not have to read
very far.

"Now do you have any comment to make, Herr Finger?
Or should I say Malcolm Fisher?"

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and smiled serenely.

"If only my mother could see me," he said, and the
serene smile became a grin. "Chatting like this with a real
God."

"I beg your pardon? Mr. Fisher, this is not a laughing
matter."

"You're Loge, aren't you? It's odd. I was frightened of




106 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 107

you when I thought you were the taxman, but now you turn
out to be a God, I'm not frightened at all."

"Oh, well," said Loge, "I should have known better, I
suppose. But Wotan thought it was worth a try."

"It was," said Malcolm. "You had me worried, like I
said. What were you going to do?"

"He'll murder me if I go back without it," said Loge.
"He's got a horrid temper."

"What can he do to you? You're immortal."

"That's the trouble." Loge was trembling. "If you're
mortal, all they can do to you is kill you. But if you're going
to live forever, they can really get you."

"Surely not?"

"Don't you believe it. He'll turn me into an aquarium, I
know he will."

"I'll get the housekeeper to bring us some tea," said
Malcolm soothingly.

Loge calmed down slightly with some tea inside him, but
the cup rattled in the saucer as he held it.

"I was meant to put the frighteners on you," he said.
"First, I was to be a Customs man, then the VAT inspector,
then the Fraud Squad, then MI5. If that didn't work, then I
was to be the man from the IPU."

"What's the IPU?"

"Inexplicable Phenomena Unit. Wotan was sure you'd
believe in it. It would be something like all those science
fiction films about flying saucers invading the earth, and
there's always a secret Government agency that knows all
about them but keeps them secret so as not to alarm people.
They're the ones who come and zap the Martians in the last
reel. And I was going to be them, threatening to zap you.
Sometimes I think he lives in a world of his own."

"He must be a difficult person to work for," said
Malcolm.

"Difficult!" Loge cast his eyes up to the ceiling. "He's
impossible."

"But I thought you were the clever one," said Malcolm.

"I used to be, back in the old days when life was much
simpler. But progress has left me behind, I'm afraid, and
Wotan has got more devious. And he's never forgiven me
for the mistake I made in drawing up the contract for
Valhalla."

"Mistake?"

Loge nodded glumly. "Oh, yes, it was a mistake all right,
and I've never been allowed to forget it. A slip of the pen,
and now look at me."

"What sort of a mistake?" asked Malcolm, purely from
curiosity.

Loge sighed. "I might as well tell you. You'll find out
sooner or later. The contract with the Giants was that they
built us the castle in return for trading concessions in
Middle Earth, and the German for "free port" isfreihafen.
But the trouble was," Loge said, and even after a thousand
years he blushed, "well, my handwriting has never been
marvellous, and what I'd written looked more like Freia zu
haben, which would mean that they would have the
Goddess Freia as their reward for that bloody castle. I don't
know what you're laughing at. It was a mistake anyone
could have made."

Malcolm, despite his ill-concealed mirth, could sym-
pathise, for his own handwriting was none too good. "But
couldn't you explain the mistake?" he said.

"I did. God knows. But they wouldn't listen, and Wotan
had just had a quarrel with Freia and was only too glad to
get rid of her. He's always quarreling with his relatives."

Again, Malcolm could sympathise. "Well," he said, "at
least it explains how that bargain came to be made. I
couldn't understand it, the way it is in the books."

"Now you know." Loge was depressed again. "It was
only because I suggested this Ring business that he didn't
change me into something wet and nasty there and then.
And that backfired too—well, you know all about that—and
I've been one jump away from metamorphosis ever since."

Malcolm felt a curious sense of authority, and his tone to




108 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 109

Loge was pleasantly patronising. "Don't worry," he said, "I
won't let him turn you into anything."

"And how exactly will you stop him?"

"I don't know," Malcolm confessed. "But he can't go
throwing his weight about like that any more. He'll just
have to face facts, he's had his time."

Loge raised an eyebrow. "Don't take this the wrong
way," he said, "but for someone who was terrified of the
Customs inspector a few minutes ago, you're remarkably
confident."

"I know. But that was real life. This is ... well, it's
real life too, but different somehow." Malcolm was silent
for a while, as he tried to work something out in his mind.
"You know how some people are good at some things and
bad at others," he said. "For instance, some people are
marvellous at business or the Stock Exchange or whatever,
but they can't change a plug or iron a shirt. Maybe I'm like
that. Maybe I'm hopeless at everything except being the
master of the Ring, but I'm very good at that. I know how
to do it, more or less, and only I can do it, and I'm happy
doing it."

"Are you?"

"Well, no. But I'm no more miserable doing it than doing
anything else, plus I can do it well, and I can't do anything
else. It's like some people are naturally good singers or
snooker players or they can compose music, and they've
never tried it so they don't know. And then they do try it,
just by accident or for fun, never expecting they'll be any
good at it, and there they are. I don't know," he said
despairingly, "maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe it's so easy
any fool can do it. But I'm not afraid any more—not of your
lot, anyway."

Loge stared at him in amazement. "You've been drink-
ing," he said at last.

Malcolm shook his head. "No, I mean it. I may be no
good at all at real life, but this sort of thing—you can tell
your boss to do his worst and see if I care. I've already seen

offAlberich and the Rhinedaughters, and I'll deal with him
too, if he makes a nuisance of himself. I mean, what can he
do to me? I can understand all languages and read people's
thoughts, so I'll always know what's really going on. I can
change my shape, so anything he tries to attack me with I
can either beat or run away from. And I don't think that's
all, either. I don't think he's got any power against the Ring.
If he wants to do something and I won't let him, then he
can't do it. Stands to reason."

"How's that?"

"Simple. Unless I do something wrong or think nasty
thoughts, nothing unpleasant can happen in the world. So
nothing unpleasant can happen to me, can it? I'm just as
much a citizen of the world as anyone else, so I'm under my
own protection." Malcolm was quite carried away by this
train of thought. "What's the bit in the Bible about He saved
others. He couldn't save Himself? You won't catch me
falling for that one. And that's why I met that girl," he went
on, more to himself than to Loge. "Nice things are
happening to everyone else, so they're happening to me
too." He laughed for pure joy, and Loge tapped the side of
his head.

"You're as bad as he is," he said. "Don't say I didn't
warn you."

"Don't worry about a thing," said Malcolm, grandly.
"Everything will be fine, you'll see."

Loge rose to his feet. "I hope you're right," he said. "If
not, come and feed the ducks on me on Sunday afternoons."

Wotan leaned back in the driver's seat of the Mercedes,
turning over Loge's story in his cavernous mind.

"He's right, up to a point," said the King of the Gods.
"Like I thought, force and violence are no good, and
besides, I'm not sure how far I could take them. I still don't
think I could actually take the Ring from him against his
will without getting into serious trouble."

"Who with?"




110

Expecting Someone Taller        111

Tom Holt

"Me, in my role as the God of Justice. If I did take it and
I found that 1 wasn't allowed to, I would have to cease to
exist. Damn."

The Sky-God thought hard for a moment, then smiled.
He had thought of something. Loge waited impatiently to
hear what it was.

"It worked before," said Wotan quietly. "So why
shouldn't it work again?"

Loge was mystified. "What?" he asked.

"The Brunnhilde option," said Wotan. "Why not?"

"But it didn't work the first time," Loge said. "It failed
miserably."

"Because of the Hagen factor and the Siegfried aspect.
And, if we're going to be honest about it, the Brunnhilde
aspect, too. But now we're dealing with a different kettle of
fish."

The metaphor made Loge squirm. "It's a terrible
gamble," he said. "Don't blame me if . . ."

"As if I would. No, I think I've cracked it. He's just the
sort of idiot who'd fall for it."

"That's true." Loge began to feel cautiously optimistic.
"Why shouldn't he be his own worst enemy, just like
everyone else?"

Malcolm watched the black limousine driving away, and
poured himself a small whisky. He was rather worried about
what he had said; it was the first time he had ever talked to
a God, and perhaps he should have shown more respect. He
strolled into the garden, and a blackbird fluttered down and
perched in a rose bush beside him.

"Have you seen a white moth with pale blue spots on its
wings?" asked the bird.

"No," replied Malcolm, "but I've got some peanuts if
you're hungry."

"You can have enough of peanuts," said the bird.
"Anyway, I wanted that particular moth. We've got people
coming round for dinner tomorrow."

"Good hunting, then," said Malcolm. "Try round by the
buddleias."

The bird cocked its head on one side. "Thanks," it said.
"Good idea. Oh, and by the way."

"Yes?"

"Don't underestimate Wotan, whatever you do. There are
more ways of killing a cat, you know."

"What do you mean?"

The bird fluttered its wings. "Don't ask me, I'm only a
bird. Besides, it's my favourite proverb."

"Hope you find your moth," said Malcolm.

"So do I," said the blackbird. "Good night."




9.

FLOSSHILDE WAS ALWAYS beautifully dressed. She had been
following fashion since the dawn of time, and her wardrobe
occupied the space on the bed of the Rhine between
Andemach and Koblenz. Not only did she follow fashion,
she led it; she had been wearing figure-of-eight brooches
when the Iron Age was still in its infancy, and it was her
pioneering work that had given the ladies of sixteenth-
century Europe the surcingle. In comparison, she thought,
the twentieth century was drab, to say the least. Neverthe-
less, she had looked out a rather clever lemon-coloured
pullover and a pair of black and white striped trousers which
had, oddly enough, been in vogue at the height of the
Hallstadt Culture. If you keep things long enough, she had
leamt by experience, they eventually come back into
fashion.

To add the finishing touches, she decorated her ears with
Snoopy earrings and slipped over her slim wrist a bracelet
of amber which had been given to her by the first King of
the Langobards and which looked reasonably like tor-
toiseshell plastic. She would, she concluded, do.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, as she sat down beside
Malcolm in Carey's.

114

Expecting Someone Taller        115

Tom Holt

"You're not," he replied. "You're exactly on time."
"Am I?" Flosshilde looked most surprised. She had
always made a habit of being at least five minutes late for
everything, especially dates and assignations. If she had
subconsciously decided to be punctual, there was cause for

concern . . .

"I had a visit from Loge yesterday," Malcolm said.
"Loge?" Flosshilde's blue eyes opened wide. "What

happened?"

"He tried to frighten me, but I soon got rid of him,"

Malcolm replied smugly. "He's not too bad when you get to

know him."

Flosshilde was going to say something about this, but she

somehow decided against it. Instead, she smiled.
"I know a funny story about him," she said.
"Is it the one about the Valhalla contract?"
"Yes," said Flosshilde, slightly annoyed.
"Tell me anyway," Malcolm said and, to her surprise,

Flosshilde found that she wasn't annoyed any more. She

told him the story, and he laughed.

"You tell it better than he does," he said.
"Of course I do," said Flosshilde. "I'm very good at

telling stories. Have you heard the one about Hagen and the

Steer-Horn?"
The name Hagen made Malcolm feel uncomfortable, and

he wondered why she had mentioned it. Perhaps it was a
sort of warning. Instinctively, he covered his right hand
with his left, so as to hide the Ring.

"Go on," he said nervously.

As she told the story (which was very funny), Malcolm
found himself looking at her rather carefully. He had done
this before, of course, for she was well worth looking at,
and once Malcolm had accepted that there was a future in
looking at her it had become one of his favourite occupa-
tions. But he was looking for something else now. She was,
after all, one of Them, and he would do well not to forget
that. To reassure himself, he flicked through her subcon-
scious mind and was delighted to find that there had been
developments. It irritated him that he could not read his own
inner thoughts, but he had a fair idea of what they were, on
this subject at least. In his life to date, he had met very few
girls, and most of those had been friends of his sister
Bridget. As a result, he had tended to fall in love with all the
rest, just to be on the safe side. Since there had been no risk
of the love being returned, this was strictly his own business
and nothing to do with anyone else. Only since he had met
Flosshilde had he become aware that this was a rather
foolish thing to do, and he had been relieved to find that the
Rhinedaughter had not inspired the usual romantic daze in
him that he knew so well. Instead, once he had got over the
shock of seeing what was in her mind and wondering if she
could really mean him and not some other Malcolm Fisher,
he had carefully considered whether or not he liked her. He
did, of course, but that was because she was nice, not just
simply because she was there.

Tentatively, he lifted his left hand and used it to pick up
his fork. The Ring was visible again, but she did not even
look at it. Suddenly, a terrible thought struck Malcolm.
Bearing in mind the conclusions he had just come to, what
was he supposed to do next?

Flosshilde had seemed rather put out when he had told her
that he would be busy for the rest of the day, but the
statement had been partially true. There had been a letter
from a certain L. Walker, of Lime Place, Bristol, that
morning, and it seemed that L. Walker was coming to
Combe Hall to catalogue the library.

The library, which was huge and contained no funny
books, had come with the Hall when Malcolm bought it,
and he had left it alone. Books, the estate agent had told
him, provide excellent insulation, and since the heating bills
would be very considerable in any event, he might as well
leave them there even if he had no intention of ever reading
them. Ever since he had moved in, however, the English




116

Expecting Someone Taller        117

Tom Holt

Rose had been nagging him to have the library profession-
ally catalogued, so that Malcolm would be able to know
at a glance what he was missing. He had strenuously
resisted these attempts, but he supposed that his secretary
had booked L. Walker before she left for her holiday and
deliberately not told him.

He drove back to Combe and went into the house. The
housekeeper had been lying in wait for him, and he was
tempted to make himself invisible before she could per-
suade him to buy a new vacuum-cleaner—she had been
demanding one for weeks, although Malcolm knew per-
fectly well there were at least four in the house already.
Perhaps she was starting a collection. But lately he had felt
guilty about avoiding people who were, after all, his
employees and only doing their jobs, so he stood his
ground, like Leonidas at Thermopylae.

"There's someone to see you," said the housekeeper.

"Who is it?"

"About the library," she said. "From Bristol."

She made it sound as if Bristol was somewhere between
Saturn and Pluto. But to Malcolm, who had been dealing
with strangers from Valhalla and Nibelheim for what
seemed like years now, Bristol sounded delightfully

homely.

"That'll be L. Walker," he said. "Where did you put

her?"

The housekeeper said the lady was in the drawing-room,
and Malcolm had walked away before he thought to ask
which one. Eventually, he found the stranger in the Blue

drawing-room.

L. Walker was about five feet four, roughly twenty-three
years old, with long, dark hair and the face of an angel.
Malcolm, who knew exactly what an angel looks like,
having turned himself into one during an idle moment, felt
a very curious sensation, almost like not being able to
breathe properly.

"Herr Finger?" said the girl. "I'm Linda Walker. I've
come to catalogue the library. Ms. Weinburger ..."

"Yes, of course." Malcolm did not want to hear about the
English Rose. He wanted to know why his knees had gone
weak, as if he had just been running. There was a long
silence while Malcolm tried to regain the use of his mind.

"Could I see the library, perhaps?" said the girl.

"Yes," Malcolm replied. "It's through here somewhere."

He found it eventually, which was good work on his part
considering that he had just been struck by lightning or
something remarkably similar. He opened the door and
pointed at the rows of books.

"That's it in there," he said.

"Well," said the girl, "I think I'll start work now, if you
don't mind. The sooner I start, the sooner I'll be out from
under your feet."

"There's no rush, honestly," said Malcolm quickly.
"Please take as long as you like."

The girl looked at him and smiled. Malcolm had come to
believe that he was fairly well equipped to deal with smiles,
but this was a new sort; not a happy, optimistic smile but a
sad, wistful smile. It didn't say, "Wouldn't it be nice
if . . ." like the stock delivery of a Rhinemaiden, but, "It
would have been nice if . . ." which is quite different.

"Thank you," said the girl, "but I'd better get on."

Malcolm began to feel that something he wanted was
slipping through his fingers. "Where are you staying?" he
asked.

"At the George and Dragon." said the girl. "I hope that's
all right. Ms. Weinburger booked me in there."

"You could stay here, if you like. There's masses of
room." As soon as he spoke the words, Malcolm wished he
hadn't. There was something about this girl that made him
feel like a predator, even though such thoughts had not
crossed the threshold of his mind. The girl looked at him for
about three-quarters of a second (although it seemed much




118

Tom Holt

longer). Then she smiled again, an "It's hopeless and we
both know that, but ..." sort of a smile.

"I'd like that very much," she said. "If you're sure it'd

be all right."

As far as Malcolm was concerned, it could go in the
Oxford Dictionary as a definition of all right. "I'll get the
housekeeper to get a room ready," he said. "How long will

it take you, do you think?"

"About a week," said the girl, "if I start today."
"But aren't you very tired, after your journey? How did

you get here, by the way?"

"I got the train to Taunton and the bus to Combe," said

the girl.

Malcolm was shocked to think of a girl like this having to
travel by bus and train. He wanted to offer to buy her a car,
but she would probably take it the wrong way.

"Did that take long?" A stupid question, and none of his
business. Why should he care how long it took? Oddly
enough, the girl didn't say that. Instead, she answered the

question.

"Oh, about three hours. I missed the connection at

Taunton, I'm afraid."

Try as he might, Malcolm could think of no way of
prolonging the conversation. He had no idea what he should
say or do next, which was a pity, since he could imagine
nothing in the world more important.

"Well," he said, "I'd better let you get on, then. See you

later."

He left the library and walked slowly back to the

drawing-room, bumping into several pieces of furniture on
the way. This was awful, and he could see that plainly
enough. Real life had caught up with him at last; not in the
form of a Customs man or the Inexplicable Phenomena
Unit, which he could probably have dealt with, but the
juvenile delinquent with the golden arrows who had been
making a dartboard of his heart since his voice had broken.
This was no Rhinedaughter out of the world of his own in

Expecting Someone Taller        119

which he had been living and where he was master, but a
fellow human being, a person, a potential source of great
unhappiness.

"Oh God," he moaned. "Not again."

He sat down on the stairs and looked across at the library
door. If he went away, he might miss her coming out, and
that would never do. Then it occurred to him that he could
make himself invisible and go and watch her cataloguing
books, which must surely be the most wonderful sight in the
world. He closed his eyes and was lost to sight.

Beside the unsalubrious waters of the Tone, Flosshilde
stood and watched a seagull trying unsuccessfully to catch
and eat an abandoned tire. She knew how it felt, in a way,
and out of pure sympathy she smiled at the tire, which
turned itself helpfully into a fish. The seagull, who had
known all along that persistence overcomes all obstacles,
devoured it thankfully, which was hard luck on the fish but
nice for the seagull. You can't please everybody all the
time, Flosshilde reflected, and the relevance of this obser-
vation to her own case made her thoughtful.

Not that she had any logical reason to be anything but
happy; but in matters of happiness, logic plays but a small
part. First, it was annoying that Malcolm had preferred to
spend the day with a stuffy old librarian than a gorgeous
Rhinedaughter. Second, it was annoying that she should be
annoyed. In fact, it was the latter irritation that was the
worse, or so she hoped. The first unpleasant thing was
merely a matter of her vanity (she told herself). The second
unpleasant thing might have serious consequences for her
career. An enamoured Rhinedaughter, like a blind chauf-
feur, is unlikely to progress far in her chosen profession.
Try as she might, however, she was unable to feel greatly
concerned about the prospect, and that wasworse still . . .

"Bother," she said.

Wellgunde, who had been circling slowly under the

Tom Holt

120

surface, jumped up onto the bank.
"All dressed up and nowhere to go.

"Get you," she said.

Flosshilde put her tongue out, but Wellgunde ignored her.
"I thought you'd have been out with your friend," she said,
shaking the water out of her hair.

"Well, I'm not," replied Flosshilde.

"Playing hard to get, are you?"

At that particular moment, Flosshilde would have liked to
be able to turn her sister into a narrowboat. "Haven't you
got anything better to do?" she said wearily.

"I'm keeping you company," replied Wellgunde. "You
look as though you could do with cheering up."

"I'm perfectly cheerful, thank you," said Flosshilde

coldly.

"It must be wonderful to be in love," cooed Wellgunde.

"I'm terribly jealous."
"I'm not in any such thing," snapped her sister. "But I

can understand you being jealous."

Wellgunde took out a mirror and examined herself
lovingly. "You're only young once, I suppose," she said.
"You go ahead and enjoy yourself. Don't you worry about

us."

Flosshilde frowned. Sisters can be very annoying at

times.

"Don't let it worry you that if you go off with this
Ring-Bearer of yours, we'll never get our Ring back ever.
Don't let it cross your mind that the Ring is all we've got,
since we haven't got dashing boyfriends who have to
disguise themselves as other people if they ever want to get

anywhere."

"Don't worry, I won't."

"We're you're sisters, after all. We don't want to stand in
your way for a second. And if you think it's worth it, you
go ahead. Well, since you're not going to be busy this
afternoon, you might put a duster round the riverbed. It was
your turn yesterday, but you were out."

"Oh, go away," said Flosshilde rudely.

Expecting Someone Taller        121

"I'm going," said Wellgunde placidly. "I only popped up
to tell you that while you've been moping about, we've
been working."

"I thought you said you were going to leave him alone."

"We haven't been persecuting your precious darling, if
that's what you mean. We've been chatting with Thought
and Memory."

"How fascinating."

"Yes, it was rather. Apparently, they've been watching
Combe Hall all day, and your friend was having ever such
a long chat with an extremely nice-looking girl."

Any doubts Flosshilde might have had about her feelings
for Malcolm were dispelled by this news. She went as white
as a sheet.

"Of course, they can't read his thoughts because he's the
Ring-Bearer, so they can't be sure, but to listen to those two
you don't have to be able to read thoughts to see what your
friend thinks of his new friend. Written all over his silly
face, they said."

"That's nice for him," Flosshilde said, very quietly.

"Well," said Wellgunde, "it's not so nice for us, is it?
What if he gives her the Ring? Where would we all be
then?"

Flosshilde said something extremely disrespectful about the
Ring and dived into the Tone, leaving Wellgunde looking very
pleased with herself. Perhaps, mused the eldest of the
Rhinedaughters, she hadn't told her sister the whole truth, but
then, she had gone off in a huff without giving her a chance.
Her conscience was clear . . .

After spending the whole afternoon lugging heavy books
about, Malcolm imagined, she would be sure to want a rest
and possibly a drink. He wished he could have helped her,
but that would have looked pointed, since one does not buy
a dog and bark oneself. Besides, if he had materialised out
of thin air and said "Can I carry that for you?" she would




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Tom Holt

probably have had a fit; another of the problems associated
with dealing with a real person.

She was certainly conscientious, and Malcolm admired
that, but she had carried on with her work for a very long
time. When finally she seemed to be about to call it a day,
Malcolm transported himself back to the stairs and won-
dered what on earth he was to do next. It seemed like hours
before the library door opened, and still he hadn't thought of
anything. He stood up quickly, and tried to look as if he was
just passing.

