The Great Brain Robbery, page 3
He looked at her sideways. “Lots.”
Suzy bit her lip. She had known all along that the Express wouldn’t be exactly as she had known it—there hadn’t been much of it left after the crash—but she was beginning to suspect she was in for a shock.
“Thanks for getting me in,” said Frederick as they reached the foot of the stairs. “What you did back there was brilliant.”
“Don’t mention it,” Suzy said, disentangling herself from his arm. “I can’t believe they didn’t send you an invitation.”
Frederick snorted but couldn’t hide the blush of embarrassment that was creeping up his neck. “Obviously some sort of admin error.”
“But you came anyway,” she said. “I’m glad.”
“You didn’t think I’d miss the big relaunch after all we went through together on the old Express, do you?” he said airily. “Besides, I still feel slightly responsible for everything that happened.”
Suzy had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out something she might regret. Slightly responsible? When she first met him, Frederick had been the most wanted person in the whole Union. He had uncovered a secret plot by Lord Meridian, the heartless ruler of the Ivory Tower—storehouse of the Union’s knowledge—to blackmail the leaders of the Impossible Places so he could control them from behind the scenes. Frederick had neglected to mention any of this to Suzy at the time, of course. Instead, he had pretended to be a prince, cast out of his kingdom by a usurping uncle. She had found it easy enough to believe him—he was trapped in the form of a frog inside a novelty snow globe thanks to a powerful curse, and his parents, hoping to exchange him for some ready cash, had sent him in the mail to the fearsome sorceress Lady Crepuscula, which was how he and Suzy had crossed paths—he had been her very first delivery. Frederick had pleaded with Suzy not to hand him over, and choosing to temporarily ignore her duties as a postie, she had smuggled him to safety. Or so she had thought.
Instead, the following hours had been a blur of fear and danger, ending in the calamitous crash at the Ivory Tower that had ruined the Express. Lord Meridian had been overthrown by his sister, Lady Crepuscula, who had restored Frederick to his true form, and on balance, things had ended well.
But Frederick was definitely responsible.
“I dunno about you two,” said Fletch, “but I’m starvin’. Is there any grub at this shindig?”
“That looks like a buffet over there,” said Suzy, pointing to a row of tables on the far side of the platform.
“Smashin’,” he said. “I’ll see you both in a bit.” He scurried away, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“Did he just come for the food?” asked Frederick, watching him go.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Suzy. “Come on. Wilmot and the crew must be here somewhere.”
They set off into the crowd, which parted around them. At first, Suzy thought the guests were being helpful, but she quickly realized that they were just stepping back to get a better look at her. Monocles were screwed into place and opera glasses raised, until she began to feel like a specimen under a microscope.
Progress was slow. Suzy had to stop every few seconds to return a greeting or acknowledge a compliment, and while she was grateful for the appreciation, it all felt a bit overwhelming: She was in a crowd of strangers, and every single one of them knew who she was.
Frederick clearly had no such reservations, however, and strolled alongside her as though the entire reception had been organized in his honor. He waved and smiled with an easy confidence, even though he was mostly getting looks of polite bafflement in return.
They made their way to the center of the platform, where everyone seemed to be gathered around to watch something, although Suzy couldn’t make out what it was through the throng. Then she heard a familiar voice.
“So there we were, through the tunnel but out of control. The brakes were gone. Most of the cab, too, for that matter, and there was the end of the line, dead ahead. Beyond it lay the Ivory Tower. Our destination was in sight, but it promised to be the end of us. We were a runaway train!”
There was a smattering of oooohs from the audience. Suzy squeezed through the press of bodies until she could see the troll who was speaking. It was Stonker, the driver of the Express, resplendent in his blue-and-silver uniform. He was leaning against one of the enormous vases, clearly basking in the attention of his audience.
“I’ve been in some scrapes in my time, of course,” he said, twisting the tip of his huge handlebar mustache around a finger as he peered into the mists of time. “But none like this. I knew it was going to take some jolly quick thinking to pull us out of it in one piece.”