"Finished for the day?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks," she said, and smiled again. This smile, a
sort of "If only . . . but no" smile, wiped Malcolm's
mind clean of thoughts and words, and he stood gawping at
her as if she was the one who had suddenly appeared out of
thin air.

"Are you sure it's no trouble for me to stay here?" she
said.

"No, of course not. I told the housekeeper to phone the
George and Dragon."

"Thank you, then," she said.

"I took your suitcase up to your room," he went on, as if
this act had been comparable to saving her from drowning.
"And I've told the cook you'll be having dinner ... If
that's all right, I mean."

That was not how he had meant to suggest that she should
have dinner with him. He had wanted to suggest it casually.
He had wanted many things in his life, and got very few of
them. But the girl did not seem to mind. She said, "Are you
sure that's all right?" and Malcolm felt a tiny flicker of
impatience within his raging heart, but it passed very
quickly.

"It must be nice having a cook," she said.

Malcolm felt the need to define himself against a charge
of hedonism. "I'm afraid I'm a dreadful cook," he said,
"And she sort of came with the place."

The girl said nothing, and Malcolm forced some more

words into his mouth, grabbing the first ones that came to
hand.

"You know how it is," he burbled, "these great big
houses."

Utter drivel of course, but she seemed not to notice.
"Yes," she said, "we used to live in a huge old house. It
was dreadfully difficult to keep it clean and warm."

She seemed unwilling to expand on this point, and they
walked on in silence. Malcolm had no idea where they were
going, but that did not seem to matter very much.

"Was it as big as this? Your house, I mean." Any
more of this, Malcolm thought, and I shall bite my tongue
off.

"Yes," said the girl. "It kept me and my sisters very
busy."

"You've got sisters, then?" he went on, as if that were
the most remarkable thing that he had ever heard.

"Eight," said the girl. "It's a large family. Are you sure
it's all right me staying to dinner? I mean, you haven't got
people coming or anything?"

"No," Malcolm said, "really. Shall we go and sit in the
drawing-room?"

The girl was silent, as if thinking this over very carefully.
"Yes," she said at last.

It was at this point that it occurred to Malcolm that he
hadn't read her thoughts, to see if by any chance they
resembled his, no matter how remotely. But he found that
he didn't want to. It seemed somehow indecent, for she was
not a God or a Rhinedaughter, but a human being. Besides,
if she wasn't thinking along the same lines as he was, he
really didn't want to know.

"You speak English very well," she said, as Malcolm
eventually found the drawing-room.

"Thank you," Malcolm said, deeply touched, and only
just managed to stop himself from returning the compli-
ment. "I went to school in England," he said, truthfully.
"Can I get you a drink?"




124 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 125

"No, thank you," said the girl, looking down at her feet.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, if you're sure ..."

Malcolm was sure, but he felt it would be superfluous to
say so. "What can I get you?" he asked.

"A small sherry, please."

Malcolm poured out a small sherry—very small, as it
turned out, for he did not want her to think he was trying to
get her drunk. "Is that enough?" he asked.

"That's fine." Another smile, this time a "We can't go on
like this, you know" smile.

"So how long have you been cataloguing?"

"About two years," said the girl. That seemed to put the
seal on that particular subject.

"I suppose it's like being a librarian," Malcolm went on,
and he reckoned that digging peat was probably easier work
than making conversation under these circumstances. The
girl agreed that it was very like being a librarian.

"How long have you lived here?" she asked, and
Malcolm found that he could not remember. He had to think
hard before he replied. Afterwards, there was a long
silence, during which the girl drank a quarter of her small
sherry. The temptation to read her thoughts was very strong,
but Malcolm resisted it. It wouldn't be fair.

"So how do you set about cataloguing a library?" he
asked. The girl told him, and that took up at least three
minutes, during which Malcolm was able to collect what
remained of his thoughts. Summoning up all his powers of
imagination, he compiled a list of questions and topics
which might, with a great deal of luck, get them through
dinner.

In the event, they nearly did, although Malcolm had to
use a great deal of ingenuity. Why did he find it so easy
to talk to Flosshilde, who was only a friend, and so difficult
to keep a conversation going with the most wonderful
person in the world? There was only one topic that he
couldn't mention; on the other hand, it was the one topic he

did want to discuss with her. Instead, they mostly seemed to
talk about libraries, a subject that Malcolm had never given
much consideration to in the past. At about half-past nine,
even this theme collapsed into silence, and Malcolm re-
signed himself to yet another disappointment. The girl was
obviously nervous and ill at ease; scarcely to be wondered
at. She had come here to do a straightforward job of work,
the job she had trained to do and at which she was no doubt
highly competent, and instead of being allowed to go to a
comfortable hotel where she could take her shoes off and
read a good book she had been compelled to listen to his
inane ramblings. She must think he was mad. Certainly, she
wouldn't be there in the morning. At first light, she would
unlock her door and make a run for it, or climb out of the
window down a rope of sheets. It was all unbearably sad,
and as a human being he was a complete and utter failure.
He had made the mistake of treating a normal, grown-up
woman from the twentieth century as if she was something
out of a romantic story, and he deserved all the heartbreak
he was undoubtedly going to get.

"I expect you're very tired," he said abruptly, "after the
journey and a hard day's work. I'll show you to your
room."

They tracked up the stairs in silence. It was still light
outside, but she could read a book or something until it was
time to go to sleep. At least he wasn't sending her to bed
without any supper.

"Good night, then," she said, and she smiled at him for
the last time that day. It was a smile you could take a
photograph by, and it said, "I like you very much and it's a
pity you think I'm so boring, but there we go." The door
closed in front of the embers of it, and Malcolm stood in the
hall opening and shutting his eyes. To hell with being fair.
He located her thoughts and read them. Then he read them
again, just to be sure. Then he read them again, because he
liked them so much.




126 Tom Holt

"Well I'm damned," he said slowly to himself. "Well I
never."

Then he went to bed.

The two ravens floated down and perched on the roof of the
Mercedes. Wotan put his head out of the window and said
"Well?"

"They've gone to bed," said Thought.

"Separately," said Memory.

"But not to worry," said Thought. "She's doing all
right."

Wotan frowned. "But he can read her thoughts," said
Wotan. "He'll just look into her mind and then it'll be all
over. He'll chuck her out so fast she'll bounce all the way
down the drive."

Memory chuckled. "I wouldn't worry on that score," he
croaked. "He's dead meat. Head over heels."

"And even if he does," said his partner, "he'll only make
things worse for himself. I had a quick look myself."

"Oh." Wotan was baffled. "You can't mean she fancies
him?"

"Something rotten," said Thought. "You wouldn't read
about it."

"Oh, that's marvellous," Wotan said, disgusted. "Now
I'll never get the perishing thing back."

"Relax," said Memory. "You know her. Duty must come
first, even if it means betraying the man she truly loves."

"Especially if it means betraying the man she loves,"
said Thought. "She's a real chip off the old block, that
girl."

Wotan was forced to agree. Of all his eight surviving
daughters, the Valkyrie Ortlinde most resembled her father
in her capacity for self-torture. She would revel in it. Most
of all, she would enjoy blaming him afterwards.

"We've cracked it," said Wotan.

10.

ALBERICH LOATHED TRAVELLING by air. This was partly the
natural prejudice of one who had lived most of his life
underground, partly because the food that they serve you on
little plastic trays with hollow mouldings to hold the
ketchup gave him violent indigestion. But he was a busi-
nessman, and businessmen have to travel on aircraft. Since
there seemed to be no prospect of progress in his quest for
the Ring, he had thought it would be as well if he went back
to Germany for a week to see what sort of a mess his
partners were making of his mining consultancy. He had no
interest in the work itself, but it provided his bread and
butter; if it did not exactly keep the wolf from the door, it
had enabled him to have a wolf-flap fitted so that the beast
could come in and out without disturbing people.

As luck would have it, he had been given a seat by the
window, and he looked aimlessly out over the world that by
rights should have been his. If he had had any say in its
running, there would have been fewer cities and more
forests. He let his attention wander for a moment.

Something was tapping on the window. He looked round,
and saw a slightly bedraggled raven pecking at the thick




r

128 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 129

Perspex with its beak. A second raven was beating the air
furiously with its wings, trying to hover and fly at the speed
of sound at the same time.

"What do you want?" he mouthed through the window.

The raven pecked away vigorously, and Alberich felt
slightly nervous. If the stupid bird contrived to break the
window, he would be sucked out into space. "Go away," he
mouthed, and made shooing gestures with his fingers.

"Forget it," Memory shrieked through the rushing wind.
"He can't hear a word you're saying."

But Thought was nothing if not persistent. With his beak,
he pecked a series of little marks onto the Perspex. When he
was finished, Alberich was able to make out the words,
"Wotan says stay out of England," written back to front on
the pane. He nodded to the ravens to acknowledge the
message, and they wheeled away exhausted. Alberich
pondered this warning for a moment, then looked at his
watch. They were due to land in Frankfurt in half an hour.

At Frankfurt Airport, he telephoned his partner.

"Dietrich?" he said. "It's Hans. Look, I'm at Frankfurt
now, but I've got to go back to England right away. There's
a flight in three hours. Can you bring me some clean shirts
and the papers on the Nigerian project?"

"What have you got to go back for?"

"What's that? Oh, would you believe I left my briefcase
behind? With all the things I need for the Trade Fair?"

"Can't they send it on?"

"It'd take too long. I'm going back."

"Fancy forgetting your briefcase."

"I'm only human," Alberich lied. "Don't forget the
shirts."

To his surprise, Malcolm had managed to get some sleep,
but he was awake by six. He went through the events of the
previous day in his mind, trying to reassure himself that it
had all happened. Something inside him told him that this
strange happiness was bound to end in tears, but he put that

down to his natural pessimism. Besides, there was one sure
way of knowing whether things were all right or not.

He tuned his mind in to the early morning news and was
reassured. No disasters had afflicted the world during the
last day, although there had been one strange occurrence. A
farmer from the small village of Combe in Somerset had
been out shooting rabbits at a quarter to ten last night, and
had seen his ten-acre field of wheat change before his eyes
into ten acres of roses, peonies, narcissi, daffodils and
tulips. The farmer, a Mr. William Ayres of Combe Hill
Farm, attributed this extraordinary mutation to a leak from
the nearby Hinckley Point nuclear power station, although
no such leak had as yet been confirmed by the CEGB . . .

Malcolm blinked, and for a moment was concerned. But
Mr. Ayres was bound to be insured, and even if he wasn't,
he could pick the flowers and use them to decorate the
church for his daughter's wedding. Malcolm laughed.
He bore the Ayres family, both its present and prospective
members, no ill will at all, and that was surely a good thing
for the world.

It occurred to him that he had forgotten to tell the girl
when breakfast would be ready. He jumped out of bed,
thought up a light blue shirt and a pair of cream corduroy
trousers, and transported himself across the house. As he
passed the library, he heard cataloguing noises. Although it
was only half-past six, the girl was working already. He
listened carefully for her thoughts, and a tender smile
hitched up the ends of his mouth. She was throwing herself
into her work to take her mind off the sad feelings of
longing in her heart. A soppy girl, Malcolm could not help
thinking, but none the worse for that. He opened the library
door and went in.

"You're up early," he said.

"I hope I didn't disturb you," said the girl anxiously.

"Not at all," Malcolm replied. "I'm usually awake by
this time. Would you like some breakfast?"

After the inevitable, "If you're sure" ritual, she agreed to




130 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 131

have a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, and Malcolm
hurried down to the kitchen. The coffee machine seemed to
take for ever, as did the toaster, but eventually he got what
he wanted out of both of them and carried the tray up to the
library. In his mind he tried to rehearse some way of
bringing the conversation round to the issues he wanted to
raise, but he had to give up the attempt. He would think of
something when the time came, and he did not want to rush
something as important as this, even if the result was a
foregone conclusion.

Let other pens dwell on joy and happiness. It is enough to
record that Malcolm hijacked a discussion on card-indexes
and used it to convey his message. Although he could read
the girl's thoughts and so avoid all misunderstandings, he
still found it heavy going, and heard himself using words
and phrases that would have seemed excessively sentimen-
tal in True Love magazine; but everyone has a right to make
fools of themselves once in their lives. The main thing was
that everything was going to be all right now, and he had
managed to persuade her of this. She had seemed rather
diffident at first, but he had got so used to her saying, "Are
you sure you don't mind?" and, "If you're sure it's no
trouble," that he took no notice of her words and simply
watched her thoughts going round, like the figures on a
petrol pump. When the appropriate reading came up, he
took her hand and squeezed it gently. Through the snow-
storm of emotions that raged around him, he heard a
tinkling sound, like a coin dropping on the floor. Suddenly
this seemed very important, and he looked down. On the
polished wooden floor he saw the Ring, which had some-
how slipped off his finger. He felt a sudden urge to give it
to her; for what better gift could there be than the whole
world?

She was still holding his hand, tightly and trustingly, so
that it would be incredibly churlish of him to do anything
except sit absolutely still and be loved. There was also a
particularly fine smile going on, and he let the Ring lie there

until it was over. Just to be sure, however, he covered the
Ring with his foot.

Everything that needed saying had now been said, and it
was obviously the time for action: a kiss, or something of
that sort. But Malcolm could not bring himself to initiate
such a move, although he could not imagine why. "One
thing at a time," whispered a voice in his brain. "Let's not
get carried away." So he contented himself with putting his
arm tenderly round her shoulders, and suggesting that they
go for a walk in the garden. For once, the girl did not ask
him if he was sure that would be no bother, and they stood
up, still entwined.

"Just a moment," Malcolm said. "Don't go away."
He stooped down swiftly and picked up the Ring. After a
moment's hesitation, he pushed it back on his finger. It felt
loose and uncomfortable.

"So how did you get her to agree to it?" Loge said. "It must
have been difficult."

"Not really," said Wotan. "There was one of those grim
silences we know so well in our family, then she said "If
you insist," and there we were. I was amazed, as you can
imagine. I'd thought up all sorts of arguments—you always
said you wanted to work in the family business, it'll get you
out of the house, a change is as good as a rest, that sort of
thing—and I didn't have to use any of them. Women are
strange creatures."

"Are you sure she's up to it?"

"Positive. You've only seen her in the domestic mode,
nagging and persecuting."

"Which one was it again?"

"Ortlinde. She's the best-looking, and the droopiest.
Mind you, with eight of them, I tend to get them mixed up.
Maybe I should get them wearing numbers on their backs
like footballers. I think Ortlinde's the second from young-
est. Fancy another?"

"No, thanks, I'm driving."




132 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 133

"So am I, but who cares? This is something to cele-
brate." Wotan pulled open the drinks cabinet behind the
front seat and took out a bottle of schnapps. "Here's to two
birds with one stone. I get control of the Ring and shot of a
dopey daughter at the same time."

"I hate to say this ..." said Loge.

"I know, I know, it didn't work before and all the rest of
it. But that was different."

"Not so different." Loge knew he was pushing his luck,
but it had to be said. Besides, if it all went wrong, Wotan
would be so furious that he would be lucky to get away with
being turned into a trout hatchery. "After all, Siegfried was
roughly the same sort of proposition. He'd never had a girl
before, either."

"Siegfried wasn't a drip," said Wotan crisply. "This one
is. So's she. She's so wet you could grow cress on her."

"She didn't strike me as wet the other morning."

"Ah," said Wotan, "that's different. That's her compli-
cated little psyche belting away, that is. You see, my
daughters are all the same. The way they see it, I've ruined
their lives for them by making them stay at home in that
bloody great house, stunting their emotional growth and all
the rest of it, when they should have gone out into the world
and had a good time. And you can see their point, I
suppose. That house is a liability." Wotan scowled at the
very thought of it, and the first drops of rain started to fall.
"It's difficult to explain my family to a normal, sane person,
but I think it goes something like this. They've been cooped
up in Valhalla ever since their mother left, with nothing to
do but be resentful and tell themselves how inadequate and
unlovable they are, and how nobody could ever be inter-
ested in them because of their stunted personalities (stunted
by me, it goes without saying). And they take all this out on
their poor old dad by making his life almost as miserable as
their own, in the tried and tested way you saw the other
day."

Loge had been nodding his head and making sympathetic

noises until he felt quite dizzy. He didn't want to hear any
of this, but Wotan seemed determined to tell him. A
combination of schnapps and relief was making him un-
wind, although whether he would be any safer to be
employed by unwound than tensed up remained to be seen.
Rattlesnakes, Loge remembered, usually unwind just before
they bite.

"So at home they really let fly. Not that we have long,
earnest conversations about the state of our tortured person-
alities, thank God. No, they've decided that they can't talk
to me, I'm delighted to say, and so what they do is they
sublimate it all—I think that's the right word, isn't it?—into
endless domestic trivia, like who had the Sellotape last and
how can you expect me to find things if you will insist on
moving them. But put them down in the outside world, and
they turn into fluffy little bunnies, wouldn't say boo to a
goose, you know the sort of thing. I don't know which is
worse, actually. At least they keep the place clean. Any-
way, no self confidence is the root of it all, so if our
Ring-Bearer can convince Ortlinde that he's serious about
her and that somebody really loves her in spite of every-
thing, he'll need a crowbar to get her off him. Serve the
idiot right, that would."

"But if she hates you so much, what makes you think
she'll get the Ring for you? Won't she just go off with her
Redeemer and leave you to get on with it?"

"That was worrying me, I must admit, but when I
thought it over, I saw just how clever I'd been," said Wotan
smugly. "The fact that she really does love him in her own,
unique, screwed-up way means she can't fail. You see, the
last thing my daughter wants is to be happy. She'd hate it.
No, what she wants is to be finally, definitively unhappy,
and for it all to be my fault. It'd finally confirm all her
dearest illusions about how her life has been ruined. People
like that would far rather be right than happy. No, she'll get
that Ring if it kills her."

Loge wiped his forehead with his hand, and wished that




Tom Holt

134 Expecting Someone Taller 135

he could go away and do something less stressful for a
change, such as drive the chariot of the Sun or make the
crops grow. But that was out of the question.

"The only thing that could go wrong is if he finds out
who she really is," Wotan said, pouring himself another
drink. "But my guess is that he won't want to find out, so
unless somebody tells him, he won't work it out for himself.
I think he's just as bad as she is. In fact, they're perfectly
suited to each other. Who knows, they may even stick
together after she's got the Ring off him, and I'll never
have to see her ever again. Wouldn't that be perfect? Then
there would only be seven of them, one for every day of the
week. But it's unlikely," he added sadly. "Like I said, she'd
go mad if she were happy."

The rain had stopped, and Loge deduced that Wotan was
in a good mood for once. That removed the immediate
threat of transformation, but he still felt uneasy. Over the
last few thousand years, Loge had found that Wotan's good
moods always tended to come before periods of universal
misery.

"So what do we do now?" he asked.

"Leave her to it," said Wotan, leaning back in his seat. "I
always knew she'd come in useful one day."

Love, the songwriter says, is the sweetest thing, and too
many sweet things can make you feel slightly sick. But
Malcolm had got through the endearments and sweet
nothings stage quite safely, and had finally got the girl to
tell him all about herself. She had not wanted to, and as he
listened to the story that eventually came pouring out, he
could quite understand why. Not that he was bored; but an
overdose of tragedy can cause roughly the same symptoms
as boredom, such as a strong desire to change the subject.
That, however, would not be tactful. He only hoped that he
would not be called upon to give an equally full account of
himself, which might call for more inventiveness than he
felt himself capable of.

"You see," said the girl, "none of us could ever really
talk to my father, and my father could never really talk to
us, so that in the end I found I couldn't even talk to my
sisters. We all just bottled it all up inside ourselves, really,
until we wanted to hit out at each other. But we couldn't,
because of not being able to talk. Do you see what I'm
getting at?"

"Sort of."

"And it was obvious that my father was absolutely
heartbroken when my mother left him. He tried to put a
brave face on it, of course, but we all knew that she had let
him down as well as letting us down, and that somehow we
had let him down as well. And, of course, he feels that he's
let us down, and so now we can't communicate at all."

"That's dreadful," Malcolm said, wishing he hadn't
raised the subject in the first place. It was obviously very
painful for her to talk about her problems like this, and he
hoped that she would stop and not upset herself further. But
no such luck.

"And we could all see how much of a disappointment we
were to him. He wanted us to have careers and achieve
something in the world, but we knew we couldn't leave him
like that after my mother had left him, because he would
feel left out and that would be awful."

"But you've got a career," said Malcolm, brightly.

The girl looked startled, as if she had made a mistake.
"Well, sort of," she said. "But it's not a proper one."

"But you don't live in the family house any more, do
you?"

"Yes. No. Well, sort of. I share this flat, but I go home
a lot too."

The girl stopped talking and stared at her shoes. They
were sensible shoes and had seen many seasons, like her
sensible tweed skirt and her honest cream pullover. Her
mother had probably bought them for her, Malcolm
thought, just before she left.




136 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 137

"Well," he said, trying to sound cheerful, "you've got
me to look after you now."

They sat down on a bench and looked out over the park.
It was a beautiful morning, although there had been one
brief shower, and as soon as all the tragic stories had been
got over with, it would all be perfect.

"What do you like doing?" Malcolm asked.
"Oh, I don't know really." She thought about it for a long
time. "Walking, I suppose. And 1 quite like my work. Well,
no, I don't really, but it's better than nothing."

"Let's go for a stroll by the river," Malcolm said firmly.
They walked in silence for a while, and stopped to admire
the view of Farmer Ayres' prodigious crop of assorted
flowers. In the distance, a BBC camera crew were unrolling
miles of flex, so it would probably all be on the 9 O'clock
News that evening. Malcolm wanted to tell her that he had
laid the flowers on for her benefit, to show how much he
loved her, but he could not think of a way of explaining it
all.

"Who's that girl on the river bank waving at you?"
Malcolm followed her finger and recognised Flosshilde.
His heart fell. "That's just a friend of mine," he said.
"No-one important."

"I think she wants to say something to you . . . Oh."
Malcolm could have sworn that she had recognised
Flosshilde, but that was obviously impossible, so he did not
even bother to check her thoughts. He wanted to walk away
and pretend he hadn't seen the Rhinedaughter, for he could
not be bothered with her just now. After all, she was a very
pretty girl, and Linda might jump to quite the wrong
conclusions. Unfortunately, it was too late now. He put his
arm around Linda's shoulders rather as a Roman legionary
' might have raised his shield before facing an enemy, as
Flosshilde ran across to join them.

"Hello," said the Rhinedaughter, and there was some-
thing very strange about her manner. "Hope you don't
mind, but I've been for a swim in your river."

Nervously, Malcolm introduced her to the girl. Flosshilde
looked at Malcolm for a moment, then turned and smiled
radiantly at the girl, so that for an instant Malcolm was
convinced that something terrible was going to happen. But
nothing did, and Malcolm reassured himself that he must
have been imagining it. For her part, Flosshilde looked very
slightly disappointed, although Malcolm could not think
why.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" Flosshilde asked.
"Your face is very familiar."

"I don't think so," said the girl, nervously. She was
obviously very shy.

"Must be my imagination, then. Well, I must be going.
Oh, and I won't be able to make lunch tomorrow. Sorry."

"Some other time, then," said Malcolm. "See you."

"I expect so," said the Rhinedaughter. "Have fun."

She ran lightly down to the river and dived in. For some
reason, the girl did not seem surprised by this, and Malcolm
was relieved that he would not have to try and find some
explanation. He dismissed Flosshilde from his mind.

The Rhinedaughter circled for a few minutes under the
surface, then slowly paddled upstream to a deep pool where
she knew she could not be seen. It had been pointless trying
to turn the woman into a frog; the daughters of Wotan are
not so lightly transformed. At least she had given the
Valkyrie notice that she had a fight on her hands.

It was all very well saying that, but Flosshilde had no
stomach for a fight. It was inconceivable that Malcolm
didn't know who she was or what she was likely to be after,
and if he was so much in love that he was prepared to take
the risk . . . After all, he had apparently been prepared to
take a similar risk with her before the Valkyrie showed up,
and obviously he had not been in love then, just lonely. And
any fool could see that Ortlinde was completely smitten, so
it seemed likely that she too had given up hope of getting
the Ring. After all, Malcolm was in a unique position to




138 Tom Holt

know what was going on inside her head. So he could take
care of himself.

Vanity, said Flosshilde to herself, and wounded pride,
that was all it was. That anyone could prefer a stuffy old
Valkyrie to her was naturally hard for her to believe, but
Malcolm obviously did, and that was all there was to it.

From the cover of a small boulder, she peered out. The
Young Couple were kissing each other rather awkwardly
under the shade of an oak tree. Flosshilde shrugged her
shoulders and slid back into the water, as graceful as-an
otter. Beside her, she was aware of her sisters, swimming
lazily in the gentle current.

"Told you so," said Wellgunde.

"I couldn't care less," said Flosshilde. "And if you say
one word about the Ring, I'll break your silly neck."

"Wouldn't dream of it, would we?" replied Wellgunde
smugly.

"I'm bored with England," said Flosshilde suddenly, as
they reached the head of the Tone. "Why don't we go back
home?"

"What a good idea," said Woglinde. "Let's do that."

11.

AT VALHALLA THE Wednesday afternoon General Meeting
of the Aesir, or Company of Gods, is presided over by
Wotan himself. At these meetings, the lesser divinities—
thunder-spirits, river-spirits, cloud-shepherds, Valkyries,
Noms, nixies, powers, thrones, ettins and fetches—have an
opportunity to bring to Wotan's attention any matters which
they feel require action on his part, and receive their
instructions for the next seven days. There is also a general
discussion on future strategy and a long-range weather
forecast.

Loge, as secretary to the Company, had the unenviable
task of keeping the minutes of each meeting and presenting
the agenda. At the meeting that immediately followed the
Ring-Bearer's entrapment by the Valkyrie Ortlinde, he
found himself having to reorganise the entire programme to
give enough time for a thorough discussion, only to find
that the discussion that followed was over much sooner than
he had anticipated. There were votes of thanks from the
Company to Ortlinde and Wotan, which were duly entered
in the records, and Waltraute inquired how long Ortlinde
was likely to be away and who was supposed to do her share




140

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller 141

of the housework while she was absent. Loge was then
compelled to proceed to Any Other Business with well over
an hour of the scheduled time still to go.

"I would like to bring to the Chairman's attention the fact
that the light-bulb on the third-floor landing of the main
staircase of Valhalla has gone again, and I would request
him to replace it immediately," said Schwertleite, "before
someone trips over and breaks their neck."

"That's not nearly as dangerous as the carpet on the back
stairs," said Grimgerde. "I've asked you hundreds of times
to nail it down properly, but nobody ever listens to a word
I say."

Loge was writing furiously. All the minutes of meetings
had to be made in runes, which cannot be written quickly.

"May I suggest," said Wotan, grimly attempting to make
himself heard, "that this is neither the time nor the
place ..."

"Next time you stub your toe in the dark because you
couldn't be bothered to replace a light-bulb ..."

Wotan put his hands in front of his one eye and groaned
audibly. "We were discussing the Ring," he muttered.

"And please don't put your elbows on the table,"
interrupted the Valkyrie Helmwige. "I spent the whole
morning trying to get it looking respectable after you spilt
coffee all over it."

Wotan made a vague snarling noise at the back of his
throat; "This is a meeting of the Aesir," he growled, "and
I would ask you to behave in an appropriate manner."

"While we're on the subject," retorted his daughter, the
Driver of the Spoil, "you might try dressing in an appro-
priate manner. Why you insist on wearing the same shirt
three days in a row . . . How am I expected to get the
collars clean?"

"Any other business," Wotan said, but his growl was
more like a whimper.

"You've got whole drawers full of shirts you never
wear," said Grimgerde, with a world of reproach in the

deep pools of her blue eyes. She hadn't had a new shirt, or
a new anything, for four hundred and twenty years, but she
didn't complain. She never went anywhere anyway.

"I shall wear what the hell I like when I like," said
Wotan, and what had intended to be authority when the
words passed his vocal cords was definitely petulance when
the sounds emerged through the gate of his teeth. "Now,
can we please ..."

A general baying of Valkyries drowned out the voice of
the Sky-God, and Loge stopped trying to keep the minutes
of the meeting. Over the centuries, he had evolved his own
shorthand for the inevitable collapse into chaos that rounded
off each Wednesday afternoon in the Great Hall. He
sketched in a succession of squiggles under the last intelli-
gible remark he had been able to record and began drawing
sea-serpents.

The discussion had moved on to the topic of leaving the
tops off jars when a rock-troll, who had been thoroughly
enjoying the conflicts of his betters, noticed something out
of the comer of one of his eyes. He nudged the middle-aged
Nom with mouse-blond hair who was knitting beside him,
and they turned and stared at the doorway of the Hall. One
by one, the minor deities, then the Vanir, then the High
Gods themselves abandoned the debate and gazed in aston-
ishment at the three rather pretty girls who had wandered in
through the Gates of Gylfi.

It was at least a thousand years since the Rhinedaughters,
who were responsible for the noblest river in Europe, had
attended a Wednesday afternoon meeting. No-one except
Wotan and Loge could remember exactly why they had
stopped coming. Some said that they had been expelled for
flirting with the cloud-shepherds at the time of the Great
Flood. Others put it down to the girls' natural frivolity and
apathy. Wotan and Loge knew that the river-spirits had
walked out in tears after the stormy debate that followed the
theft of the Ring from Alberich and had not been back




142 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 143

since, although both Gods correctly attributed this contin-
ued absence to forgetfulness rather than actual principle.

"Well I never!" whispered the Nom to the rock-troll.
"Look who it is!"

The rock-troll nodded his head. Since he had been
created out of solid granite at the dawn of time, this
manoeuvre required considerable effort on his part, but he
felt it was worth it. "It's the Girls," he hissed through his
adamantine teeth.

It was Wotan himself who broke the silence. "What the
hell do you want?" he snapped.

"We just thought we'd pop our heads round and say
hello," said Wellgunde sweetly. "It's been simply ages."

The silence gave way to a hubbub of voices, as each
immortal greeted the long-lost members of their Company.
Most vociferous were a group of cloud-shepherds who,
several centuries before, had arranged to meet the Rhine-
daughters for a picnic at the place which has since become
Manchester, and who had been waiting there ever since.
Only the Valkyries and their father seemed less than
delighted to see the Rhinedaughters back again. Wotan
suspected that he knew the reason for their visit, while his
daughters felt sure that the river-spirits hadn't wiped their
feet before coming into the Hall.

"So," said Wotan, when the noise had subsided, "what
have you been doing all these years?"

"Sunbathing, mostly," said Woglinde truthfully. "Doesn't
time fly when you're having fun?"

"It's all right for some," whispered the Nom to the troll.
But the troll seemed uneasy. "Something's going to
happen," he said, and he sniffed loudly, as if trying to
identify some unfamiliar smell.

"Is that all?" laughed Wotan, nervously jovial. "Or have
you been doing any work?"

"Depends on what you call work," replied Wellgunde.
"The river sort of runs itself really. But we have been
looking at other rivers to see if we can pick up any hints."

"Sort of an exchange visit," said Woglinde, helpfully.

"For example," continued Wellgunde, "we visited a river
called the Tone in England. Not very helpful, I'm afraid."

"But guess who we bumped into while we were over
there," cooed Woglinde. "Go on, guess."

"I hate guessing," said Wotan irritably, and he picked up
a document and began to study it diligently. Since he was to
all intents and purposes omnipotent, it was not surprising
that he could read a sheet of paper that was palpably the
wrong way up.

"Ortlinde, that's who," said Flosshilde, who had not
spoken before. Wotan made no reply, being obviously
engrossed in his document. Suddenly, Flosshilde smiled at
the papers in his hand, which turned into a small dragon.
Wotan dropped it with a start, and it crawled away under the
table. "Now what on earth was she doing there?"

The Nom had covered her eyes. She was fond of the
Rhinedaughters, with whom she had spent many hours
exchanging gossip, and Flosshilde's conjuring trick, per-
formed in front of so many witnesses, was as clear a case of
treasonable assault on the King of the Gods as one could
hope to find. The penalty for this offence was instant
metamorphosis, usually into a bush of some kind, and it
was common knowledge that Wotan had been desperate for
some pretext for getting rid of the Rhinedaughters ever
since they had first emerged from the waters of their native
river. Slowly, the Nom lowered her hands. The Girls were
still there, still in human shape.

"I'll tell you, shall I?" continued Flosshilde. "She was
there trying to get the Ring-Bearer to give her our Ring,
which you should have given back to us a thousand years
ago. So will you please tell her to stop it and go away?"

The Nom covered her eyes again, but she need not have
bothered. Wotan simply looked away and threw a piece of
cheese to the small dragon, which had curled up on his lap.

"If you don't," said Flosshilde, clear without being
shrill, "we'll tell him who she is. Are you listening?"




144 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 145

There was a terrible silence. Never before had anyone,
mortal or immortal, dared to threaten the Lord of Tempests
in the Hall of his stronghold. Even the rock-troll held his
breath, and the beating of his basalt heart was the only
audible sound in the whole assembly. Wotan sat motionless
for a moment, then rose sharply to his feet, sending the
small dragon scampering for the safety of a coffee-table. He
looked the Rhinedaughter in the eye, and the Nom held her
breath. Then Wotan shook his head in disbelief, and
marched out of the Hall.

"Not across the floor I've spent all morning polishing,"
wailed the Valkyrie Gerhilde, but her father took no notice.
The meeting broke up in disorder, and the troll and the Norn
hurried off to the Mortals' Bar for a much-needed drink.

"I dunno," said the rock-troll. "I've never seen the like."

"He just sat there," said the Nom.

"Who did?"

"Wotan. When Flossie turned that paper into a dragon.
It's Kew Gardens for her, I thought, but he just sat there.
Didn't do a thing."

"I didn't mean that," said the rock-troll. "I meant the
other thing."

The Nom wasn't listening. "What I want to know is,"
she continued, "who is bluffing who? Is it the Girls bluffing
Wotan, or Wotan bluffing the Girls, or are they all at it?"

The troll frowned and scratched his head, producing a
sound like two millstones. "What are you on about?" he
asked.

"You are a slowcoach, aren't you? If the Girls wanted to
stop Ortlinde from nobbling the Ring-Bearer, why didn't
they just tell him who she was, instead of coming here and
making threats to Wotan?"

The troll thought about this for a moment, then nodded
his head. He was not so grey as he was granite-looking, and
he could see that there was indeed an inconsistency.

"What I think," said the Nom excitedly, "is that the
Ring-Bearer already knows who Ortlinde is, and he couldn't

care less. They've tried telling him, and he doesn't want to
know."

"How do you make that out?" asked the troll.

"Simple," said the Nom, smugly. "They've tried telling
him, like I said, and he isn't interested. But they know that
Wotan doesn't know that the Ring-Bearer knows who
Ortlinde really is. So they threaten to tell the Ring-Bearer,
hoping that the threat will make Wotan tell Ortlinde to
chuck it and come home."

The troll stared at the bottom of his glass, trying to
unravel the Norn's sentence. The Nom took his silence to
mean that the troll was not yet convinced, and elaborated
her point.

"You see, if Wotan doesn't know that the Ring-Bearer
knows, then he'll be afraid in case the Girls tell the
Ring-Bearer, and the Girls will try and get him to make
some sort of a deal. The Girls can't make the Ring-Bearer
chuck Ortlinde, because the Ring-Bearer presumably knows
already—I mean he must know, mustn't he? But they can
get Wotan to tell Ortlinde to chuck it if they can make him
think that the Ring-Bearer doesn't know. Do you see what
I mean?"

"Did you think all that up for yourself?" said the troll,
full of admiration. The Nom blushed.

"That's very clever, that is," said the troll. "But what
about the other thing?"

"What other thing?"

"You know." The troll made a vague gesture with his
huge paw. "The other thing. I smelt it when the Girls
walked in."

It was the Norn's turn to look puzzled. The troll made a
great effort and thought hard.

"Why was it," he said at last, "that old Wotan didn't turn
the Girls into something when they gave him all that lip?
You answer me that."

"He tried to," said the Norn. "Just before he stomped
off."




146

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller 147

"Exactly," said the troll. "He tried to, but he couldn't.
There was something stopping him."

"What?" cried the Nom, enthralled.

"I dunno, do I? But they brought it in with them. I smelt
it. There was something looking after them, or at least it
was looking after Miss Flosshilde. Didn't you smell it too?"

"I'm no good at smells," confessed the Nom, who lived
on a bleak, wet fell and had a permanent cold as a result.
"Was it some sort of Power, do you think?"

The troll had done enough thinking for one day. His mind
was made of sandstone and, besides, he had other things on
it. He looked at the Nom for a moment and for the first time
in his life attempted a smile.

"You're very clever, you are," he said. "Do you come
here often?"

The Nom blushed prettily. She noticed that the troll had
very nice eyes, and if one of them happened to be in the
middle of his forehead, who cared? The conversation
veered away from the Ring-Bearer and the strange-smelling
Power, which was ironic in a way; for the change of subject
and the emotions that had prompted it were largely due to
their influence.

The Norn had been right up to a point. Malcolm had
discovered who the girl he loved really was, but not from
the Rhinedaughters, or even Alberich, who had rushed back
from Germany to tell him. He had heard and finally
believed the news only when a sparrow had perched on his
shoulder in Bond Street and chirped the information into his
ear. By that time, of course, Malcolm was engaged to the
girl, which made things all the more difficult . . .

It had only taken thirty-six hours for Malcolm and the girl
who had come to catalogue his library to become engaged to
be married. Malcolm was not quite sure why he had felt
such an urgent need to get official recognition for this
strange and unexpected outbreak of love in Middle Somer-
set. But it seemed the right thing to do, like getting a

contract or a receipt. To his utter astonishment, his proposal
had been accepted. The girl had simply looked at her shoes
for a moment, smiled at him sadly, and said, "If you're
sure ..." Malcolm had said that he was sure, and the girl
had said something along the lines of Yes.

One is meant to do something wildly demonstrative on
such occasions, but Malcolm felt too drained to waste
energy in running about or shouting. In fact, he realised, he
felt rather depressed, although he could not imagine why.
For her part, the girl was even more taciturn than usual. The
pretty scene had taken place beside the river in the grounds
of the Hall, and they had sat in total silence for a while
before getting to their feet and walking back to the house.
At the door, the girl turned and looked at him for a moment,
then muttered something about getting on with the cata-
logue.

"Catalogue?" Was she thinking about wedding presents
already? "What catalogue?"

"Of the library."

"You don't want to bother with that, surely? I
mean ..."

"Oh, but I must." The girl looked at him again, not as
one would expect a girl to look at her future husband. Nor
was it an "Oh God what have I gone and done" look; just
a look, that was all. Then she went up to the library.

Malcolm sat down on the stairs and put his hands over his
ears. He felt confused, and no thoughts would come into his
mind. With a tremendous effort, he called up the aspects of
the situation that required his immediate attention, and tried
to review them in the detail that they seemed to warrant.

Unlikely as it seemed, he had just succeeded in getting
himself organised for perhaps the first time in his life. He
had fallen in love, and for a change the girl at the other end
felt the same way. Instead of letting this chance slip through
his fingers, he had got everything sorted out, and that was
all there was to it. There was no earthly reason why he
shouldn't get married; he had a house and money, which




Tom Holt

148

was what a married man was supposed to need, along with
a wife. If there had been anything wrong with the idea, then
the girl wouldn't have said Yes. She was obviously happy
with the arrangement, and it went without saying that it was
what he wanted most of all in the whole wide world. Was it?
Yes, he concluded, it probably was. Mind you, it did seem
a terribly grown-up thing to be doing, but then again, it
would be, wouldn't it? So far as he could see, he was
Happy. He lacked nothing, and had all sorts of nice things

to look forward to.

Malcolm leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
It occurred to him that he had only known this girl for about
a day and a half, and that he was being a bit hasty. He
dismissed this thought, which was simply cowardice. The
trouble was, he reckoned, he was probably afraid of being
happy, of having what he really wanted. For some reason or
other, which he could not be bothered to work out.

He got to his feet and walked slowly to the library. The
girl was sitting at a table with a pile of books on it, writing
something in what looked like a ledger. She did not hear
him come in, and he stood looking at her for a moment.
Life, he realised, was a fragile thing, and time and
opportunity should not be wasted.

"Blow that," he said, and the girl started. "Let's go and

buy a ring."

His words had broken a deep silence, and silence
followed them, so that Malcolm had the feeling that he was
talking to himself. This would never do.

"Come on," he pleaded. "You don't have to do that now.
Everything's going to be all right now."

Oddly enough, the girl seemed to understand what he
meant by that, which was more than he did himself. She
smiled (why did she always smile and never laugh?) and
said Yes, she would like that. So they went downstairs and
Malcolm walked out to the garage to get the car.

Alberich was sitting on the bonnet, eating a ham roll.

"This is my lunch, you realise," said the Nibelung.

Expecting Someone Taller        149

"About the worst thing I could possibly have, barring
lobster."

"What are you doing here?" Malcolm asked.

"I came straight back from Germany," continued Alber-
ich. "I saw the two of you together just now, and I knew in
a minute what had happened."

"Thank you."

"You know who she is, don't you?"

Malcolm stared at him. "Of course I do," he said. "Do
you?"

"Well; of course."

Malcolm frowned. How in God's name did Alberich
know who she was? Did he have a library too? Malcolm
suddenly felt that he didn't want to know.

"I know all about her," he said. "And we've just got
engaged. We're going to London to buy a ring."

"Buy a ring?" said Alberich, genuinely surprised. "I'd
have thought that was unnecessary."

Malcolm did not understand this remark, so he assumed
it must be a joke. Perhaps in the back of his mind he had an
idea that Alberich was trying to tell him something very
important, but if that was the case he managed to ignore it.
He squeezed a polite laugh out of his lungs, and unlocked
the car.

"Hang on, though," said Alberich.

"Sorry, I haven't got time," said Malcolm. "I think we
should get it in Bond Street. That's where all the jewellers'
shops are, aren't they?"

"Why not Amsterdam? Or Johannesburg?" asked Alber-
ich quietly.

"She wouldn't understand about the Tamhelm," Mal-
colm said. "It might frighten her."

"Most unlikely. Are you sure you know . . . ?"

Malcolm started the engine and pressed the accelerator
hard. Perhaps Alberich was saying something tremendously
important; if he was, he couldn't hear a word of it. The
Prince of the Nibelungs hopped off the bonnet and banged




150              Tom Holt

on the window. Malcolm wound it down and shouted, "I'll
see you when we get back. The housekeeper will make you
a cup of tea, I expect." Then he let in the clutch and drove
furiously out of the garage.

Alberich stood for a moment and scratched his head.
Then it occurred to him that he had been wasting his time.
He picked up a spanner which was lying on the floor of the
garage and hurled it at the wall.

Malcolm deliberately parked on a double yellow line in the
middle of Bond Street. It was that sort of a day. If a traffic
warden came and wrote him a ticket, he could tell her that
he was engaged to be married to the most wonderful girl in
the world. He wanted to tell people that, if only to hear
himself say it. Anyway, he was feeling much better now, if
a trifle hysterical.

The girl seemed to have cheered up, too. Almost for the
first time since he had known her, she had laughed properly,
and that was a wonderful sound to be anywhere near. In
fact, Malcolm was at a loss to know what had got into her,
for she behaved very childishly in all the jeweller's shops
they went into. She insisted on trying on all the rings they
saw, taking them to the window to see what they looked like
in the light, and then saying that they wouldn't do. The
stones were the wrong colour, or too small, or too big, or
the settings were the wrong shape. It almost seemed as if
she wasn't taking this business seriously.

They had tried six shops, and it was nearly half-past five.

"It's no good," said the girl. "I don't like any of the ones
we've seen. And I'm the one who's going to be wearing it.
For ever and ever," she added, tenderly. For some reason,
this remark struck Malcolm as being rather out of character,
but he put it down to excitement.

"We can try that one over there, if we're quick," he
suggested.

"No," said the girl, "I know the ring I want." And she
told him. As she did so, it began to rain.

Expecting Someone Taller        151

The two sparrows that had been eating crumbs outside the
largest of the jeweller's shops looked at each other.

"Did you hear that?" said the first sparrow.

"Don't speak with your beak full," said the other.

"But, Mum," replied the first sparrow, "it's him. And
he's going to give her the Big Ring."

"It's none of our business. And you'll catch your death if
you don't get under cover this instant."

"But, Mum," insisted the first sparrow, "if he gives her
the Big Ring it'd be terrible, wouldn't it?"

"How many times must I tell you not to listen to what
other people are saying? It's rude." The second sparrow
flapped her wings nervously. It was indeed terrible, and she
didn't want to get involved.

"But do you think he knows how terrible it would be? Do
you?"

"Quiet! People are staring."

"It's rude to stare," replied the first sparrow, who had
been told this many times. "If he doesn't know, shouldn't
we tell him? Because if we don't ..."

Two ravens had appeared in the sky, wheeling slowly and
noiselessly above the street. Nobody noticed them; they had
come to see, not to be seen.

"It isn't him at all," said the second sparrow nervously,
"it's just your imagination. If you don't come in this
minute, I'll tell your father."

Malcolm was standing very still. The girl was smiling at
him, saying nothing. He wanted to give her the Ring. He
could see no reason why he should not. Almost from the
first moment he had met her, he had wanted to give her the
Ring, and now he was going to do it. It was the right thing
to do. It was the only thing to do.