“So what did you do?” someone asked.
“Do? Why, I…”
Stonker trailed off as a huge figure loomed up beside him and nudged him with a paw as big as his head. The whole crowd shuffled back a step. Suzy couldn’t blame them for being intimidated; Ursel, the Express’s firewoman, struck an imposing figure. She was a brown bear, and stood easily seven feet tall on her hind legs, as she was doing now. She wore spotless denim overalls, and her fur, much to Suzy’s surprise, was a rich chestnut color. That shouldn’t have been surprising for a brown bear, of course, but during Suzy’s first visit to the Union, Ursel’s fur had been bright yellow—a side effect of handling the fusion bananas that powered the Express.
Now she raised her great head and sniffed the air.
“Hello,” said Stonker. “Caught wind of something, have you?”
Ursel’s snout twitched. She cocked her head to one side. Then, with one bound, she leaped across the space to the watching crowd, which scattered before her. All except Suzy.
“Growlf!” said Ursel, scooping Suzy up into a hug that lifted her sneakers clear off the floor.
“I missed you, too!” said Suzy, wrapping her arms as far around Ursel’s frame as she could manage and burying her face in the soft fur of the bear’s neck.
“Suzy Smith! As I live and breathe!” Stonker strolled over as Ursel set Suzy down. “How the devil are you, my girl?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” said Suzy, trying to keep her balance as he clapped her on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise!” He stepped back to admire her uniform. “Look at you. Every inch the true postie.”
“Thank you,” said Suzy.
“Certainly better than that old dressing gown of yours.”
Frederick, who had been hovering behind Suzy throughout this exchange, cleared his throat.
“And who’s this?” said Stonker.
“You remember Frederick,” said Suzy.
“Good heavens,” said Stonker. “The snow globe?”
Frederick grimaced. “Yes,” he said. “That was me.”
Stonker gave him the same slap on the shoulder he had given Suzy. “I’ve never socialized with one of our deliveries before, but it’s good to have you here. How’s life at the Ivory Tower?”
Those members of the crowd within earshot exchanged startled looks and began muttering darkly among themselves. Suzy couldn’t hear what they were saying, but most of them were glowering at Frederick, who drew himself up to his full height and pressed his lips into an impassive line.
“It’s fine, thank you,” he said, looking Stonker in the eye but speaking loud enough for the crowd to hear. “As you know, we’re under new management and now offer a comprehensive public-facing service.” Then he peeled his lips back into a fixed grin.
“Right,” said Stonker, taking a discreet step back. “Jolly good.”
When Frederick’s grin didn’t waver, Suzy stepped in beside him. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
“Of course I am,” he said. He wouldn’t look at her, but seemed to be reading the faces of the crowd.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Would I lie to you?” he said, and before she could answer, added, “Where’s Wilmot?”
“The Postmaster?” said Stonker. “He’s supposed to be here, but we’ve not seen him yet. Can you smell him anywhere, Ursel?”
“Grrrunf,” said Ursel. “Rrrrowlf.”
“She says he’s definitely somewhere nearby,” said Stonker. “But he’s hard to pinpoint in the crowd.”
Their audience was cautiously regrouping, although they gave both Ursel and Frederick a wide berth.
“Mr. Stonker?” said a skinny troll in a bowler hat. “Please don’t leave us in suspense any longer. What happens next in your story?”
“Yes,” said an elderly clockwork lady beside him. “How did you stop the Express from crashing?”
Stonker thrust his chest out. “I didn’t, madam!” he said. “We smashed straight off the end of the tracks and into the Ivory Tower.”
The crowd gasped.
“The Express was ruined,” said Stonker, “but she had brought us safely to our destination. The stronghold of Lord Meridian himself! And the rest, as you know, is history.” He swept his cap off his head and bowed as the crowd applauded. A few bold individuals came forward with autograph books. Stonker pulled a fountain pen from an inside pocket and, with a satisfied smile, allowed himself to be surrounded.