The young sparrow hopped morosely under a parked van.
His mother was scolding him, but he wasn't listening.
Surely it couldn't be right that the Ring-Bearer should give
the Ring to Wotan's daughter. His mother stopped chirping

152

Tom Holt                                        Expecting Someone Taller

153

at him for a moment, and stooped down to peck at a
bottle-top. Now was his chance.

"Please," said the girl. "I'd like it very much."

Malcolm took the Ring between the first and third fingers
of his left hand and started to pull it off. He was afraid that
it might not come away easily, but it slid off effortlessly,
and he held it for a moment. The girl was still smiling, not
holding out her hand, not making a movement of any sort.
He tried to read her thoughts, but he could not. He could
feel the rain running through his hair, but he did not know
what it was. It was right that the girl should have the Ring.
It would be very easy to give it to her. Nothing at all could
be easier, and then they would be properly engaged.

The sparrow forced itself through the air like a bullet and
landed awkwardly on Malcolm's shoulder. He did not seem
to notice. He had other things on his mind.

"Don't do it," shrieked the bird. "She's Wotan's daugh-
ter'."

For a moment, Malcolm did not know where the voice
was coming from. Then he felt feathers brushing the side of
his face, which made him jump. As he started, he dropped
the Ring, which rolled into the gutter.

"She's Wotan's daughter. She's Wotan's daughter, she's
his daughter!" screamed the sparrow. Malcolm swung his
left hand furiously through the air and clapped the palm of
it onto his right shoulder. He felt something fragile snapping
under the fingers, and the voice stopped suddenly. The dead
bird rolled down his arm and fell onto the pavement. It
looked like a child's toy or a hockey-puck, and it had landed
in a puddle.

Then the girl stooped down to pick up the Ring. Without
knowing what he was doing, Malcolm covered it with his
foot. It was all he was able to do, but apparently it was
enough. The girl stepped backwards, and she had a look on
her face that Malcolm did not like very much.

"I really do love you," she said.

Without even wanting to, Malcolm found himself reading
her thoughts.

"I love you too," he said, and he bent down and picked
up the Ring. "If I offered this to you, would you take it?"
"Yes," said the girl.
"And you'd give it to your father?"

"Yes."

Malcolm closed his fist round the Ring. "It's raining," he
said, "you'll catch cold."

The girl looked at her shoes and said nothing. He slowly
put the Ring back on his finger. He wanted her to have it
more than ever, but it felt terribly tight now, and he doubted
whether he would be able to get it off again without soap
and water. There was some quotation about there being a
providence in the fall of a sparrow, but he had never really
understood what that meant.

He opened the car door for her. "Are we still engaged,
then?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "Are we? I mean, is there any
point?"

"But we love each other, don't we? Yes, we do," he
added, for he knew how indecisive she could be at times.
"And there's all the point in the world."

"Everything I told you about my family is true," she
said, fastening her seat-belt. "So I don't think there is any
point, really, is there?"

Malcolm could not quite follow that one, but he wasn't
bothered about it. He could read her thoughts. This was all
so silly.

When they were on the motorway, Malcolm broke the
silence that had lasted since they had left London.

"Obviously you know who I am," he said. "So you know
1 can read thoughts. I can read exactly what you're really
thinking."

The girl said nothing.

"Which is probably just as well," said Malcolm irritably,
"since you never say anything. But I can see what you're




154 Tom Holt

thinking, so it's no use pretending. For crying out loud, you
love me more than I love you."

"That's for you to say."

"Then be quiet and listen. You don't have to give him the
Ring."

"You don't have to keep it."

Malcolm wanted to grab hold of her and shake her, but he
was being overtaken by a lorry and needed both hands for
the wheel. "Don't you understand anything?" he shouted.
The girl stared at the floor and said nothing.

"If I was feeling as bloody miserable as you are, I'd burst
into tears," he said savagely. "But you won't let yourself do
that, will you?"

He pulled over onto the hard shoulder and stopped the
car. Two ravens were circling overhead. Malcolm said a lot
of things, some of them very loudly, some of them very
quietly, and after a while he started to cry. But the girl said
nothing, and there was no point saying any more.

"All right, then," he whispered, "you can have it. But
not yet. Not yet."

"I dunno," said Thought, as he watched the car draw up at
Combe Hall. "Humans."

The doors opened, and Malcolm and the Valkyrie Ort-
linde climbed out.

"Now what?" whispered Memory.

Malcolm put his arm around the Valkyrie, and she rested
her head against his face. The sharp eyes of the ravens could
easily pick out the Ring, glittering on his finger. Neither the
mortal nor the Valkyrie said a word as they went into the
house, but the air was full of thoughts, and the ravens felt
very frustrated that they could only read Ortlinde's half of
them.

The door of the house closed and the two ravens sat
thoughtfully for a while, listening to the wind sighing in the
pine trees that surrounded the Hall. They had seen many
things in their time. They had seen Alberich screaming with




12.

THE GIRL—MALCOLM could not bring himself to think of her
as Ortlinde—was up at the crack of dawn cataloguing away
like a small tornado. She at least had her work to occupy her
mind; not that it was her proper work, of course.

Malcolm's own work was not going so well. According
to the BBC, a rail disaster in Essex had been narrowly
averted, and a nuclear reactor in Kent had been shut down
in the nick of time, just before it had a chance to make
the English Channel a little bit wider. Needless to say,
these unhappy incidents had all taken place at the same time
as he had been struggling to keep control of the Ring. It was
an added complication, but no more. It wasn't that he
couldn't care less; he cared desperately, but what could he
do? He was the master of the world, but not of himself.

Alberich had been waiting for him when he returned from
London. In fact, he had been pacing up and down in front
of the garage all day, which had scarcely helped his
digestion, with the result that he lost his temper when he
caught sight of Ortlinde and called her some rather crude
and unpleasant things. Malcolm had been on the point of
hitting him again, but the dwarf had realised the danger he

158              Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller

159

was in and apologised to the Valkyrie, blaming his bad
manners on a cucumber sandwich he had been rash enough
to eat while he was waiting. Now he had come back and
was sitting in the drawing-room, drinking milk.

"I know what you're going to say," Malcolm said.

"Yes," replied Alberich, "you probably do. Whether you
understand it or not is another matter. Giant's blood may
have made you perceptive, but it hasn't stopped you being
plain stupid."

"Thank you," replied Malcolm sullenly, "but I can do
without personal abuse."

"Listen," said the Nibelung. "I told you before that you
were too nice to be a proper Ring-Bearer. Ring-Bearers
can't be like that. Sure, it worked well enough to start off
with, but then it went all wrong. Well, didn't it? A nice but
enamoured Ring-Bearer is capable of doing more damage in
forty-eight hours than Ingolf managed in a thousand years.
You're human; you can't help it. But you aren't qualified to
hold the Ring if you're human. Don't you see?"

"No."

Alberich frowned. It was as if someone had said that they
could not understand why rain makes you wet. It would take
some explaining.

"Take my case," he said. "I'm not human, I'm delighted
to say, but even so, the first thing I had to do before 1 was
able to make the Ring in the first place was to forswear
Love and all its tedious works. Whoever thought up that
particular requirement knew what he was about, believe you
me. Not that I was ever romantically inclined myself; my
heart has often been burnt but never broken. Anyway, this
made me immune from the one single greatest cause of
idiocy in the world. Since I took the pledge, I have been
smiled at by Rhinedaughters, yearned at by Valkyries, and
generally assaulted by beautiful people of every species, all
to no effect. And I don't even have the miserable thing any
more. I'm just a peripheral character, especially now that
you appear to have dismantled the curse I so cleverly put on

the Ring. Or perhaps you haven't." Alberich was thoughtful
for a while. "Perhaps this Ortlinde nonsense is the curse
catching up with you as well. If it is, I'm sorry. Oddly
enough I don't feel any real animosity towards you, even if
you are as stupid as they come. Curse or no curse, though,
you've fallen head over heels into the oldest trap in the
book. You really aren't fit to be allowed out on your own,
let alone be the master of the universe."

"I never asked for the job," said Malcolm wretchedly.

"That's true, you didn't. But who cares? Shall I tell you
about Love?"

"Must you?"

"Yes. The human race—we'll confine our attention to
your mob to start with, although what I say is applicable
to virtually all mammals—the human race has achieved so
much more than any other species in the time it's been on
this earth—a couple of million years, which is no time at
all; about as long as it takes a sulphur-dwarf to leam to
walk—that the imagination is unable to cope with all the
things that the human being has done. The human race
created Things. They built wonderful buildings, invented
wonderful machines, brought into being poetry, music and
art. To beguile their eighty-odd years they have every
conceivable diversion, from the symphonies of Beethoven
to the Rubik's Cube. They can rush around in sports cars,
they can shoot elephants, they can travel around the world
in days, or even hours. In virtually every respect, they have
made themselves the equals of the Gods. Most of all, they
have all the Things in the world at their disposal to use and
entertain themselves with. And what do they like doing best
of all? They like taking off all their clothes—clothes over
which they have expended so much effort and ingenuity—
and doing biologically necessary but profoundly undigni-
fied things to other human beings. Any pig or spider can do
that, it's the easiest thing in the world. But you bloody
humans, who can do so much that no other species could
ever do, you can't do that efficiently. You agonise over it.




160 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 161

You make an incredible fuss over it. You get it all wrong,
you make each others' lives miserable, you write dreary
letters and take overdoses. You even invent a medicine that
deliberately makes the whole process futile. My God, what
a species!"

The dwarf fell silent and drank some milk. Malcolm
could think of no answer to the case as Alberich had
presented it, although he felt sure that there was a flaw in it
somewhere. Alberich wiped his moustache and continued.

"And so you give this irregularity in your minds a name
of its own. You call it Love, which is meant to make
everything all right. Rather than try and sort it out or find a
vaccine, you go out of your way to glorify it. I mentioned
your art and your poetry just now. What are your favourite
themes? Love and War. The two things that any species can
do, and which most species do so much more sensibly than
you lot—screwing and killing—are the things you humans
single out to make a song and dance about. Literally," said
Alberich, who above all else detested musicals. "Now be
fair," he continued, "can you honestly say that a member of
a species with this ancestral fallibility should be allowed to
rule the universe?"

"But isn't everybody the same? Don't the Gods and
Goddesses ever fall in love? And didn't you once try and
chat up the Rhinedaughters?"

Alberich winced. "It is true that the High Gods do
occasionally fall in love. You have, as a matter of fact,
singled out the one race nuttier than your own. We
Elementals have a far better record. The spirits of wood and
stone have been known to make idiots of themselves, and I
myself did go through a bad patch, I will confess. The
spirits of wind and water—the Rhinedaughters, to take an
excellent example—have so far proved entirely bullet-
proof. But even when we do go haywire, we get over it very
quickly and very easily. We see how stupid it is, and we pull
ourselves together. Look at me. And your lesser Gods, your
phenomena and abstractions and so on, have no trouble at

all. Seriously, I should consider giving it best and handing
the Ring on to a more suitable keeper."

"Such as?"

"Modesty forbids."

Malcolm shook his head sadly. "It's not that 1 don't
accept what you've told me," he said. "You've got a point,
I'm sure. But I can't give you the Ring, much as I'd like to.
I've promised to give it to her."

"But surely ..." Alberich rose to his feet, and then sat
down again, a hand pressed to his abdomen. "Don't say I'm
getting an ulcer," he moaned, "not on top of everything
else."

"You see," Malcolm went on, "the Ring isn't about all
that any more. It's the only way I can prove to her that 1
really do love her. Don't you see how important that makes
it?"

At times, Alberich said to himself, there are worse things
even than dyspepsia. "You haven't been listening," he said.

"Yes, I have. But she's the most important thing in the
world."

"If you weren't bigger than me," said Alberich, "I'd
break your silly neck. Make yourself shorter and say that
again."

Malcolm wanted to explain, but that would clearly be
pointless. The Nibelung, he could see, had no soul. He
offered his guest another glass of milk, but the offer was
curtly refused, and Alberich left in a huff.

Having filled himself with the conviction that what he
was doing was right. Malcolm went down to the library to
seek confirmation.

"Hello," said the girl.

"Hello, Ortlinde," he replied. "Funny, isn't it. the way
all the people I talk to nowadays have German names?"

"You've got a German name."

"No," he said. "My name's Malcolm."

"They didn't tell me that," said the girl. "I think it's a
nice name."




162 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 163

"So is Ortlinde."

"Thank you. It means Place of the Lime Tree."

"I know."

Malcolm remained standing where he was, feeling rather.
uncomfortable. The girl hadn't moved either, and Malcolm
was put in mind of a boxing match he had once seen where
both fighters had refused to leave their comers at the start of
the first round.

"Are you really cataloguing the library?" he asked.

"Yes," replied the girl, who sounded rather offended.

"Sorry. Did you really train as a librarian, then?"

"No," said the girl, "I never had an opportunity to have
a career. But we've got millions of books at home, and my
father never puts them back where he got them from. He's
very untidy."

"How old are you?" Malcolm asked suddenly.

"One thousand, two hundred and thirty-six."

"I'm twenty-five," said Malcolm, and he made some sort
of a joke about having always preferred older women.
Ortlinde smiled wanly.

"There's no point, is there?" she said.

"No point in what?"

"In going on like this," she said. "It's not your fault,
really. It's my fault."

She was looking down at her sensible shoes again;

Malcolm wished that she might leam some sense from
them. "I lied to you." she continued, "I was sent to do
something and I haven't even managed to do that. It's just
that nobody's ever loved me before, and I haven't loved
anyone before. But you'll be all right, I know you will.
You'll meet someone else and ..."

"I don't want to meet anyone else," Malcolm shouted.
"Ever again. I'm going to give you the Ring as soon
as ... as I've sorted everything out," he finished lamely.

"But you can't. If you did, you would know I've let you
down, and I would know that too, and you wouldn't be able
to communicate with me and I wouldn't be able to commu-
nicate with you and this terrible resentment would build up
and neither of us would be able to talk to each other ..."

She talked, Malcolm thought, in the same way as a rabbit
runs; terribly fast for a short burst, then a long, long pause,
then another breathless sprint; and every few words, a
little nervous smile that made him feel as if someone were
crushing his heart like a cider-apple. Unless he found
some way of cheering her up, life with her would be
intolerable. On the other hand, life without her would
be equally intolerable or even worse, so what could he do?

"Of course we'll be able to talk to each other," he said
firmly. "All I have to do is give you the Ring, and I'll give
it to you because I want to, because it'll show you that I
love you more than anyone else or anything else in the
whole world."

"No, you don't. You can't. You mustn't."

Malcolm felt as if someone had asked him his name and
then contradicted him when he answered. "Why not?" he
asked.

"Because I'm not a nice person at all," replied the girl,
gazing tragically at her shoelaces. "I'm nasty, really."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not."

She's probably never been to a pantomime, Malcolm
reflected, so she wouldn't know. "Really, you're a wonder-
ful person, and I love you, and you love me, and it's all so
bloody simple that any bloody fool could get it right. Don't
you understand?"

Malcolm was shouting now, and the girl had gone all
brittle, like a rose dipped in liquid oxygen. "Come on," he
said, lowering his voice with an effort, "we had it all sorted
out a few hours ago. Don't you want to be happy?"

There was a long silence; not a pause for thought, but an
unwillingness to communicate. It was like trying to argue
with a small child.




164 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 165

"Well, don't you? Look at me when I'm shouting at
you."

"I don't know," said the girl, looking even further away.
"Then ..." Malcolm did not know what to say. Words
were bouncing off her like bullets off a tank. "Then you'll
just have to trust me," he said. He had no idea what that
remark was supposed to mean, but it sounded marvellous.
He put his arm nervously round her shoulder; there was no
resistance, but it felt like touching a corpse, which was
strange. Up to now, she had been the warmest person he had
ever known.

He left the library and wandered out into the drive. A
small white Citroen was drawing up; it was the English
Rose, back from her holiday. Malcolm groaned, and felt a
totally unreasonable surge of resentment towards her. He
knew that it had not really been his secretary who had
invited the girl down to catalogue the library and so messed
up his life. But on another level it had been, and that level
suited Malcolm perfectly. He had found someone to blame
for all his troubles.

"That bloody librarian you hired," he started.
"Pardon me?" said the Rose. "I engaged no librarian."
"Yes, you bloody did. Linda Walker, Lime Place,
Bristol."

The Rose looked mystified. "To catalogue the library?
But Herr Finger, you refused categorically to permit me to
arrange for any such operation to be performed. I obeyed
your instructions on that point to the letter. The person you
referred to is unknown to me."

"Oh," said Malcolm. "Then I'm sorry."
The Rose looked at him curiously through her spectacles.
"Is there a person of that name—Linda Walker of Lime
Place—currently engaged in the work you described?" she
asked.

"Yes." Malcolm suddenly realised that he couldn't ex-
plain. "Well, now she's here she'd better get on with it, I
suppose."

But the Rose seemed intrigued. "Would she by any
chance be a young person?"

"Yes, I think so." One thousand, two hundred and
thirty-six. Well, you're as young as you feel.

"Excuse me one moment."

Before he could stop her, the Rose scuttled into the
house. Malcolm followed, but his secretary proved surpris-
ingly fleet of foot. She had reached the library door before
Malcolm caught up with her, and she threw it open.

"For Chrissakes, Lindsy," she wailed, "what are you
doing here?"

"Hello, Mother," said the girl.

"Believe me," said the Rose, "it was none of my doing. I
came here specifically to prevent any such occurrence."
The three of them were assembled in the drawing-room:

Malcolm slumped in an armchair, which threatened to
swallow him whole, the Rose perched on the arm of the
sofa, and the Valkyrie Ortlinde, the Chooser of the Slain,
sitting on a straight-backed chair staring rigidly at a spot on
the carpet. The English Rose had sent for tea; it had arrived,
and was going cold.

"Who exactly are you, then?" Malcolm forced himself to
ask.

"I am Erda," said the Rose, "also known as Mother
Earth."

"But you're American."

"That is so; but only by adoption, so to speak. I went to
the United States—long before there were any States,
united or otherwise—to be as far away as possible from my
ex-husband, the God Wotan. Since he refused to allow me
access to my daughters, I could see no point in remaining in
Europe."

"You're Mother Earth," Malcolm said dumbly. He
wanted to argue this point. For a start, she was much too
thin to be Mother Earth, but that line of argument would
probably cause offence. He could see no reason to disbe-




166 Tom Holt

lieve the claim. Its very improbability made it plausible
enough.

"And this," continued the Goddess with a sigh, "is my
daughter Ortlinde. I need not ask what she is doing here."

The girl said nothing, which was entirely as Malcolm had
expected. "Will someone please explain all this to me?" he
asked pitifully. "I'm only human, after all."

"Certainly," said Mother Earth. "When I perceived that
you had obtained the so-called Nibelung's Ring, I took it
upon myself ..."

"How did you find out?"

"I heard it from a nightingale who was present at the
scene of the incident. I took it upon myself to place myself
in a position where I could take an observer's role, and so
masqueraded as your secretary."

"But they said you'd been here for years."

"I am not without influence with the local minor deities,"
said the Rose loftily. "I am afraid you were misled."

"You mean the auctioneer and the estate agent and all
those people were gods of some sort?"

"Certainly not. Only the previous owner, Colonel Booth.
He is the spirit of the small trout-stream that runs through
the grounds of the house. It was through his co-operation
that I was able to secure the use of this house, which I knew
you had always wanted to live in."

"And he's a god?"

"Only a very minor one. Many people are, you know;

about one person in two thousand is a god or a spirit of some
sort. Of course, most of these are mortal and wholly
oblivious of their divine status. We prefer to keep it that
way. It's like your English system of appointing laymen as
Justices of the Peace."

"And where's Colonel Booth living now?" Malcolm
asked, expecting the man to appear from the stream at the
bottom of the garden.

"I obtained a transfer for him to a tributary of the Indus.

Expecting Someone Taller        167

His family had served in India for generations, and he was
most keen to keep up the tradition."

Malcolm rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand,
but it did no good. The Rose continued.

"I assumed this watching brief with the express intention
of making sure that my ex-husband did not try the so-called
Brunnhilde option on you. In the past, as you are no doubt
aware, it met with some degree of success in the case of
your predecessor Siegfried, and I felt sure that if other
options failed him Wotan would not hesitate to use it again.
I had thought, however, that he had given up for the time
being, and so took my annual holiday in Stroud."

"Why Stroud?"

"I am very fond of Stroud. Apparently, as soon as my
back was turned, Wotan implemented this strategy." The
Rose paused, and looked sternly at her daughter. "Perhaps
you would care to leave us, Lindsy." The girl got up and
wandered sadly away.

"I must state," continued the Rose, "that I have only the
best interests of the world at heart, and so my daughter's
personal feelings must not influence my actions at all. Nor
must they influence yours."

"You're fired."

"Mr. Fisher, you do not seem to appreciate the gravity of
the situation in which you find yourself. The situation as of
now is extremely serious, and global security is at stake. To
date, you have acted in a highly responsible manner towards
the inhabitants of the world, and I felt confident that you
could continue with this work without any undue interfer-
ence from me."

"Hold it," said Malcolm. "You arranged that damned
gymkhana thing, didn't you?"

"Correct."

"You must have known I'd have wanted to get my own
back on Philip Wilcox. There was nearly an air disaster
because of that."

"It was a risk I had to take. Had you continued to remain




168 Tom Holt

enamoured of Elizabeth Ayres, serious repercussions would
have ensued on an international scale. I had to ensure that
such an occurrence would not take place. Similarly it is of
the utmost importance that I dissuade you from continuing
in a state of love with regard to my daughter Ortlinde. The
love syndrome is a condition which no Ring-Bearer should
be in for any prolonged period of time."

"I know, I know," Malcolm muttered.. "I've heard all
that."

"Then," continued the Goddess, "you will be aware that
the termination of this unfortunate situation must be expe-
dited. It is as simple as that, Mr. Fisher."

Malcolm laughed loudly for rather longer than the remark
justified.

"Your natural reaction, I know, is to protest that the
matter is not in your control," said the Rose. "This is
self-deception on your part."

"Is it really?" Malcolm turned away and counted to ten.
"Why is it," he said at last, "that everyone I meet these
days turns out to be a Goddess? You're a Goddess, she's a
Goddess, the housekeeper is probably a Goddess."

"Incorrect," said the Rose.

"Oh, good. Look, I don't care, I just want to be left
alone."

The Rose continued with the same measured intonation,
rather like the Speaking Clock. "Correct me if I am
mistaken, but you were primarily attracted to my daughter
simply because you believed that she was not a Goddess but
a normal, ordinary mortal. A somewhat counter-intuitive
reaction for a human being, if I may say so; it seems to be
a commonplace of human love that the lover believes his
beloved to be in some way divine."

This, Malcolm realised with a shudder, was the Rose's
idea of a joke. After a pause for laughter, which was not
rewarded by the expected reaction, she continued.

"Now that it transpires that she is not a mortal but merely

Expecting Someone Taller        169

a Goddess, your affection for her should logically cease.
You may argue that she loves you ..."
"You noticed that, did you?"

"Indeed. But her feelings towards you are simply the
result of unclear thinking and underlying emotional prob-
lems, which I fear have now reached a point where the most
competent analyst would be unable to help her. By extend-
ing reciprocal affection towards her, you will only cause her
emotional situation to deteriorate; so, Mr. Fisher, if I may
be counter-factual for a moment, if you care about my
daughter, you must stop loving her. It would likewise be in
your own interest to desist, since you are doing considerable
harm to your own emotional state which, I hardly need tell
you, is by no means satisfactory."

For the first time, Malcolm felt pity for Wotan. This sort
of thing all day long would try the patience of any God.

"My husband was a similarly unbalanced person," con-
tinued the Rose. "His case should provide you with a most
graphic illustration of the dangers of embarking on a serious
relationship when the balance of the mind is, so to speak,
disturbed. In short, Mr. Fisher, it is imperative that you
abandon your intention of giving the Ring to my daughter.
You must set your personal feelings on one side entirely."

"Get knotted," said Malcolm violently. It was no way to
talk to a Goddess, but he was past caring.

"Should you fail to do so, I regret to have to inform you
that you may well be directly responsible for global cata-
clysm. If my ex-husband were to resume control of the
Ring, the consequences for the future of humanity would be
at the very least severe, and quite probably grave. You
yourself would undoubtedly fail to find the happiness you
misguidedly believe would result from a relationship with
my daughter; added to which, you would certainly be
involved along with the rest of humanity in any potential
Armageddon-type scenario that might arise as a result of my
ex-husband's ownership of the Ring. In short ..."
"Wrong," said Malcolm. "Wrong on every point."




170

Expecting Someone Taller        171

Tom Holt

"Pardon me?"

"Where you go wrong is, you think that she'll give the
Ring to her father. She won't. Never in a million years. You
see, it'll be a present from me, the best present I could
possibly give her. She'd never give it to Wotan or anyone
else. She loves me, you see. In fact," Malcolm said
dreamily, "she'll probably give it straight back again, and
then everything will be all right."

"I perceive," said the Rose, rising to her feet, "that I
have been wasting my time with you, Mr. Fisher. You have
failed to grasp the significance of anything I have said to
you. I can only implore you to reconsider your decision
with the utmost diligence."

"What do you actually do?" said Malcolm. "What's your

job?"

"Mostly," said Mother Earth, "I sleep. My sleep is
dreaming, my dreaming is thinking, my thinking is under-
standing. Consequently, my normal role is consultative, not
executive. Only in exceptional circumstances, such as a
threat of universal oblivion, do I undertake any active part
in the day-to-day running of the world."
"Yes, but what do you actually doT
"I advise people," said Mother Earth.
"Like the United Nations does, you mean?"
"There is, I suppose, a degree of similarity."
"You're still fired. Now get out of my house."
"Mr. Fisher," said the Rose, sitting down again, "before
I go and attempt to reason with my daughter, on the unlikely
chance that she might listen to sense, let me explain to you
the nature of what you call love. It is a purely functional
system in the human operational matrix. With the lower
animals, the urge to reproduce is a purely instinctive thing.
The human race, being rational, requires a distinct motiva-
tion to reproduce. It has therefore been programmed to
process the reproductive urge in a unique way."

"Just out of interest," said Malcolm, "did you design the
human race?"

"Correct. As I was saying ..."

"Ten out often for the Ears and the Eyes," said Malcolm,
"the Feet and the waste disposal system not so hot. Friday
afternoon job, I always thought."

"You are thinking of the hardware, Mr. Fisher, which is
the result of the evolutionary process, and for which I claim
no credit or otherwise. My work was entirely concerned
with the software, what you would call the feelings and the
emotions. As I was saying, the human race needs a reason
for everything it does, a reason it can understand within its
own terms of reference. Love, companionship, sympathy,
affection and understanding are simply the rewards that
human beings must receive if they are to be motivated to do
something that creatures of their intelligence and sophisti-
cation would normally regard as below their dignity. There
are so many better things they could be doing. How long
does a human being live, Mr. Fisher? Between seventy and
ninety years, given optimum conditions. Without some
powerful motivating factor, they could not be expected to
devote a major proportion of their extremely short lives
to the creation and education of other human beings.
Therefore, it was necessary to provide them with an
incentive, one which they are programmed to accept as
worthwhile. Love is nothing, Mr. Fisher. You would do
well to ignore it completely."

With that, the English Rose departed, leaving Malcolm
alone. His only reaction to these revelations, straight from
the horse's mouth, was that it was a dirty trick to play on
anybody. But the fact remained that he was human, and
he was in love, and that nothing else mattered. If that made
him a fool, then so be it; blame the person who invented the
state in the first place. But he knew all about love; it was as
real as anything else in the world and he could not deny its
existence. He resolved to find Ortlinde and give her the
Ring at once.

But she wasn't in the library, or anywhere in the house.
Perhaps she had gone away. Perhaps her mother had sent




172 Tom Holt

her away, or taken her away by force. In his confusion,
Malcolm did not use the Tamhelm to take him to where she
was; instead, he ran through the house and grounds calling
out her name at the top of his voice. At last he saw someone
sitting on the riverbank and ran across. The figure turned
and, to his despair, Malcolm saw that it was only

Flosshilde.

"Have you seen her?" he panted.

Flosshilde could not read people's thoughts like Malcolm
could, but she could guess who he was asking after. "Yes,"
she said, "I saw her just now down by the little wood,
where you get that nice view over the valley. Not that she's
looking at the view, she's sitting there looking at her feet
again. Size six, at a guess. Mine are size four."

"Thank you." Malcolm turned to go, but the
Rhinedaughter called after him.

"Well?" he said. "What is it? I'm in a hurry?"

"I know," said Flosshilde sadly. "I've just got back from
Valhalla. I was trying to get Wotan to send her away."

"Not you as well."

"It's for your own good." Malcolm scowled at her, and
she felt suddenly angry. "Well, it is. But I failed. Wotan
tried to turn me into a hedgehog and it was all for your
sake."

"A hedgehog? Why a hedgehog particularly?"

"Fleas and things. But he didn't manage to do it
for . . . for some reason or other." Flosshilde had been
wondering what had prevented Wotan from making that
transformation. The one plausible theory she had come up
with was what had given her hope.

"I'm sorry he failed," Malcolm said, and started to walk
away. Flosshilde waited till his back was turned, then
deliberately pushed him into the river.

As he hit the water, Malcolm's mind was filled with
images of the fate of Hagen, whom the Rhinedaughters
drowned, and he instinctively turned himself into a rowing-
boat. But the water was only two feet deep at that point, and

Expecting Someone Taller        173

after a moment he turned himself back again. For all her
grief, Flosshilde could not help laughing.

"Shut up," Malcolm snapped.

"I didn't mean it unkindly," giggled Flosshilde. "That
was very resourceful of you."

Malcolm had got his shoes and socks wet. He applied to
the Tamhelm for replacements. "You just watch it in
future," he said sternly.

"You watch it," said the Rhinedaughter. "And look at me
when I'm talking to you."

It was true that Malcolm was looking at his shoes, but
only to see what the Tamhelm had provided him with.
"Have you been listening to us?" he said furiously. "When
we were talking just now?"

Flosshilde sat down on the bank and combed her long
hair with an ivory comb that Eric Bloodaxe had given her
many years ago. "No," she said, "I've got better things to
do with my time than listen to that sort of rubbish."

Malcolm sat down beside her. "Go on, then," he said.
"I'm listening."

"I went to see Wotan," she said, putting the comb away.
"I tried to get him to call Ortlinde off. But he said he
couldn't. I don't know if he was telling the truth or not,
actually. Because if you go off with her, you'll be terribly
unhappy, honestly you will. Even if it does work out, and
you give her the Ring and she accepts it and all that ..."

"How come everyone knows about that?" Malcolm said
bitterly. "You must have been listening."

"It's the most important thing in the world right now,"
said Flosshilde gravely. "What do you expect? Like it or
not, you're dealing with the Gods now. I know you don't
like us very much, but we're important people. But never
mind about the world and things like that. I couldn't care
less about the silly old world, or the Ring, or anything. If
you go off with her, you'll be utterly wretched. She'll make
you miserable, I know she will."




174 Tom Holt

Flosshilde tried to open her mind to make it easier for him
to read her thoughts, but apparently he wasn't interested.

"How the hell could you know?"

"Because you're not like that. You think you're in love
with her, but you're not. You think that because she's in
love with you, you've got to be in love with her. It doesn't
work like that."

"You're talking nonsense. It's not like that at all."

"Shut up and listen, will you? You don't understand the
meaning of the word Love. It's not that great big romantic
thunderbolt you think it is. You saw her, you fell for her,
your heart went mushy inside you. That's all totally silly; it
doesn't happen that way. You don't know the first thing
about her. How could you, you've hardly got two sentences
out of her since you met. What are the two of you going
to do for the rest of Time, sit around staring at your
shoes, trying to make conversation? You both think you're
in love, but you're deceiving yourselves. She thinks she's in
love because she's always been treated like a piece of old
cheese, and then you come along, looking like Siegfried
himself, the most important man in the world, and start
adoring her. And you fell in love with her because she's
there and you thought she was a human being and so she
counted. There's me, you thought; a real live girl, not a
Goddess or a water-nymph, is actually in love with me.
Whoopee, I'm not a failure or inadequate or as boring as
hell, let's get married."

"Have you finished?"

"No. You're stupid and silly and romantic, and you
deserve to be miserable all your life. What sort of a world
do you think you're living in? You're only fit to mix with
Gods and fairies. You don't stand a chance in the real
world."

"Now have you finished?"

"You think you're strong and marvellous, don't you? But
you're as blind as a bat and they're leading you by the nose.
It's them, don't you see? It's Wotan's grand design, and

Expecting Someone Taller        175

you've fallen straight into the trap. I thought there was more
to you than that, but I was wrong."

Malcolm did not even bother to unravel this skein of
metaphor. He stood up and walked away. When he was
safely out of earshot, Flosshilde began to cry. As she sat
weeping, her sisters put their heads above the water.

"You're just as bad as he is," said Wellgunde.

"What sort of a world do you think you're living in?"
sneered Woglinde. "You're stupid and silly and romantic,
and you deserve to be miserable all your life. Very well put,
I thought."

They laughed unkindly and swam away.

"Hello," said Ortlinde.

"Hello," said Malcolm. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to be on my own," she replied.

"I love you," said Malcolm. He had grown used to
saying that, and he no longer felt any embarrassment as the
words passed his lips.

"You mustn't," said the girl. "Really, I'm not a nice
person."

"You said that before," said Malcolm angrily. "Don't try
to be clever with me. I drank Giant's blood, remember? I
can read what you're really feeling."

"I've got no feelings, really. No emotions, no anything.
Don't you see? I'm a Valkyrie, I'm Wotan's daughter. I
can't be anything else, however hard I try. And if you try
and make me be something I never can be, you'll only hurt
yourself. I can't be hurt any more, I was bom hurt. But I
don't want to hurt you. So please leave me alone."

Malcolm could not understand, but that was all right. He
didn't want to understand and he didn't need to. He knew
that she loved him, and this knowledge was like a gun in his
pocket. So long as he was armed with it, no-one could touch
him.

"If I give you the Ring, you'll take it?"

"Yes."

176

Expecting Someone Taller        177

Tom Holt

"And you love me?"

"Yes."
"What is so bloody fascinating about your bloody shoes?

You love me?"
"Yes."
"Oh, good. That's settled, then." Malcolm shut his eyes

and sat down, exhausted.

"No, it's not." The tone of her voice had not altered, and
she was still looking away. Malcolm could only feel
frustration and anger, and he wanted to break something.
The clouds grew dark, and there was a growl of distant

thunder.

"You see?" said Ortlinde, sadly. "That's why it wouldn't

be any good."

Malcolm could not understand this at first; then he
understood. The storm was gathering fast, and rain was

beginning to fall.

"Wotan never did it better himself," she said.

"But I'm not like Wotan. He's a God and he's mad."

"If only you'd seen my mother when she was younger,"

went on Ortlinde. "But they tell me I'm just like she was at

my age."

"One thousand two hundred and thirty-six?"

"More or less. That was before she left my father and
went to America, of course. And my father was a nice
person then, everyone said so. Do you know what he did to
convince her that he loved her? My mother, I mean? You
see, there was some sort of difficulty about them, just as
there is about us. Anyway, to prove he really loved her, my
father deliberately put out his left eye."

"How could that possibly have helped?"

"I don't know, he never told me. We never talk about
things like that. Besides, everything was different then, so
it probably had some special significance. Anyway, that's
how he got like he is now, that and marrying my mother.
That's what love does to people like you and me and him,
if we let it take over. The best thing to do with all feelings

like that is to wait until they go away. They don't mean
anything, you know. They hurt, but they're only feelings.
They don't draw blood or make it difficult for you to
breathe. They're all in the mind. Life is about eating and
drinking and sleeping and breathing and working, and not
being more unhappy than you absolutely have to."

"For crying out loud," said Malcolm. "It's not like that."

"What's it like, then?"

"I don't know, really." Malcolm was unable to think for
a moment. "But isn't it just two people who love each other,
and they get married and live happily ever after. I mean, so
long as we love each other, what the hell else matters?"

Ortlinde made no reply. It was raining hard, but she
didn't seem to mind. She was very, very beautiful, and
Malcolm wanted to hold her in his arms, but on reflection
he realised that that would not be a good idea. He called
upon the Tamhelm to provide him with a hat and a raincoat,
and when they materialised he gave them to her for he did
not want her to catch cold. Then he walked away.

A pair of ducks had settled on the surface of the river, and
as Malcolm walked back to the house they called out to
him.

"Thanks for the weather," they said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Nice weather for ducks," explained one of them. "Get
it?"

"Very funny," said Malcolm. He stopped and looked at
the two birds, male and female. "Excuse me," he said.

"Yes?"

"Excuse me asking, but are you two married?"

"Well, we nest together," said the female duck, "and I
lay his eggs. What about it?"

"Are you happy?" Malcolm asked.

"I dunno," said the female duck. "Are we?"

"I suppose so," said the male duck. "I never thought
about it much."




178 Tom Holt

"Really?" said the female duck. "I'll remember you said

that."

"You know what I mean," said the male duck, pecking at
its wing feathers. "You don't go around saying 'Am I
happy?' all the time, unless you're human of course. If
you're a duck, you can be perfectly happy without asking
yourself questions all the time. I think that's what makes us
different from the humans, actually. We just get on with
things."

"But you do love each other?" Malcolm asked.

"Of course we do," said the male duck. "Don't we, pet?"

"Then how in God's name do you manage that? It's so
difficult."

"Difficult?" said the female duck, mystified. "What's
difficult about it?"

"So you love him, and he loves you, and you both just
get on with it?"

"Do you mind?" said the male duck. "That's a highly
personal question."

"I didn't mean that," said Malcolm, "I meant that
because you love each other, it's all right. That's enough to
make it all work out."

"What's so unusual about that?"

"Everything," said Malcolm. "That's the way it seems,
anyway."

"Humans!" laughed the male duck. "And it's the likes of
you run the world. No wonder the rivers are full of
cadmium."

At the door of the house, Malcolm stopped. He did not want
to go in there, and there was no reason why he should. After
all, he had the Tamhelm, so he could go where he liked. He
also had the Ring, so he could do what he liked. This was
not his home; it was only a tiny part of it. He owned the
world, and everything in it, and it was high time he looked
the place over. He closed his eyes and vanished from sight.

13.

WHEN SUFFICIENTLY DRUNK, Loge will tell you the story of
the first theft of the Ring by himself and Wotan from
Alberich. According to him, when he realised that the
Giants Fasolt and Father were determined to exploit his
clerical error to the full and claim the Goddess Freia as their
reward for building the castle of Valhalla, he decided that
the only conceivable way out of his difficulties would be to
find an alternative reward which the Giants would prefer.

Finding an alternative to freehold possession of the most
definitively beautiful person in the universe, the Goddess of
Beauty herself, was no easy matter, and Loge searched the
world in vain for anyone or anything who could think of
one, starting with human beings, going on to the lower
animals, and finally, in desperation, trying the trees and the
rocks. The only creature, animate or inanimate, who could
think of anything remotely preferable to Freia was the
Nibelung Alberich, and when Loge asked him to explain,
Alberich rather foolishly told him about the Ring, which
first gave him the idea of stealing it.

Malcolm had heard this story from Flosshilde, who did
an excellent impression of Loge when drunk, and it was at




Tom Holt

180                                                                Expecting Someone Taller

181

the back of his mind when he began his world tour. He
hoped very much that things had changed since the Dark
Ages. Certainly, some things were different now; Freia, for
example, had long since fallen in love with a wood-elf, with
whom she later discovered that she had nothing in common.
Centuries of quiet desperation and comfort eating had taken
their toll, and Freia was no longer the most beautiful person
in the world. In addition attitudes have altered significantly
since the Dark Ages, with the discovery of such concepts as
enlightenment, feminism and electricity; Malcolm hoped he
would quickly find that he was in a minority in regarding
Love as being the Sweetest Thing. A quick survey of the
thoughts of the human race would, he felt, help put his
troubles in perspective.

With magical speed he crossed the continents, and the
further he went the more profoundly depressed he became.
Admittedly, the concept of love took on some strange forms
(especially in California), but by and large the human race
was horribly consistent in its belief in its value.

No matter how confused, oppressed, famished or embat-
tled they were, the inhabitants of the planet tended to regard
it as being the most important thing they could think of, and
even the most cynical of mortals preferred it to a visit to the
dentist. Not that they were all equally prepared to admit it;

but Malcolm was able to read thoughts, and could see what
was often hidden from the bearers of those thoughts
themselves. Furthermore, with very few exceptions, the
human race seemed to find its favourite obsession infuriat-
ingly and inexplicably difficult, and considered it to be the
greatest single source of misery in existence.

Not that that was an unreasonable view these days.
Human beings, as is well known, cannot be really happy
unless they are thoroughly miserable, and as a result of
Malcolm's work as Ring-Bearer, there was little else for
them to be miserable about. Wherever he went, Malcolm
saw ordered prosperity, fertility and abundance. Just the
right amount of rain was falling at just the right time in

exactly the right places, and at precisely the best moment
armies of combine harvesters, supplied free to the less
developed nations by their guiltily prosperous industrial
brothers, rolled through wheat-fields and paddy-fields to
scoop up the bounty of the black earth. Even the major
armament manufacturers had given up their lawsuits against
the United Nations (they had been suing that worthy
institution in the American courts for restraint of trade,
arguing that World Peace was a conspiracy to send them all
out of business) and turned over their entire capacity to the
production of agricultural machinery. The whole planet was
happily, stupidly content and, in order to rectify this
situation, mankind had fallen back on the one source of
unhappiness that even the Ring could do very little about.

Despite this lemming-like rush into love, there was a
curious sense of elation and optimism which Malcolm could
not at first identify. He was sure that he had come across it
somewhere before, many years ago, but he could not isolate
it until he happened to pass a school breaking up for the
holidays. He remembered the feeling of release and free-
dom, the knowledge that for the foreseeable future—three
whole weeks, at least—all one's time would be one's own,
with no homework to do and no teachers to hate and fear. It
was as if the whole world had broken up for an indefinite
summer, and everyone was going to Jersey this year, where
there are donkeys you can ride along the beach. All this,
Malcolm realised, was his doing, the fruit of his own
innocuous nature. He remembered that when he was a
child, a princess had chosen to get married on a Wednesday,
and all the schools in the country had been emancipated for
the day. It had been on Wednesday that his scanty knowl-
edge of mathematics came under severe scrutiny from a
bald man with a filthy temper, and he would gladly have
given his life for the marvellous lady who had spared him
that ordeal for a whole week, allowing him to spend his
least favourite day making a model of a jet bomber instead.




182              Tom Holt

Malcolm understood that he was now the author of the
world's joy, just as the princess had been in his youth.

Actually seeing the results of his work made Malcolm
feel unsteady, and at first he did not know what to make of
it all. The world was happy, safe and in love, all except a
certain M. Fisher who controlled the whole thing, and a
small number of supernatural entities, who were out to stop
him. There seemed to be an indefinable connection between
everyone else's happiness and his own misery, and he began
to feel distinctly resentful. This resentment was foolish and
wrong, but he could not help it. He had never wanted to
take away the sins of the world. Once again, the old pattern
was being fulfilled. Everyone else but him was having a
thoroughly good time, and he wasn't allowed to join in. His
subjects didn't deserve to be happy; what had they done,
compared to him, to earn this golden age? Before he
realised it, he was muttering something to himself about
wiping the silly grins off their faces, and the clouds around
the globe began to gather.

The first drop of rain hit the back of his hand as he sat in
Central Park, watching the ludicrously happy New Yorkers
gambolling by moonlight in what had recently been de-
clared the Safest Place in the USA. A group of street
musicians, dressed in frock-coats with their faces painted in
black and white squares, were playing the Brandenburg
concertos to an appreciative audience of young couples and
unarmed policemen, and Malcolm began to feel that enough
was enough. He wanted to see these idiots getting rained
on, and his wish was granted. As the musicians dived for
cover among the trees and rocky outcrops, a tiny Japanese
gentleman saw that Malcolm was getting wet and ran across
to him with an umbrella. Smiling, he pressed it into
Malcolm's hand, said, "Present," and hurried away. Mal-
colm threw the umbrella from him in disgust.

He sat where he was for many hours, the rain running
down his face, and tried to think, but he appeared to have
lost the knack. For most of the time he was alone, and the

Expecting Someone Taller        183

only interruptions to his reverie came from the scores of
ex-pushers who had moved out of cocaine into bagels when
the bottom fell out of drugs. Just before dawn, however, a
pigeon floated down out of a tree and sat beside him.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" Malcolm asked
the pigeon.

"Unlikely," replied his companion. "You were never in
these parts before, right?"

"Right," Malcolm said. "Sorry."

"That's okay. Have a nice day, now."

The pigeon busied itself with bagel-crumbs, and Mal-
colm rubbed his eyes with his fingertips.

"The way I see it," said the pigeon, "you care about
people, right? That's good. That's a very positive thing."

"But where's the point?" Malcolm said, and reflected as
he said it that he was starting to sound like the bloody girl
now. "I mean, look at me. I've never been so wretched in
my whole life."

"That's bad," said the pigeon, sympathetically. "By the
way, are you British, by any chance?"