“How come he gets all the glory?” said Frederick. “We were there, too.”
“I don’t care about glory,” said Suzy. “I just want to be a postie.”
“Runk.” Ursel nodded in agreement.
“And a fine ambition it is, too,” said a voice.
Hope leaped in Suzy as she saw a particularly wizened old troll tottering to the front of the crowd with the help of a cane. He wore a faded old postie’s uniform with several medals pinned to the chest, and half his bald scalp was fashioned from reflective steel. “Back for more, eh?” he said, smacking his gums at her. “I was hoping you would be.”
“Mr. Trellis!” Suzy took his hand and squeezed it gently. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Oh, we’re all here,” said Mr. Trellis, indicating a group of elderly trolls shuffling up behind him and elbowing the other guests aside. They, along with Mr. Trellis, were several members of the Old Guard—retired posties with millennia of experience between them. They normally spent their days in a quiet rest home in the city’s Underside, but here they all were, in ancient and ill-fitting uniforms. They crowded round, blinking at Suzy through thick spectacles and turning ear trumpets in her direction.
“Who’s this?” said one.
“That’s not the same girl as last time, is it? She looks taller.”
“Has she seen my pudding? I put it down somewhere.”
“You see?” said Mr. Trellis. “We’re all here, even if we’re not all there, so to speak. We came to see you and the crew off on your next adventure. It does a soul good to see the new generation in action.” He rubbed his thumb over his medals. “I just wish I could come with you.”
“So do I,” said Suzy. “Although I’m hoping for less of an adventure than last time.”
“Oh, every time’s an adventure,” said Mr. Trellis. “Did I ever tell you about the time I fought off a swarm of razor-wing butterflies in the tree city of Cornus?”
There was a collective groan from the rest of the Old Guard. “Not this one again,” someone muttered.
“I’ve always wanted to visit Cornus,” said Frederick eagerly.
“Well!” said Mr. Trellis with a gummy smile. “Let me tell you all about it.”
Suzy saw her chance. “Excuse me,” she said, and slipped away into the crowd to find Wilmot.
* * *
Suzy pushed her way through the mingling guests until she reached the very end of the platform, but there was still no sign of Wilmot. Where could he be? She was gazing out at the rooftops of the Overside through the glass panels of the station wall and wondering if she should try searching again, when she sensed someone standing behind her.
“Could I interest you in some refreshment, miss?” It was one of the white-suited troll waiters, carrying a silver tray laden with small dark brown parcels of pastry crust. “The pies are fresh.”
Suzy started, embarrassed at being caught off guard. “No, thank you,” she said, avoiding the waiter’s eyes. “I just need to go and find my friends.”
“I can help you with that, miss.”
“I’ll be fine.” She made to step past him, but he glided to the side on his skates, blocking her path. “Excuse me,” she said. She sidestepped again, but he matched her.
“I’m sure I can help.”
“I said no!” Suzy’s patience broke, and she locked eyes with the waiter, looking at him properly for the first time. Her words dried up on her tongue. His uniform was different, but his face was unmistakable. “Wilmot? Is that you?”
“Hello, Suzy!” He grinned. “What are you doing all the way back here?”
“Looking for you!” she said. “Why are you dressed as a waiter?”
“Oh, this?” He looked down at himself as though he had forgotten what he was wearing. “The Express has been out of action for so long I decided to get a part-time job to keep myself busy. Mom really wanted me to go back to school, but there’s a waiting list. So here I am!”
“But why are you working as a waiter at your own reception?” Suzy asked. “Shouldn’t you be in your Postmaster’s uniform?”
“Oh, that.” Wilmot looked a little sheepish. “I may have inadvertently double-booked myself.”
“Then you need to go and tell someone,” said Suzy. “You can’t miss the inauguration because you’re serving pork pies.”
“Actually, they’re Don’t Ask pies,” he said. “Would you like one?”
Suzy squinted at them. “What’s in them?” she asked.
“Don’t ask.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Thanks, but I’ve already eaten.”