"Yes," said Malcolm.

"They had a British week over at Bloomingdales. Scot-
tish shortbread. You get some excellent crumbs off those
things."

Already the first joggers were pounding their way across
the park, like ghosts caught up in some eternal recurrence of
flight and pursuit. Two policemen, who had been discussing
the relative merits of their personal diet programmes,
paused and watched Malcolm as he chatted with the pigeon.
"There's a guy over there talking to the birds," said one.
"So he's talking to the birds," said the other. "That's
cool. I do it all the time."

Malcolm looked round slowly. Only he knew how fragile
all this was. The pigeon looked up from its crumbs.
"You seemed depressed about something," it said.
"I've got every right to be bloody depressed," replied
Malcolm petulantly. "Everyone's happy except me."

Tom Holt

184

"My, we are flaky this morning," said the pigeon. "You
should see someone about that, before it turns into a

complex."

"Oh, go away."
"You're being very hostile," said the pigeon. "Hostility

is a terrible thing. You should try and control it."
"Yes, I suppose I should. Do you know who I am?"
The pigeon looked at him and then returned to his

crumbs. "Everybody is somebody," it said. "Don't feel bad

about it."

"I thought you birds knew everything," Malcolm said.

"You can get out of touch very quickly," said the pigeon.
"Have you been on TV or something?"

"How come," asked Malcolm patiently, "I can under-
stand what you're saying."

The pigeon acknowledged this. "This makes you some-
thing special, I agree. But I'm terribly bad at names."

"It doesn't matter, really."

"I know who you are," said the pigeon, suddenly.
"You're that Malcolm Fisher, aren't you? Pleased to meet
you. Can you do something about this rain?"

Malcolm did something about the rain. It worked.

"And could you maybe make the evenings a tad longer?"
continued the pigeon. "This time of year, the people like to
come out and sit by the lake and eat in the evenings, and this
is good for crumbs. So if you put say an extra hour, hour
and a half on the evenings, there wouldn't be that scramble
about half-seven, with all the pigeons coming over from the
east. It's getting so that you have to be very assertive to get
any crumbs at all, and I don't think being assertive suits

me."
Malcolm promised to look into it. "Anything else I can

do?" he asked.

"No," said the pigeon, "that's fine. Well, be seeing

you."
It fluttered away, and Malcolm shut his eyes. He felt very

Expecting Someone Taller        185

tired and very lonely, and even the birds were no help any
more.

At Combe Hall a small group had gathered in the drawing-
room. It was many centuries since they had met like
this, and they were very uncomfortable in each other's
company, like estranged relatives who have met at a
funeral.

Alberich broke the silence first. "He has no right to go off
like this," he said. "It's downright irresponsible."

"Why shouldn't he go off if he chooses to?" replied
Flosshilde angrily. "He's been under a lot of pressure lately,
poor man. And we all know whose fault that is." She
looked pointedly at the mother and daughter who were
sitting on the sofa.

"Let's not get emotional here," said Mother Earth.
"Unfortunately, we are all in his hands, and we can do
nothing but wait until he sees fit to return."

"I wasn't talking to you," said Flosshilde. "I was talking
to her."

Ortlinde said nothing, but simply sat and stared at the
floor. Flosshilde seemed to find this profoundly irritating,
and finally jumped up and put a cube of sugar down the
Valkyrie's neck. Ortlinde hardly seemed to notice.

"That will do," said Mother Earth firmly. "Lindsy,
perhaps it would be best if you went into the library."

"Oh no you don't," said Flosshilde. "I want her here
where I can see what she's doing."

"This is what comes of involving a civilian," said
Alberich impatiently. "Whose idea was it, anyway?"

"It certainly wasn't mine," said Mother Earth. "The first
I knew about it was when I heard the reports."

"That's what I can't understand," said Alberich. "Who is
this Malcolm Fisher, anyway? Anyone less suited to being
a Ring-Bearer ..."

"But he's doing wonderfully," said Flosshilde. "Every-




186              Tom Holt

thing is absolutely marvellous, or at least it was until she
showed up."

"I'm not denying that," said Alberich. "But the fact
remains that he's just not like any other Ring-Bearer there's
ever been. Perhaps that's a good thing, I don't know. But if
you girls had your way, he could easily turn out to be the
worst Ring-Bearer in history."

"Don't look at me," said Flosshilde. "I'm on his side."
"Who chose him in the first place, that's what I want to
know," Alberich continued. "That sort of thing doesn't just
happen. I mean, look at the facts. He accidentally runs
over a badger, who happens to be Ingolf. It doesn't make

sense."

"I confess to sharing your perplexity," said Mother
Earth. "This is by no means what I had intended ..." She
stopped, conscious of having disclosed too much.

"Go on, then," said Alberich. "What was meant to
happen?"

"I am not at liberty ..."

"Since it didn't happen," said Alberich, "it can't be
important."

Mother Earth shrugged her bony shoulders. "Very well,
then," she said. "The Ring was supposed to pass to the last
of the Volsungs."

"There aren't any more Volsungs," said Flosshilde.

"Incorrect. Siegfried and Gutrune did in fact produce a
child, a daughter called Sieghilde."

"I never knew that," said Alberich.

"Nobody knew. I saw to that. Sieghilde was brought up
at the court of King Etzel of Hungary, where she married a
man called Unferth. A most unsuitable match, I may say, of
which I did not approve. Unfortunately, I was too late to be
able to prevent it."

"And then what happened?"

"I have no idea. Unferth was an itinerant bard by
profession, and I lost track of him in his wanderings. By

Expecting Someone Taller        187

birth he was a Jute, but he never returned to his native
Jutland. I can only presume ..."

Flosshilde ran out of the room.

"What's she up to now?" muttered Alberich. "Why can't
people sit still?"

"Anyway," continued Mother Earth, "given the quite
remarkable fecundity of the Volsung race, I have little doubt
that the family is still extant, and I have spent a great deal
of time and effort in trying to trace the survivors of the line.
Who could possibly make a better Ring-Bearer than the
descendant of Siegfried the Dragon-Slayer? But to date my
inquiries have been fruitless."

"So you think there's a Volsung or two wandering about
out there just waiting for a chance to snap up the Ring?"
said Alberich. "That's all we need."

"On the contrary," said Mother Earth, "I still regard the
Volsung option as being the best possible solution. The
Fisher episode is surely nothing but a strange and unplanned
complication which will undoubtedly resolve itself in time.
As soon as the missing Volsung is traced and apprised of his
destiny, we can all get back to normal."

"That's not exactly fair on our young friend Malcolm
Fisher," said Alberich. "He deserves more consideration
than that. I presume that your Volsung would get hold of the
Ring in the same way that his ancestor Siegfried obtained it
from Fafner."

"That ought not to be necessary," said Mother Earth
hurriedly. "No, he has had his part to play as caretaker of
the Ring, and to date I must grant you he has played it very
creditably. Only this present difficulty has marred an
unexpectedly satisfactory period in the Ring's history.
Recent events, however, have highlighted the underlying
weakness in his emotional composition which makes it
obvious that he is not to be trusted with the Ring on a
long-term basis. Unfortunately, as we have recently been
made to realise, there is very little that any of us can
actually do, when the chipiTare, so to speak, down, to




188 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 189

influence matters. Thanks to Wotan, and of course to my
daughter here, all may yet be lost."

At this moment, Flosshilde came back into the room,
carrying a volume of an encyclopedia.

"Say what you like about old Misery-guts there," she
said, "she's made a good job of that library. Here we are."

She laid the book down on the table. "The Jutes," she
said, "were part of the Anglo-Saxon alliance that colonised
Britain after the Romans went home,"

"I seem to remember hearing something about it at the
time," said Alberich, "now that you mention it. Go on."

"If your Unferth was a Jute, perhaps he came over to
Britain with the rest of them. Have you tried looking here?"

Mother Earth raised an eyebrow. "I must confess that this
is a line of inquiry that has not previously occurred to me.
These islands have always been so unremarkable, heroically
and theologically speaking, that I never for one moment
imagined that the Volsung line might be found here. It is of
course possible."

Flosshilde seemed excited about something. "Where
would the records be?" she asked. "This is worth following
up."

"The main archive is at Mimir's Well," replied Mother
Earth. "I think it would be in order to check this new lead."

"So what are we waiting for?"

"My dear young woman," said Mother Earth, "you don't
expect me to abandon this highly delicate situation at this
crucial juncture simply to go chasing through the files. It
can certainly wait until Mr. Fisher returns from his holiday
and this present difficulty has been satisfactorily resolved."

"Why are you so interested in tracking down this
Volsung, anyway?" said Alberich suspiciously. "I thought
you were on Fisher's side."

"Don't you see?" said Flosshilde. "If we find the person
who ought to have the Ring, Malcolm won't be able to give
it to her, because it won't be his to give away to anyone.
He's got wonderful principles, he'll see at once that he has

to give it to this Volsung person, and then everything will be
all right."

Alberich shook his head. "You overestimate him," he
said. "Besides, what guarantee do we have that this
Volsung will be any more suitable than Malcolm Fisher?"

"I can reassure you on that point," said Mother Earth. "I
am, after all, the ancestress of the Volsung race. Admit-
tedly, Wotan is their male ancestor, but that cannot be
helped now."

"You mean this Volsung would be her cousin?"
Flosshilde asked, pointing rather rudely at Ortlinde.

"In strict form, yes."

"Even so," said Flosshilde, "it's worth a try."

"The Volsung race," continued Mother Earth, "was
specifically designed from the outset to be Ring-Bearers.
They have built into their software all the heroic qualities
required to carry out that office in a satisfactory manner.
Even after centuries of dilution, the fundamental ingredients
ought still to be present. I have no doubts at all in my mind
that if a Volsung or Volsungs can be found, our problems
will be at an end. But first, it is essential that Mr. Fisher's
ridiculous idea of giving the Ring to my daughter ..."

"Now there I agree with you," said Flosshilde. "Here,
you. Haven't you got anything to say?"

"No," mumbled Ortlinde.

For a moment, Flosshilde felt very sorry for the Valkyrie.
Although she would have liked everything to have been
Ortlinde's fault, it palpably wasn't, and the girl herself was
probably having a rather horrid time. But Flosshilde hard-
ened her heart.

"Why don't you do something useful for a change?" she
said. "You nip across to Mimir's Well and look up the
records, if you're so good with libraries."

Ortlinde shrugged her shoulders and started to get to her
feet.

"Stay where you are," commanded her mother. "I'm not
letting you out of my sight until this has been cleared up."




190              Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller

191

Ortlinde sat down again.

"Well, someone's got to go," said Flosshilde.

"You go, then," said Albench. "You're only getting
under our feet here, anyway."

Flosshilde made a face at him. Mother Earth raised her
hand for order.

"I shall telephone the Elder Nom," she said. "She is a
most competent woman, and I'm sure Mr. Fisher will not
begrudge us the cost of the call."

To telephone Valhalla from the Taunton area one has to
go through the operator, and the process can take a long
time. While Mother Earth was thus engaged, Albench took
Flosshilde on one side.

"You're up to something," he said.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You're going to try and nobble this
Volsung, aren't you? You failed to nobble Malcolm Fisher,
so you want a chance at someone a bit more vulnerable, or
at least with better taste."

The Rhinedaughter shook her head sadly. "My nobbling
days are over," she said. "I've been nobbled myself."

"Go on!" said Albench incredulously. "I thought it was
all an act."

"I wish it was," sighed Flosshilde. "But it isn't."

"But what on earth do you see in him?"

"I don't know," said Flosshilde. "I suppose he's just
different. He's sweet. I really have no idea. But I want to
get him out of all this before they do something horrid to

him."

Albench smiled. "This is unusual for you, Flosshilde,"
he said. "I always thought you were the hardest of the three.
Woglinde dries her face with emery paper and Wellgunde
cleans her teeth with metal polish, but you were always the
really tough cookie. And now look at you."

"All good things must come to an end," said Flosshilde,
"and I don't suppose he'll ever be interested in me even if
he does get rid of her. Which is funny, really," she said

bitterly. "After all, he's nothing special and I am, Heaven
knows. But there you are."

"There you are indeed," said Alberich. "Good luck,
anyway."

Mother Earth put down the receiver.

"Would you believe," she said, "the Elder Nom is away
on her honeymoon. Apparently, she has married a rock-troll
she met only recently at a Company meeting. But the
Middle Nom has agreed to do the necessary work in the
archives, so we can expect results shortly."

"Well, that's something, anyway," said Flosshilde, sit-
ting down and putting her feet up. "Now what shall we
do?"

At that moment the door opened and Malcolm walked in.
His hair was wet, although it had not been raining in
Somerset.

"They told me you were all in here," he said.

"If you've got nothing better to do," said the Valkyrie
Grimgerde, "you could fix that dripping tap in the kitchen."

"I'm busy," Wotan said angrily, but the Valkyrie had
gone. He leaned back in his chair and poured himself
another large schnapps. Despite the schnapps he was
profoundly worried; it had been a long time since he had
heard anything from Somerset, and surely his daughter
should have succeeded in her mission by now. She was not,
he was fully prepared to admit, an outstandingly intelligent
girl, but intelligence was not really required, only beauty
and a certain soppiness. Both of these qualities she had in
abundance.

"Must you sit in here?" asked the Valkyrie Siegrune. "I
want to hoover this room."

"Go and hoover somewhere else!" thundered the God of
Battles. The Valkyrie swept out without a word, leaving
Wotan to his thoughts and his schnapps. He bore the human
no ill-will, he decided. His handling of the world, he was
forced to admit, had been largely adequate. But this state of




192              Tom Holt

affairs could not be allowed to continue indefinitely, and if
Operation Ortlinde failed, he could not see what else he
could reasonably do.

"If that child messes this up," he growled into his glass,
"I'll turn her into a bullfrog." He closed his eye, and tried
to get some sleep.

When he woke up, he saw that he was surrounded on all
sides by daughters. Even allowing for his blurred senses,
there seemed to be an awful lot of them. To be precise,
eight . . .

"So you're back at last, are you?" he said. "Well, where
is it?"

All the Valkyries were silent, staring sullenly at their
shoes, which were identical. When you have eight daugh-
ters, you can save a lot by buying in bulk.

"Where is it?" Wotan repeated. "Come on, give it here."

"I haven't got it," Ortlinde said softly. "He doesn't want
me."

"You stupid . . . what do you mean?"

He had spilt schnapps all over the covers of the chair, but
none of his daughters said a word. This could only mean
that Ortlinde had failed him, and they were all feeling
terribly guilty.

"He wouldn't give it to me," said Ortlinde sadly. "He
said that he loved me, but he couldn't give it to me. I knew
it would happen, sooner or later. So I came home."

"But why not?" screamed Wotan. "You had the sucker in
the palm of your hand and you let him get away."

"I know," said the girl. "I've let you down again. I'm
sorry."

"Get out of my sight!" Wotan shouted. The girl bowed
her head and wandered wretchedly away to clean the
bathroom.

After a short battle with his temper, Wotan managed to
control himself, and surveyed his seven other daughters
with his one good eye.

"Right, then," he said briskly, "who's going to be next?"

Expecting Someone Taller        193

There was a long silence. Nobody moved.
"Very well, then," Wotan said. "Grimgerde, go and do

something useful for the first time in your life."
Grimgerde shook her head. "There's no point," she said

"He knows all about us."

"He's been talking to Mother," said Waltraute.
"He'd recognise me as soon as I walked through the
door," Grimgerde continued. "It wouldn't work I'm

sorry."

For a moment, Wotan was stunned. Then, with a roar like

thunder, he leapt to his feet and ran out of the room. All the

lights had gone out all over the house.
"We've let him down again," said Grimgerde sadly.
"If only we could talk to him," said Waltraute.
"Where's the point?" said Rossweise. "We wouldn't be

able to communicate with him."
The went to fetch the Hoover.

14.

MALCOLM DID NOT know where the others were, nor did he
care much. He only knew that Ortlinde had gone. She had
packed her suitcase, said goodbye, and walked down the
drive, and for all Malcolm knew he would never see her
again. Of course, he could not accept this; it seemed
incredible that it could all be over, and at the back of his
|      mind he felt sure that it was only a meaningless interruption
to an inevitable happy ending. The girl loved him. He loved
her. Surely that ought to be enough to be going on with. But
she had gone away, and the part of his mind that still dealt
with reality told him that it was for ever.

        The room in which he had chosen to sit had not been used
      for many years; there were dust sheets over several pieces of
furniture, and he tried to imagine what they looked like
under their protective covers. There was half a tune he had
heard in New York drumming away in his head; it was not
a tune with any emotional or nostalgic significance, but it
was there, like a fly trapped behind a windscreen, and he sat
and listened to its endless repetitions for a while. In front of
him were ten or fifteen sheets of paper on which he had
started to write many drafts of the letter that would set




196 Tom Holt

everything straight. But the right words somehow eluded
him, like a cat that refuses to come in when called. He could
concentrate on nothing, and his eyes focused of their own
accord on the walls and comers of the room.

"There you are," said a girl's voice behind him. "I've
been looking for you everywhere."

He knew even before he looked round that it was only
Flosshilde. He said nothing. He did not resent her intrusion;

nothing could matter less. He imagined that she would say
something or other and then go away again.

Flosshilde sat in the window-seat and put her feet up on
a chair. "You don't mind me being here, do you?" she said.

"No," he replied.

"I wanted to get away from the others. They were being
awfully stuffy about something."

Malcolm said nothing. He did not believe in the existence
of anything outside this room, except of course for Ortlinde,
and he wasn't allowed to think about her any more.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Flosshilde asked.

"No," said Malcolm.

"1 didn't think you would. She was rather beautiful,

wasn't she?"

"She isn't dead, you know," said Malcolm irritably. "She
still is rather beautiful for all I know."

"What made you change your mind?"

"I had to do something. That seemed better than the other
thing. I don't know. I did what I thought was for the best."

"I think you were right, if that's any help. No, of course
it isn't, I'm sorry. I'll be quiet now."

"You can talk if you like," Malcolm said. "It wasn't
bothering me."

"Can you play pontoon?"

"No."

"I'll teach you if you like."

"No, thanks."

"I know a game where you take a piece of writing—
anything will do—and each letter has a number—A is one,

Expecting Someone Taller        197

B is two and so on—and you play odds against evens. Each
sentence is a new game, and the side that wins gets five
points for each sentence. Odds usually win, for some
reason. That's what I do when I'm feeling unhappy. It takes
your mind off things."

Malcolm wasn't listening, and Flosshilde felt like a
castaway on a desert island who sees a ship sailing by
without taking any notice of his signals. Perhaps it would be
better, she thought, if she went away. But she stayed where
she was.

"Shall I tell you the story about the time when the Giants
stole Conner's hammer and he had to dress up in drag to get
it back?"

"If you like."

She told the story, doing all the voices and putting in
some new bits she hadn't thought of before. It was a very
funny story, but Malcolm simply sat and looked out of the
window. Flosshilde wanted to cry, or at the very least hit
him, but she simply sat there too.

"I want your advice," she said.

"I don't think it would be worth much."

"Never mind. One of my sisters is dotty about a man, and
he's dotty about a girl, and she doesn't fancy him at all.
What should she do?"

"Are you being funny?" Malcolm asked bitterly.

"No, really. What do you think she should do about it?"

"Grow up and get ori with something useful."

"I see. Aren't you sorry for her?"

"I suppose so. But I'm not really in the mood just now."
He turned away and looked at the wall.

"I'm sorry," said Flosshilde. "I'll shut up now."

She studied her fingernails, which were the best in the
world. King Arthur had often complimented her on her
fingernails.

"Would you like me to go and talk to her?" Flosshilde
said after a long silence.

"Who?"

198

Expecting Someone Taller        199

Tom Holt

"Ortlinde, silly. Perhaps there's something I could
say . . ."

"I thought you couldn't stand her. Why is that, by the
way?"

"Oh, I don't know," lied Flosshilde. "We quarrelled
about something a long time ago."

"Tell me about her. You probably know her a lot better
than I do."

"Not really," Flosshilde said. "I've known her on and off
for years, of course, but only very generally. I find it pretty
hard to tell those sisters apart, to be honest."

"Are they all like her? Her sisters, I mean."

"Very. Ortlinde's probably the nicest-looking, now that
Brunnhilde's . . . And Grimgerde's quite pretty too, in a
rather horrid sort of way. Big round eyes, like a cow."

"I'm not really interested in her sisters. She said that the
rest of them were all much nicer than she was, but I don't
believe her. What did you quarrel about?"

"I honestly can't remember. It can't have been anything
important. Is there anything at all I can do?"

"No," said Malcolm. "Perhaps you'd better go. I'm not
in a very good mood, I'm afraid."

Flosshilde took her feet daintily off the chair and walked
out of the room. Once she had closed the door safely behind
her, she shut her eyes and closed her hands tightly. It didn't
help at all, and if she screamed somebody would hear her.
She went downstairs.

From the landing, she could hear an excited buzz of
voices in the drawing-room: Alberich and Erda and some-
one else, whose voice was vaguely familiar. The newcomer
turned out to be the Middle Nom, a round, fairhaired
woman in a smart brown tweed suit. She had brought a huge
briefcase with her, and the floor was covered with photo-
copies of ancient parchments. Erda and the Nom were down
on their knees going over them with magnifying-glasses,
while Alberich was at the desk taking notes.

". . . And she married Sintolt the Hegeling," the Nom
was saying, "and their son was Eormanric ..."

"What's going on?" Flosshilde asked.

"There has been a rather singular development," said
Erda, looking up from the papers on the floor. She had fluff
from the carpet all over her jacket. "We have succeeded in
tracing the last of the Volsungs."

"Really?" said Flosshilde. She wasn't in the least fasci-
nated, for it scarcely seemed to matter now. Still, it would
be something to do, and if she got bored she could play her
word-game.

"I think you will be surprised when you hear it,"
continued Mother Earth. "Let me just go through the
stemma for you."

"Don't bother on my account," said Flosshilde. "I'll take
your word for it." She sat down and picked up a magazine.
"Just tell me the name."

"There are three living descendants in the direct line,"
said the Nom, taking off her spectacles. "Mrs. Eileen
Fisher, of Sydney, Australia; her daughter Bridget, also of
Sydney; and her son Malcolm, of Combe Hall, Somerset."

In an instant, Flosshilde was kneeling beside them. She
bullied the Nom into going over every link in the complex
genealogical chain, which spanned over a thousand years.
The descent was indeed direct, from Siegfried the Volsung,
Fafner's Bane, to Bridget and Malcolm Fisher.

"I hurried over as soon as I found out," said the Nom.
"Of course, you know what this means."

"No," admitted Flosshilde, breathlessly. "Go on."