A loud rasping buzz rang out across the platform, quelling the hubbub of the party. At the other end of the platform, the royal guards had taken up positions on the footbridge stairs and raised their rocket launchers onto their shoulders. For a horrifying instant, Suzy thought they were going to open fire, but then they put their lips to a curly brass tube sticking out of the side of the launcher and blew. The buzzing noise rang out of the end of the weapons, which weren’t weapons at all, she realized: They were instruments. Just not particularly tuneful ones.
“What are those things?” she asked.
“Kazookas,” said Wilmot. Then, with a note of excitement, “It’s starting!”
The courtier appeared at the top of the steps.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” he proclaimed through a small megaphone. “His Trolltanic Majesty, ruler of all Troll Territory, King Amylum the Third.”
The guards gave another blast of their kazookas, and the courtier stepped aside.
Suzy rose up on tiptoes, waiting for the king to appear at the top of the stairs. Instead, something small and round came zooming through the air over the walkway, trailing smoke and sparks in its wake. It moved too quickly for Suzy to make out many details, but she got a flash of pearly teeth set in a manic grin, and a burst of laughter as the thing shot by overhead. It looped the loop above the crowd, eliciting a chorus of oohs and aahs. Then everyone ducked as it swooped low above their heads before touching down at the foot of the stairs in a halo of smoke.
“Thank you, Trollville!” said a voice from inside the smoke. It cleared to reveal the king, down on one knee, head bowed, and his arms extended in triumph.
He was short and round as a ball, dressed in a silver-sequined jumpsuit and matching crash helmet. White lace frothed out of his sleeves and collar, and a jet pack that looked like it had been fashioned from an antique radiator and several French horns was strapped to his back. His skin was bubble-gum pink, accentuated by a black beauty mark in the shape of a heart on one cheek.
The crowd burst into applause as he got to his feet and removed his crash helmet, revealing a perfectly bald scalp. The courtier hurried to his side and presented him with a wig of jet-black hair, teased into a quiff so enormous that Suzy wondered if it hadn’t been done with magic. A tiny crown sat atop the quiff, like a surfer riding the crest of a tsunami.
“You all came to see me!” said the king, settling the wig into place before blowing flamboyant kisses to the crowd. “I’m humbled, ladies and gentlemen. Humbled!” This display continued as the courtier took him gently by the elbow and led him toward a low stage that had been set up in front of the Express.
“Wow,” said Suzy. “That’s not the sort of entrance I expected.”
“Me neither,” said Wilmot. “He usually messes up the landing. He had to conduct his last event from the back of an ambulance.”
* * *
An entourage appeared at the top of the stairs and followed in the king’s wake. Suzy recognized Gertrude Grunt, Wilmot’s mother, former Postmistress General and current matron of the Old Guard’s rest home, resplendent in a set of Impossible Postal Service dress robes. Beside her was a stocky troll with purplish-blue skin, in identical robes, festooned with medals.
“That’s Mr. Prott, the current Postmaster General,” whispered Wilmot. “They say he once franked five thousand letters in a single hour. By hand!”
An assortment of minor dignitaries and hangers-on then followed.
“Would the crew of the Express please take their places so the ceremony may begin,” the courtier called.
“Quick!” said Suzy. “Where’s your Postmaster’s uniform?”
“I stowed it under one of the buffet tables,” said Wilmot. “But are you sure I—”
“Yes!” she said, pushing him in that direction. “Now go!”
She watched, nervous, as the procession made its way through the crowd to the stage, where a row of folding chairs had been set up along the back. King Amylum, meanwhile, watched as his courtier produced a bicycle pump and connected it to a crumpled ball of sparkly golden plastic that sat in the middle of the stage. He began pumping, and with much wheezing and squeaking, the ball slowly expanded into the form of a bulbous armchair. Suzy remembered her dad spending the best part of a week lounging in something similar in a swimming pool on vacation once. She checked and wasn’t surprised to see a cup holder molded into the armrest.