"Well," said the Nom, putting back her spectacles.
"Siegfried was, at least in theory, a subject of the Gibichung
crown when he married Gutrune. Certainly, Sieghilde was a
Gibichung subject, and so the Ring, if we accept that it was
Siegfried's legitimate property, is subject to Gibichung law
in matters of inheritance. Gibichung law is of course very
complicated, and on the subject of testament it verges on
the arcane, but it so happens that I have made a special




200              Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller

201

study of the subject." The Norn paused, as if expecting
some words of praise. None were forthcoming. "Anyway,
hereditary as opposed to acquired property cannot, under
Gibichung law, pass to the female heirs but is only
transmitted through them to the next male heir. That is to
say, to the female it is inalienable and she has no right to
assign or dispose of it. She can only keep it in trust until the
next male heir comes of age at fourteen years."

"What are you going on about?" said Flosshilde.

"Although his mother is still alive and his sister is older,
than him, Malcolm Fisher is, according to Gibichung law,
the rightful heir to the Nibelung's Ring."

"Which ring?"

"My bloody ring," said Alberich impatiently. "Your
ring. The Ring. Look, if we're going to be all legal about
this ..."

"Human law," said Mother Earth loftily, "has no bearing
on property that is or has been owned or held by a God.
Since the Volsung race is descended from Gods and is
therefore semi-divine, and since the Ring was, if only for
the space of a few hours, once held by the Gods Wotan and
Loge, the Ring is subject only to divine law."

"Oh," said the Norn, clearly disappointed. "Never mind,

then."

"Under divine law," said Mother Earth, "property de-
scends by primogeniture alone. Mrs. Eileen Fisher, Mr.
Fisher's mother—and the eldest surviving Volsung, is
therefore the legitimate legal heir to the Nibelung's Ring."

"What about me?" shouted Alberich.

"And me," added Flosshilde. "It was ours to begin with,
remember."

"The gold was," said Alberich. "But I made the bloody

thing."

"I was about to say," said Mother Earth, severely, "that
under divine law, right of inheritance is subordinate to right
of conquest."

"What?" Flosshilde was now utterly confused.

"It means," said Alberich bitterly, "that if I take some-
thing away from you it becomes mine, and if they take
something away from me it becomes theirs. That's divine
law. Marvellous, isn't it?"

"In other words," said the Nom triumphantly, "it
amounts to the same thing as Gibichung law. It belongs to
Mr. Fisher."

There was a baffled silence as the four immortals
pondered the significance of all this.

"Be that as it may," said Mother Earth at last, "the fact
remains that Malcolm Fisher, if not the last of the Volsungs,
is one of the last of the Volsungs—certainly, he is the most
recent of the Volsungs, which is roughly the same thing—
and as such is by birth and genetic programming one of the
three most suitable people in the world to be the Ring-
Bearer. Goddammit," she added.

Flosshilde could hardly contain her excitement. "Just
wait till I tell him," she said. "He'll be thrilled."

"I hardly think it would be suitable at this junc-
ture ..."

Flosshilde made a rude face and left the room.
"That child is scarcely helping matters," said Mother
Earth.

"Guess what," said Flosshilde, bursting into the room.
"You're a Volsung."

"I'm sorry?" Malcolm said.

Flosshilde told him everything, putting in explanations
where she felt they would be necessary. "So you see," she
said, "you're not really human at all. You're one of us. And
she is your cousin."

Malcolm laughed. "What a coincidence," he said sar-
donically.

"But don't you care?" said Flosshilde. "You're virtually
a God. You're descended from the world's greatest hero.
Aren't you pleased?"

"No," said Malcolm truthfully. "I couldn't care less, to




202 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 203

be honest with you. Of course, I always knew there was
something wrong with me, but now that I know what it is,
I don't see that it's going to make a great deal of differ-
ence. " He continued to stare out of the window.

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Flosshilde was angry now. She had
so wanted him to be pleased and excited, and he wasn't.
"You're hopeless."

"Very probably. And besides, from what you said,
Bridget is the real Volsung, or the eldest, or whatever. That
doesn't surprise me in the least. Judging by what I've heard
about Siegfried lately, it sounds like she takes after him a
whole lot."

Flosshilde knelt down beside him and put her hands on
his elbows. "But she hasn't done what you've done. She
hasn't made the world a wonderful place or defeated Wotan.
You have, all on your own. You're the real hero, much
more than Siegfried was, even."

"Really?" Malcolm shook his head. "I don't think so.
I've stopped living in a make-believe world, you see. Just
finding out that I'm a make-believe person doesn't make
any difference. It's not going to change anything."

"But you don't understand ..."

"That's the one thing I have got right," he said, looking
straight at her. "I do understand, and that's the only good
thing that's come out of this whole rotten mess. I've been
living in a world of my own and ..."

"But the world is your own," Flosshilde almost shouted.
Suddenly Malcolm began to laugh, and Flosshilde lost all
patience with him. As long as she lived, she told herself as
she walked furiously out of the room, she would never
understand humans.

On the landing she met the Nom, who seemed agitated.

"Call him," she said. "Something terrible is happening."

their squadrons and regiments were assembled the Light and
Dark Elves, the spirits of the unquiet dead, the hosts of
Hela. At the head of each regiment rode a Valkyrie, dressed
in her terrifying armour, the very sight of which is enough
to turn the wits of the most fearless of heroes. Around his
shoulders, Wotan cast the Mantle of Terror, and on his head
he fastened the helmet that the dwarves had made him from
the fingernails of dead champions in the gloomy caverns of
Nibelheim. He nodded his head, and Loge brought him the
great spear Gungnir, the symbol and the source of all his
power. When he had first come to rule the earth, he had cut
its shaft from the branches of Yggdrasil, the great ash tree
that stands between the worlds, causing the tree to wither
and die and making inevitable the final downfall of the
Gods. Onto this spearshaft, Loge had marked the runes of
the Great Covenant between the God and his subjects.

Wotan raised his right hand, and the Valkyrie Waltraute,
who closes the eyes of men slain in battle, led forward his
eight-legged horse, the cloud-trampling Sleipnir. Above his
head hovered two black ravens.

"If you get mud on that saddle," said Waltraute, "you
can clean it off yourself."

Without a word, Wotan vaulted onto the back of his
charger. As the first bolt of lightning ripped the black clouds
he brandished the great spear as a sign of his army, the
Wutende Heer.

It was over a thousand years since the hosts of Valhalla
had ridden to war on the wings of the storm, and the world
had forgotten how to be afraid. Like a vast cloud of locusts
or a shower of arrows they flew, blotting out the light from
the earth. At the head of the wild procession galloped
Wotan; behind him Donner, Tyr, Froh, Heimdall, Njord and
Loge, who carried the banner of darkness. Close on their
heels came the eight Valkyries: Grimgerde, Waltraute,
Siegrune, Helmwige, Ortlinde, Schwertleite, Gerhilde and
Rossweise, baying like wolves to spur on the grim company
that followed them, the terrible spirits of fear and discord.




204 Tom Holt

Each of the eight companies bore its own hideous banner—
Hunger, War, Disease, Intolerance, Ignorance, Greed, Ha-
tred and Despair; these were the badges of Wotan's army.
Behind the army like a pack of hounds intoxicated by the
chase followed the wind and the rain, lashing indiscrimi-
nately at friend and foe. Below them, forests were flattened,
towns and villages were swept away, even the mountains
seemed to tremble and cower at the fury of their passing.
With a rush, they swept over the Nom Fells and past the
dead branches of the World Ash. As they passed it,
lightning fell among its withered leaves, setting it alight.
Soon the whole fell was burning, and the flames hissed and
swayed at the foot of Valhalla Rock. As the army of the God
of Battles passed between the worlds, the castle itself
caught fire and began to bum furiously, lighting up the
whole world with a bright red glow.

The army passed high over the frozen desert of the
Arctic, convulsing the ice-covered waters with the shock of
their motion, and flitted over Scandinavia like an enormous
bird of prey, whose very shadow paralyses the helpless
victim. As they wheeled and banked over Germany, the
Rhine rose up as if to meet them, bursting its banks and
flooding the flat plains between Essen and Nijmegen.
Wotan, his whole form framed with the lightning, laughed
when he saw it, and his laughter brought towers and
cathedrals crashing to the ground. And as the army followed
its dreadful course, black clouds of squeaking, gibbering
spirits leapt up to swell its numbers, as all the dark,
tormented forces of the earth were drawn as if by capillary
action into the fold of the Lord of Tempests. The very noise
of their wings was deafening, and when they swept low the
earth split open, as if shrinking back in horror. But however
vast and awesome this great force might seem, most terrible
of all was Wotan, like a burning arrow at its head. As he
flew headlong over the North Sea, the heat of his anger
turned the waters to steam, and soon the forests of Scotland
were blazing as brightly as Valhalla itself. As the army

Expecting Someone Taller        205

neared its goal, it seemed to concentrate into a cloud of
tangible darkness, forcing its way through the air as it bore
down like a meteor on one little village in the West of
England.

"What's going on?" shouted Malcolm. The noise was
unbearable, and through the splintered windows of the
house a gale was blowing that nearly lifted him off his feet.

"It's Wotan," yelled Alberich, his face white with fear.
"He's coming with all his army."

"Is he indeed?" Malcolm replied. "I want a word with
him."

All the lights had gone out, but the brilliance of the ball
of fire that grew ever larger in the northern sky dazzled and
stunned the watchers, so that even Mother Earth had to turn
away. But Malcolm walked calmly out of the shattered door
and stood in the drive. His hair was unruffled and his eyes
were unblinking, and on his finger the Ring felt easy and
comfortable. Out of the immeasurable darkness that sur-
rounded it the awful light grew ever more fierce, until the
very ground seemed to be about to melt. Like a falling sun,
it hurtled towards the ruined house, straight at the Ring-
Bearer, like a diving falcon.

"All right," said Malcolm sternly. "That will do."

The light went out, and the world was plunged into utter
darkness. A hideous scream cut through the air like a
spearblade through flesh, and was held for an instant in the
hollow of the surrounding hills. Then it died away, and the
cloud slowly began to fall apart. Like a swarm of angry bees
suddenly confounded by a puff of smoke, Wotan's army
sank out of the air and disintegrated. The black vapours
dissolved, and the gentle light of the sun fell upon the
surfaces of the wrecked and mangled planet.

"And before you go," said Malcolm, "you can clear up
all this mess."

Like a film being wound back, the world began to
reassemble itself. Smoke was dragged out of the air back




206              Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller

207'

into the stumps of charred trees. Bricks and stones slipped
back into place and once more were houses. Glass reformed
itself smoothly into panes, and the cracks faded'away. The
flooded rivers slid shamefacedly back between their banks,
taking their silt with them, and the earth silently closed up
its fissures. While this remarkable act of healing was taking
place, a pale mist formed and hung in the still air above the
surface of the world, and the light of the sun was caught and
refracted by it into all the colours of the spectrum. Malcolm
had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

"What is it?" he asked a passing dove. The bird looked
puzzled for a moment.

"Oh, that," it said at last. "That's just the Test Card."
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders and walked back into
the house.

The drawing-room seemed to be deserted, and Malcolm had
come to the conclusion that everyone must have got bored
and gone away when he heard a voice from under the table.

"What happened?" said the voice.

"Nothing," said Malcolm. "It's over now."

Looking rather ashamed of herself. Mother Earth crawled
out from her hiding-place. "I dropped my goddamned
glasses," she mumbled. "I was just looking for them,
and ..."

"Are you sure they're not in your pocket?" asked
Malcolm sympathetically. Mother Earth made a dumb show
of looking in her pocket and, not surprisingly, there they
were. "Thank you," she said humbly.

"You're welcome," said Malcolm.

Alberich and the Middle Nom emerged from behind the
sofa. To his amusement, Malcolm saw that Alberich was
holding the Nom's hand in a comforting manner.

"There now," said the dwarf, "I told you it would be all

right, didn't I?"
The Nom beamed at him, her round face illuminated by

some warm emotion. "I don't know what came over me,"
she said.

"That was very clever," Alberich said to Malcolm,
forgetting to let go of the Nom's hand even though the
danger was past. "How did you manage it?"

"What, that?" said Malcolm diffidently. "Oh, it was
nothing, really."

Alberich and his new friend walked to the window. In the
sky there was a deep red glow, which could have been the
sunset were it not for the fact that it was due North.
Alberich looked at it for a long time.

"I never did like them," he said at last.

"Who?" Malcolm asked.

"The Gods," said Alberich. Then he turned to the Nom.
"You look like you could do with some fresh air," he said.
"Do you fancy a stroll in the garden?"

It seemed very probable that she did, and they walked
away arm in arm. Malcolm shook his head sadly.

"Who was that, by the way?" he asked Mother Earth,
who was busily brushing the fluff off her jacket.

"The Middle Nom," said Mother Earth.

"Doesn't she have a name?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"What's that light in the sky? I thought I'd put everything
right."

"That is the castle of Valhalla in flames," replied Mother
Earth quietly. "The High Gods have all gone down. They
no longer exist."

Malcolm stared at her for a moment. "All of them?"

"All of them. Wotan, Donner, Tyr, Froh ..."

"All of them?"

"They went against the power of the Ring," said Mother
Earth with a shrug, "and were proved to be weaker."

"And what about the Valkyries?" Malcolm's throat was
suddenly dry.

"They were only manifestations ofWotan's mind," said




208 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 209

Mother Earth. "Figments of his imagination, I suppose you
could say."

"But they were your daughters."

"In a sense." Mother Earth polished her spectacles and
put them precisely on her nose. "But what the hell, I never
really got on with them. Not as people. They were too like
their father, I guess, and boy, am I glad to see the back of
him."

"And they're all dead?"

"Not dead," said Mother Earth firmly. "They just don't
exist any more. I wouldn't upset yourself over it. In fact,
you should be pretty pleased with yourself. By the way, did
Flosshilde tell you about . . . ?"

"Yes," said Malcolm, "yes, she did." He was trying to
remember what Ortlinde had looked like, but strangely
enough he couldn't. He felt as if he had been woken up in
the middle of a strange and wonderful dream, and that all
the immensely real images that had filled his mind only a
moment ago were slipping away from him, like water that
you try and hold in your hand.

"Let me assure you," said Mother Earth, "that you have
in no sense killed anybody."

"I don't believe I have," said Malcolm slowly, "I think
I'm beginning to understand all this business after all. By
the way, what happens now?"

Mother Earth came as close as she had ever done to a
smile. "You tell me," she said. "You're in charge now."

Malcolm looked at the Ring on his finger. "Right," he
said, "let's get this show on the road."

Mother Earth yawned. "I'm feeling awful sleepy," she
said. "I guess I'll go to bed now, if you don't mind. If I
don't get my thousand years every age I'm no use to

anybody."

"Go ahead," said Malcolm. "And thanks for all your
help."

"You're welcome," said Mother Earth. She was begin-

ning to glow with a pale blue light. "I didn't do anything,
really. It was all your work."

Malcolm smiled, and nodded.

"Remember," she said, "whatever you feel like doing is
probably right." She was indistinct now, and Malcolm
could see a coffee-table through her.

"Sorry?" he asked, but she had melted away, leaving
only a few sparkles behind her in the air. Malcolm shrugged
his shoulders.

"Never mind," he said aloud. "She's probably on the
phone."

Two very bedraggled ravens floated down out of the
evening sky and pecked at the window-pane. Their feathers
were slightly singed. Malcolm opened the window and they
hopped painfully into the room.

"Hello," said Malcolm. "What can I do for you?"

The first raven nudged his companion, who nudged him
back.

"We were thinking," said the first raven. "You might be
wanting a messenger service."

"Now you've taken over," said the second raven.

"You see," said the first raven, "we used to work for the
old management, and now they've been wound up . . ."

"What do you do, exactly?" Malcolm asked.

"We fly around the world and see what's going on," said
the raven, "and then we come and tell you."

"That sounds fine," said Malcolm. "You're on."

The second raven dipped its beak gratefully. "I was
thinking of packing it in," he said. "But now the old boss
has gone ..."

"What are you called?" Malcolm asked.

"I'm Thought," said the first raven, "and this is Mem-
ory."

"When can you start?"

Thought seemed to hesitate, but Memory said, "Straight
away." When Malcolm wasn't looking. Thought pecked his
colleague hard on the shoulder.




Expecting Someone Taller        211

210

Tom Holt

"Fine," said Malcolm. "First, go and make sure that all
the damage Tias been put right. Then check to see if any of
the old Gods are still left over."

The two ravens nodded and fluttered away. When they
were (as they thought) out of earshot. Thought turned to
Memory and said, "What did you tell him that for?"

"What?" said Memory.

"About us starting straight away. I wanted a holiday."

"Don't you ever think?" replied Memory. "This is the
twentieth century. They've got telephones, they've got
computers, they've got Fax machines. They don't need
birds any more. Nobody's indispensable, chum. You've got
to show you're willing to work."

"Oh, well," said Thought. "Here we go again, then."

After a while, it occurred to Malcolm that he hadn't seen
Hosshilde since the storm had died away. At the back of his
mind something told him that now that Ortlinde no longer
existed, it was time to move on to the next available option,
but he recognised that instinct and deliberately cut it out of
his mind. It was the old Malcolm Fisher instinct, the one
that made him fall in love and be unhappy. He was finished
with all that now. He knew of course that there was such a
thing as love, and that if you happen to come across it, as
most people seem to do, it is not a thing that you can avoid,
or that you should want to avoid. But you cannot go out and
find it, because it is not that sort of creature. The phrase "to
fall in love", he realised, is a singularly apt one; it is
something you blunder into, like a pothole. Very like a
pothole. In his case, however, he had had the fortune, good
or bad, to blunder into a badger, not love, and since he was
not accident-prone, that was probably all the accidental
good fortune he was likely to get. As for Flosshilde—well,
since the passing of the Valkyries, she was officially one of
the three prettiest girls in the universe, but only superficial
people judge by appearances. Malcolm himself could be a
prettier girl than Flosshilde just by giving an order to the

Tamhelm, although it was unlikely that he should ever want
to do that. The fact that she was a water-spirit was neither
here nor there; he himself was a hero, descended from
Mother Earth and a now non-existent God, but he doubted
whether that had any influence on his character or behav-
iour. He suddenly realised that Wotan and Erda and all the
rest of them had been his relatives. That at least explained
why he had been frightened of them and why he had found
them so difficult to cope with.

He smiled at this thought. Family is family, after all, and
he had just blotted most of his out. But now he was on his
own, which, bearing in mind the case of his unhappy
predecessor, was probably no bad thing. It would be foolish
to go looking for a consort now that the world depended on
him and him alone. A trouble shared, after all, is a trouble
doubled.

Nevertheless, he wondered where Flosshilde had got to.
Everyone seemed to have drifted away, and for a moment
he felt a slight panic. He sat down on the stairs and tried to
think calmly. To his relief, he found this perfectly possible
to do.

Wotan, he reflected, had gone to one extreme, but Ingolf
had gone to the other. One had been caught up in a noisy
and infuriating household which had driven him quietly
mad. The other had curled up in a hole and allowed his dark
subconscious to permit the world to drift into the twentieth
century, with all its unpleasant consequences. He sought a
happy medium between these two extremes, and in partic-
ular considered carefully all that Mother Earth had told him.
Then he got up and whistled loudly. To his surprise, nothing
happened. Then he realised his mistake and went through to
the drawing-room. There were the two ravens, huddled
upon the window-sill.

"Everything's fine," said Thought, as soon as Malcolm
had let them in. "All the Gods have cleared off."

"Except Loge," said Memory. "He offered us all the




212

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller 213

dead sheep we could eat if we didn't tell you he was still
around, but we thought ..."

"I've got nothing against Loge," said Malcolm. "But
how come he didn't go down with all the others?"

"He was a bit puzzled by that," said Memory. "Appar-
ently, there he was, surrounded by Gods one minute, all on
his own feeling a right prat the next. He thinks it's down to
him being a fire-spirit and not a real God."

"Tell him he can have his old job back if he wants it,"
said Malcolm

"I'll tell him," said Thought, "but I think he's got other
plans. He was talking about going into the wet fish
business. Muttered something about he might as well do it
himself before somebody did it to him. Gloomy bloke, I
always thought."

"Anyway," said Malcolm, "did either of you see Floss-
hilde?"

"Flosshilde," said Memory thoughtfully. "Can't say I
did. In fact, I haven't seen any of the girls since before the
Big Bang."

Malcolm suddenly felt very ill. "But they weren't
High Gods, were they?" he said. "I mean, they couldn't

have ..."

"Wouldn't have thought so," said Memory, "but you
never know with those three. Very deep they were, though
you wouldn't think it to look at them. But they were always
mixed up with some pretty heavy things, like the Rhinegold
and the Ring. Could be that they had to go along with the

rest."

Malcolm sat down heavily, appalled at the thought. He
couldn't understand why he was so horrified, but the idea of
never seeing Flosshilde again suddenly seemed very terri-
ble. Not that he was in love with her; but he knew now that
he needed her very urgently.

"Find her," he snapped. "Go on, move. If you're not
back by dawn, I'll turn you both into clay pigeons."

The ravens flapped hurriedly away into the night, and
Malcolm closed his eyes and groaned. He had just bumped
into something, and it felt horribly disconcerting.

"Oh, God," he said aloud. "Now look what I've done."

Alberich and the Middle Nom looked in to say goodbye,
and found Malcolm in a strange mood. He seemed upset
about something but would not say what it was, and his
manner seemed cold and hostile. The Nom felt sorry for
him, but Alberich seemed in a hurry to get away.

"I don't like it," he said. "Something's gone wrong."

"What could possibly go wrong now?" said the Nom
coyly.

"I don't know," said Alberich, "but when it does, I want
to be safely underground, where it won't matter so much."

They walked in silence for a while, as the Nom nerved
herself to ask the question that had been worrying her.

"Alberich," she said.

"Yes?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but weren't you sup-
posed to have foresworn Love?"

"Yes," said Alberich, "but I'm allowed to change my
mind, aren't I?"

"But I didn't think you could. Not once you'd sworn."

"That was conditional on my still wanting the Ring. And
now that I couldn't care less about it . . ."

"Couldn't you?"

"No." He felt rather foolish, but for some reason that was
all that seemed to be wrong with him. An unwonted
harmony seemed to have overtaken his digestive system.

"To celebrate," he said daringly, "let's go and treat
ourselves to the best lunch money can buy in this godfor-
saken country. I've heard about this place where you can get
very palatable lobster."

The Nom stared at him. "Are you sure?" she said.

Alberich smiled at her fondly. "Don't you start," he said.




214

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller

215

It was nearly dawn by the time the ravens came back. They
perched on the window-sill exhausted, for they had been
flying hard all night. Through the open window, they could
see the new Lord of Tempests sitting where he had been
when they had left him several hours before. He was staring
at the ground, and he looked distinctly irritable.

"He's not going to like it," whispered Memory.

"You tell him," replied Thought. "You're the one with
the words."

"Why's it always got to be me?" said Memory angrily.
"You're the eldest, you tell him."

"How do you make that out?"

"Stands to reason, dunnit? You can't have memory
before thought, or you wouldn't have anything to remem-
ber. Well, would you?"

Memory clearly had right on his side, and so it was
Thought who tapped gingerly on the pane and hopped into
the room first. Malcolm looked up, and there was some-
thing in his eyes that both ravens recognised.

"Well?"

"Nothing, boss," said Thought. "We did all the rivers,
oceans, seas, lakes, lochs, lagoons, bums and wadis in the
world. Even did the reservoirs and the sewers. Nothing.
Looks like they've just ..."

Malcolm let out a long, low moan, and Thought stepped
back nervously, expecting every moment to be turned into a
small flat disc made of pitch, earmarked for certain destruc-
tion. But Malcolm simply nodded, and the two birds flew
thankfully away.

"Now look what you've gone and done," said Thought
bitterly as they collapsed onto a fallen tree beside the
troutstream. "You've gone and got us saddled with another
bloody nutter. The last one was bad enough ..."

"How was I to know he'd go off his rocker?" said
Memory. "He looked all right to me."

"You never learn, do you?" continued Thought. "We

could be well away by now, but no, you've got to go and
volunteer us. If we ever get out of this in one piece ..."

In view of the threat recently uttered by the new Lord of
the Ravens, that seemed improbable. Dawn was breaking in
the East, and Thought regarded it sourly.

"Look at that," he said. "No imagination, this new
bloke."

"Come on," said Memory. "We might as well have
another go."

They lifted themselves wearily into a thermal and floated
away.




15.

FOR ABOUT A week after the going-down of the old Gods,
Malcolm was kept rather busy. Minor spirits and divine
functionaries called at all hours of the day and night with
papers for him to read and documents to sign, most of
which were concerned with trivial matters. The remaining
Gods had been stripped of the last few vestiges of authority
by the destruction of Wotan and, try as they might, they
could not persuade the Ring-Bearer to transfer any of his
duties or powers to them. In the end the majority of them
accepted the new order of things, and the few recalcitrant
deities who continued to protest found themselves posted to
remote and uninhabited regions where their ineffectual
energies could be expended without causing any real
disturbance.

In an effort to appear positive, Malcolm created a new
class oftutelary deities. The rivers and oceans had long had
their own guardian spirits, originally installed when ship-
ping was the main form of transport in the world. In the last
few centuries, however, this role had diminished, whereas
the roads and railways had gone without any form of
heavenly representation. Malcolm therefore assigned most

218 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 219

of the redundant spirits to the railway networks and motor-
ways, a system which seemed to satisfy most requirements.
He commissioned the Noms to set up a system of appoint-
ments: all gods wishing to be assigned a road or a railway
had to take a written exam, and were posted according to
the results they obtained. Since their duties were strictly
honorary, it made little difference to the world at large, but
it seemed to please the divine community. It gave them a
purpose in life, and when one is dealing with immortals,
that is no mean achievement.

There were also vacancies in existing posts to be filled,
for many river-spirits and cloud-shepherds had perished
with their master in the attack on Combe Hall. Again, the
Noms were given the task of drawing up a list of unfilled
posts, with a parallel list of suitable candidates. Malcolm,
who was unfamiliar with divine prosopography, had to rely
heavily on the judgment of his advisers, but for some reason
virtually all the supernatural beings he met were patently
terrified of him, and this terror, combined with his ability to
read thoughts, made corruption or favouritism seem un-
likely.

He found the terror he inspired in his subordinates
extremely hard to understand. Admittedly, his patience was
sorely tried at times, for all the gods and spirits took
themselves extremely seriously even though their power
was non-existent; and he had to admit that he did sometimes
lose his temper with them, causing the occasional shower of
unplanned rain. But the world continued to thrive and
prosper, with only the epidemic of love and romance
spoiling an otherwise perfect situation. One thing did
worry him, however: the Tarnhelm seemed to have devel-
oped a slight fault. Occasionally, after a particularly trying
meeting or a long night of paperwork, he found to his
disgust that he had changed his shape without wanting to,
and for some reason the shape the Tamhelm selected for
him was invariably that of Wotan. This and a curious
craving for schnapps gave Malcolm pause for thought, but

he dismissed his fears as paranoia, and carried on with the
work of reorganisation.

But he was not happy. Although he could not remember
what she had looked like, he knew that Ortlinde was very
much on his mind, and he could not help feeling horribly
guilty about having caused her to cease to exist. He closed
up the library at Combe Hall, but the house itself seemed to
be haunted by her, and eventually he decided that the
time had come to leave it for good. He sent for Colonel
Booth (whose real name, he discovered, was Guttorm),
thanked him for the loan of his house, and started to look for
a new place to live. Somehow, he felt no enthusiasm for
the task, and although the Noms, whom he found invalu-
able, continually sent him details of highly attractive
properties all over the world, he found it difficult to
summon up the energy to go and view them. Then one day
the Younger Nom remarked that there was always Valhalla
itself . . .

"But I thought it had been burnt down," Malcolm said.

"Burnt, yes," said the Norn. "Down, no. The shell is still
intact. I've had the architects out there, and they say it could
easily be made habitable again. Of course, the best builders
in the world were the Giants, and they're all dead now, but
they were always expensive and difficult to work
with . . ."

That, Malcolm felt, was something of an understatement.
Nevertheless, the idea seemed curiously attractive, and he
went out with the Younger Nom to look at the place.

"You could have tennis-courts here, and maybe a
swimming-pool," said the Nom, pointing with her umbrella
to what had once been the Crack of Doom. "Or if you
don't like the idea of that, how about a rock garden? Or
an ornamental lake? With real gnomes," she said
dreamily.

"I think I'd rather just have a lawn," Malcolm replied.
"And some rosebeds."

The Nom shrugged, and they moved on to inspect the




220 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 221

Steps of Unknowing. "How about a maze?" suggested the
Nom. "Appropriate, really."

"No," said Malcolm. "I think a garage might be rather
more use."

"Please yourself. Anyway, you like the place?"

"Well, it's quiet, and the neighbours aren't too bad. I
lived most of my life in Derby," Malcolm said. "It's
certainly different from there. But it's rather a long way
from the shops."

"I wouldn't have thought that would have worried you,
having the Tamhelm and so on."

"True," said Malcolm, "but sometimes I like to walk or
drive, just for a change."

"No problem," said Nom, "we'll build you a replica
of your favourite city. Valhalla New Town, we could call
it."

The thought of a heavenly version of Milton Keynes was
almost enough to put Malcolm off the whole idea, but he
asked the Nom to get some plans drawn up and hire an
architect. The work would be done by the Nibelungs, who
would do a perfectly good job without making unreasonable
demands, as the Giants had done.

On the way back, they passed the charred stump of a tree,
which had once been the World Ash. To their amazement,
they saw a couple of green shoots emerging from the dead
and blackened wood.

"That tree's been dead ever since Wotan first came on the
scene," said the Nora. "It represents the Life Force,
apparently."

"Get someone to put one of those little wire cages round
it," said Malcolm. "We don't want the squirrels getting at
it."

Malcolm returned from his trip to Valhalla feeling rather
tired, not by the journey but by the company of the Younger
Nom. He sat down in the drawing-room and took his shoes
off; he wanted a quick glass of schnapps and ten minutes

with the paper before going to bed. He was getting
middle-aged, he realised; but such considerations did not
really worry him. Youth, he had decided, was not such a big
deal after all.

He looked out over the trout-stream and suddenly found
himself in tears. For a moment he could not understand
why; but then he realised what had caused what was,
generally speaking, an unusual display of emotion. The
trout-stream had reminded him of Flosshilde, whom
he missed even more than the shoe-inspecting Valkyrie. He
had treated Flosshilde very badly . . . No, it wasn't guilt
that was making him cry. He had shut it out of his mind for
so long that he imagined that it had gone away, but now he
knew what his real problem was.

He had heard a story about a man who had gone through
life thinking that the word Lunch meant the sun, and it
occurred to him that he had been in roughly the same
situation himself. Until very recently, he had not known
what the word Love really meant; he had thought it referred
to the self-deceptive and futile emotion that had plagued
him since he first had enough hair on his chin to justify
buying a razor of his own. On the night of the confrontation
with Wotan, he had suddenly realised his mistake; he had
loved Flosshilde then, just at the very moment when she had
ceased to exist. So horrible had that thought been that he
had excluded it from his brain; but now it had come back
and taken him by surprise, and he could see no way of ever
getting rid of it. The sorrow he had felt for Ortlinde was
little more than sympathy, but he needed the Rhinedaughter.
The thought of going to live in Valhalla or being the ruler of
the Universe without having her there was unbearable; the
thought of being alive without having her there was bad
enough.

He shook his head and poured out some more schnapps.
Many momentous and terrible things had happened and the
Gods had all gone down, just to teach Malcolm Fisher the
meaning of the word Love. Had he paid more attention to




222 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 223

his English teacher at school, he reflected, the whole world
might have been saved a great deal of trouble. He picked up
the local paper, and saw a photograph of a tall girl and a
man with large ears standing outside a church. Liz Ayres
had married Philip Wilcox. He smiled, for this fact meant
nothing to him at all. The sooner he got out of this house,

the better.

Someone had left the trench windows open. He got up
and closed them, for the night was cold; summer had
passed, and it would be unethical of him to extend it for his
own convenience. It had been a strange season, he re-
flected, and it was just as well that it was over now. The
world could cool down again, and he could allow it to rain
with a clear conscience.

"Why am I doing all this?" he said aloud.
Now at last he understood. It was blindingly obvious, but
because he was so stupid he hadn't seen it before. The
world, now God-free and generally purified, was no longer
his to hold on to. He must give the Ring to his sister
Bridget. She, after all, was older than him, and much
cleverer, and generally better equipped to handle difficult
problems. He was only me intermediary. Everything fell
into place, and he felt as if a great burden had fallen from
his shoulders. If only he had done it before, Flosshilde
would not have gone down and he might even have had a
happy ending of his own; but he had been foolish and
willful, just as his mother would have expected. He had
suffered his punishment, and now there was no time to lose.
As he had said himself, Bridget was the member of the
Fisher family who most resembled the glorious Siegfried. It
explained why Ingolf had been so surprised when he had
heard his name; he had been expecting Bridget Fisher on

that fateful night.

He looked at his watch, trying to calculate what time it
would be in Sydney. Hadn't Mother Earth herself said
something about the Ring rightfully being Bridget's prop-
erty, because she was the eldest? It would, of course, be

difficult to explain it all, for his word carried little credi-
bility with his immediate family; if he said something,
they naturally assumed the reverse to be true. But Bridget
was wise and would immediately understand, even if his
mother didn't. With luck, they would let him keep the
Tamhelm, but if Bridget needed it of course she must have
it. He swallowed the rest of his drink and called for an
overcoat.

He looked quickly in the mirror to make sure that his hair
was neat and tidy (his mother was most particular about
such things) and saw to his astonishment that he didn't look
like Malcolm Fisher at all. Then he remembered that he was
still wearing the Tamhelm. He would need that to get to
Australia, but he might as well stop pretending to be
somebody he wasn't.

"Right," he commanded, "back to normal."
The image in the mirror didn't change. It was still the
Siegfried face he had been wearing for so long.

"Back to Malcolm Fisher," he said irritably. "Come on,
jump to it."

No change. Angrily, he felt for the little buckle under his
chin, which he hadn't even noticed for so long now. It came
away easily, and he pulled the chainmail cap off and tossed
it onto the sofa.

No change. The face that stared stupidly at him out of the
mirror was the face of Fafner's Bane, Siegfried the Vol-
sung. He groaned, and knelt down on the floor. Once again,
his mother had been proved right. He had stuck like it.
From now until the day he died, he was going to have to go
around with the evidence of his deceit literally written all
over his face.

Worse, he could not even remember what he really
looked like. If he knew that, he might be able to get some
sort of clever mask made. But the picture had completely
vanished from his mind. He picked up the Tamhelm and
gazed at it hopelessly, feeling as he had done when, as a
child, he had broken a window or scratched the paint. He




224 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 225

had done something awful which he could not put right, and
it was all his fault.

The next morning was bright and cold, and Malcolm woke
early with a headache, which he prosaically blamed on
the schnapps. To clear his head, he strolled down by the
troutstream and stood for a while kicking stones in
the water.

"Do you mind?" said a girl's voice.

He knew that voice. He tried hard not to recognise it,
because the girl it had belonged to had gone up in a cloud
of theology, along with the rest of the High Gods. He had
sent his two ravens out looking for the owner of that voice,
and they had searched the earth for many days without
finding her. She no longer existed, except in the memories
of a few unusual people. So what was she doing in his
trout-stream?

"Is that you?" he said stupidly.

"Of course it's me," said the voice irritably. "Who do
you think it was, the BismarckT'

He scrambled down the bank, slipped, and fell in
the water. As he did so, it occurred <o him that he
couldn't swim, and he had forgotten that the trout-stream
was only two feet deep. In his panic, he also forgot about
the Tamhelm, and had already resigned himself to the
prospect of death by drowning when Flosshilde fished him
out.

"Sorry," she said. "Did I startle you?"

That was one hell of a leading question, and rather than
try and phrase an answer that might not be held against him
in future, he replied by throwing his arms around her and
kissing her, clumsily but effectively. It had not entered his
mind that she might object to this; luckily, she seemed to
like it.

"Where the hell have you been?" he said at last.

Flosshilde grinned. "Did you miss me?" she asked
superfluously.

"I thought you'd been zapped," he said.

"Oh. So you have missed me."

"Of course I've bloody missed you. Where have you
been?"

"On holiday."

"On holiday."

"Yes," said Flosshilde, and she could not understand
why Malcolm found this so strange. "We'd planned to go
to the Nile Delta again this year, but then that Ortlinde
business blew up and by the time it was all over every-
where was full. So we went and stayed with our cousins on
the seabed. It was rather boring actually. They're terribly
stuffy people, and they've got a pipeline running right
through the middle of their sitting-room."

"So that's why Thought and Memory couldn't find you."

"Were they looking?"

"They've been doing little else since you vanished. You
might have let me know."

Flosshilde grinned again. "I didn't know you cared.
Honestly, I didn't. I only came back to look for a comb I'd
left behind."

That was not strictly true, except for the bit about the
comb, but she hoped he wouldn't notice. It had been no fun
at all on the seabed and she hadn't been able to get him out
of her mind. His reaction to her last remark was therefore
likely to be rather important.

"Well, I do care. I care a whole lot."

"Yes," said Flosshilde, remembering the scramble down
the bank and the kiss, "I think you probably do. Snap. By
the way, you're all wet."

"Am I?"

"Yes. Perhaps it would be a good idea if we got out of the
water."

Malcolm could see no reason for this, for he was happier
standing in two feet of water with the girl he loved and
needed than he had ever been on dry land. But if she
thought it would be a good idea, he was willing to give it a




226 Tom Holt Expecting Someone Taller 227

try. They climbed out and sat down under a tree. It so
happened that it was the same tree that Ortlinde had been
standing under when he had first kissed her, but he couldn't
be expected to remember everything.

"Let's not talk about it," Flosshilde said. "You know
what that leads to. Let's just have a nice time for the rest of
our lives."

Put like that, it seemed perfectly simple. Malcolm leaned
back against the oak tree and thought about it for a moment.
Whatever he felt like doing was probably right. He had that
on the very best authority.

"Fair enough," he said. "But first I must give the Ring to
my sister Bridget."

"Don't be silly."

"But I've got to. You see ..."

"Don't be silly."

"All right, then," Malcolm said. "I'll give it to you."

He took off the Ring, looked at it for a moment, tossed it
up in the air, caught it again, and slipped it onto the fourth
finger of her left hand. Then he waited for a second.
Nothing happened. Flosshilde stared at him with her mouth
wide open.

"It suits you," he said.

"What did you do that for?"

"First," said Malcolm, "because it was originally yours.
Second, because you're much older and cleverer than I am.
Third, because I love you. Fourth, because it's worth it just
to see the look on your face."

Flosshilde could think of nothing to say, and Malcolm
savoured the moment. It was probably the last moment of
silence he could expect from her for many, many years.

"Are you sure?" said Flosshilde.

Malcolm started to laugh, for it had been Ortlinde's
favourite phrase, and soon Flosshilde was giggling too.
"No, but honestly," she said, "it's the Ring. Be serious for
a moment."

"Serious?" Malcolm grabbed her arm and pulled her

close. "Don't you see? That's the last thing in the world I
can afford to be. Ever since you went away, something
terrible has been happening to me. I couldn't think what it
was, even though everyone was trying to tell me. Even the
Tamhelm. I was turning into Wotan. I was starting to
become just like him."

"Never," said Flosshilde. "You couldn't be. For a start,
he was taller than you."

"I could, and I nearly did. When I realised it, my first
reaction was to give the Ring to my sister Bridget, because
everyone always said she was so much more responsi-
ble than me. But you were right, that would have been
the worst possible thing I could have done. Then you came
back, and I suddenly understood. The only person in the
world that that thing is safe with is you."

"Me? But that's impossible. I'm not a nice person at all."

"Not you as well."

"No, I mean it. I'm probably not cruel or malicious,
but I'm thoughtless and frivolous. I wouldn't take the
job seriously, and the world would get into an awful mess.
I'd forget to make it rain at the right time, because I'd
always want it to be fine for sunbathing, and if I was bored
with it being January, I'd make it July again, and then
everything would get out of gear. I'd be hopeless at it,
really."

"That's what I thought when I started. And it hasn't
turned out too badly, has it?"

Flosshilde frowned and bit her lip, a manoeuvre she had
often practised in front of the mirror. "Oh, go on, then,"
she said, "just to please you I will."

"That," said Malcolm triumphantly, "is the best possible
reason. You've passed. Congratulations."

"I still think," said Flosshilde, holding up the Ring to the
light to admire it, "that you're being a bit hasty ..." She
tailed off. "You're right," she said. "It does suit me. It'll go
very nicely with that gold evening dress I got in Stras-
bourg."




228

Tom Holt

Expecting Someone Taller 229

She took one more look at the Ring and promptly
dismissed it from her mind, for she had more important
things to think about. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
she asked. "I mean, when I left for the seabed, you were
still madly in love with that stuffy old Valkyrie with the
interesting shoes. You aren't going to change your mind
about me, are you?"

"I hope not," said Malcolm. "We'll have to see, won't
we?"

"Did I ever tell you the story . . .?"

"Later."

"It's a very funny story."

"Did I every tell you the story of the idiot who ran over
a badger?"

"I know that one."

"But I tell it very well, and it's the only really funny story
I know."

"Go on, then."

He told her the story and she laughed, although she
knew that she could have told it rather better herself. In
fact, she could have done his voice rather better than he
could. But it didn't matter. This was happiness, she
realised, even more than sunbathing or the parties they used
to have at Camelot. She was slightly disappointed with
herself for being made happy so easily, for she had always
thought of herself as a rather glamourous, sophisticated
person. Nevertheless, it would do very nicely to be going on

with.

Malcolm listened to her laughter, and for the first time in
his life he knew that everything was going to be all right.
Niceness, he realised, was not enough, and Love was only
part of the rest. You had to have laughter, too. Laughter
would make everything come out right in the end, or if
it didn't nobody would notice. He started to tell her about
his plans for the new Valhalla. She liked the idea, and
started making suggestions about how the place should
be redecorated. These mostly seemed to consist of

swimming-pools, flumes and ornamental lakes, and he
realised that sooner or later he was going to have to leam
how to swim. The thought made him shudder, but he put it
on one side.

"By the way," he said. "I suppose you're immortal."

"I think so. Why?"

"Isn't that going to make it rather difficult for me? You
see, I'm not."

Hosshilde shook her head. "I solved that one some time
ago," she said.

"Did you now? That was thoughtful of you."

Flosshilde blushed, spontaneously for once, and realised
that she hadn't quite timed it right, which was unusual for
her, since she was unquestionably one of the three best
blushers in the world. But Malcolm didn't seem to have
noticed, and it was nice to be with somebody who didn't
criticise when you got things wrong.

"I looked it up in all the books," she went on, "and
there's no problem. Every time you feel yourself getting
old, you just turn yourself into someone younger."

Malcolm shook his head. "I don't think the Tarnhelm
works any more," he said sadly, and he told her about his
attempts to go back to being Malcolm Fisher. She laughed,
and told him not to be so silly.

"Haven't you leamt anything?" she said. "You tried to
turn yourself into Malcolm Fisher. You are Malcolm
Fisher. Of course it didn't work."

Malcolm didn't quite follow that, but he was reassured.
There didn't seem to be anything else to worry about now,
so he suggested that they went in and had some breakfast
instead.

"Just a moment," said Flosshilde.

She looked hard at the Ring, held her breath and pointed
at the sky. A small pink cloud appeared out of nowhere,
rushing across the sky until it was directly overhead. There
was a blinding flash of pink lightning, and the cloud had




230 Tom Holt

vanished. The air was filled with pink rose petals, and a
flight of flamingos climbed gracefully into the air.

"No," said Flosshilde, "maybe not. It seemed like a good
idea at the time."

"It's the thought that counts," Malcolm said. "Come on,
I'm hungry."

They walked into the house, and the two ravens who had
been eavesdropping from the branches of the oak tree
looked at each other.

"I think that's nice," said Memory.

"Idiot," said Thought. "Is that a dead rabbit I can see
over there?"

"Where?"

"Just by that patch of nettles."

"Now you're talking," said Memory.

They glided down and started to peck. It was a good,
meaty rabbit, and they were both hungry. When he had
finished. Memory wiped his beak neatly on his leg and
stood thoughtfully for a while.

"Did you ever see that film?" he said.

"What film?"

"Can't remember. Anyway, it reminds me a bit of that.
Happy ending and all."

Thought shook his head. "Don't like happy endings," he
said. "They're a cop-out. Life's not like that."

"I dunno," said Memory. "Sometimes it is."

"You're so soft, you are," said Thought scornfully.
"Come on, time we were on our way."

They sailed up into the sky, and began their day's patrol.
Wherever life was stirring and brains were working they
flew, their bright round eyes missing nothing, their ears
constantly alert. But today was going to be another quiet
day in the best of all possible worlds. After a while they
grew bored, and turned back. As they flew over the little
village of Ralegh's Cross, they saw three workmen with
pickaxes trying to break up a strange outcrop of rock which
had appeared in the middle of the road some months earlier.

Expecting Someone Taller        231

But their tools would not bite on the hard stone, and they
had given it up for a while.

"What I want to know is," said one of the men, "how did
it get there in the first place?"

Memory dived down and perched on the rock which had
once been the Giant Ingolf. "It's a long story," he said.

But the man wasn't listening.