The SatNav of Doom: The Banned Underground, #5

By Will Macmillan Jones

'Tolkien meets Spinal Tap!'

Once again, the Dark Lord has a cunning plan. And once again someone else is going to have to carry it out for him: that's what henchmen are for, isn't it? To hench? Oh, and to be sent on the risky missions…

Not that this one should be risky. What could be easier than secretly inserting computer spyware into a laptop, using a Banned Underground gig as a diversion? The Tax Office probably does it all the time. But the Tax Office is not normally being chased for an unpaid credit card bill for a huge round of drinks. (That's the politicians. And the henchmen, of course.)

And it isn't just any laptop the Dark Lord wants to spy on either. The Government is struggling to find the way out of the Recession without a road map, and what better aid than a SatNav linked to a computer? If the Dark Lord can get inside information on future economic policy, maybe he can clean up and buy a new Mercedes.

Then there is a mystery: where did the time-travelling SatNav come from in the first place? What if the original owner wants it back?

Magic, mayhem and macro-economic policy collide in the latest surreal instalment of the acclaimed hilarious fantasy series, The Banned Underground.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Macmillan Jones
• Release date: Sep 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502279408

Will Macmillan Jones

Will Macmillan Jones lives in Wales, a lovely green verdant land full of myth, magic, legends and beers. When not writing he is usually to be found lost on top of a hill in the middle of nowhere (with the aid of his GPS) looking for dragons.  He hasn't found one yet, but it is only a matter of time...

Book preview

DEDICATION

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What, me again? Honestly, can’t the author do anything fer himself these days? I mean he’s always following us around, yer know, with that little black note book in his hand. And he keeps on scribbling in it. How he’s not been arrested by now, I don’t know.

That’s not a bad thought, really. Mebbe I could get him in the accountant’s office to do something on those lines, because I tell you, me and the boys are getting fed up. He follows us about all the time, and then emails his publisher—who must be as gullible as they come, I tell yer—and pretends he made all this stuff up. When really it’s us doing all the hard work. I can feel a good frogging coming on for someone.

Anyway, there’s an ugly rumour around town. No, not that rumour. The other one. That one saying he has some online friends who like ter read an’ write fantasy. Gumbee Fantasy Writers Guild he said they were. I was going to tell you wot we thought they were, but the publisher told me—what were it? ‘That many rude words in one sentence is enough to have the book restricted to the high street adult shops so change it right now.’ So I can’t.

Whatever. He says this book’s fer his online mates in Gumbee Fantasy Writers Guild, but we expect it’s a lie. They’re probably a cover fer a Russian bridal website or something equally nasty. Me husband, Ben, he never lets me see what he’s been looking at online so that just proves it. He always says it’s exotic frogs, but I don’t believe him. Ben that is. I wouldn’t believe anything that author says either. After all, he pretends this is fantasy, when we all know it should be on the  True Life shelves.  You have been warned.

Grizelda

The Cast List

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The Goodies. Or the Baddies. During this novel, they entered into a serious demarcation dispute with the author. Which (as usual) he lost ...

The Grey Mage  Being as good as he can at bossing the bad

The Watches

Ned  His underling, getting better at being bad.

Bill  Assistant underling, not bad at being bad.

Ben  A taxi driver naturally talented with badness.

The SatNav  Undecided over which direction to turn.

The Other Baddies, just to show how confusing these definitions can be. They are meant to be Goodies, at least in their own view.

The Edern

Once a force for good in the world, until someone turned up the volume control by mistake while playing Money For Nothing. Now they are International Merchant Bankers operating from an enchanted Fairy Hill in North Wales. Negotiations to relocate it to the Channel Islands or Barbados are progressing ...

Lord Blear  A leading merchant banker.

Lord Telem  A merchant banker being led.

Lord Telstar  A banker being led astray.

Lady Hankey  The stray banker with a passion.

Lady Meillar  Passionate about being impassionate.

And, because I’m just a soppy old romantic at heart,[1] (probably because of quantum. It’s an infinite universe, right? So it must be true somewhere.)

‘Poison’ Ivy  An advert for matrimony

Gloria  Empowered and swayed by the advertising.

Dai  Powerless to resist.

And, because it is an infinite universe,

The X-Doctor  Who?

The Prologue

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The quintessential London Black Cab taxi drew to a halt beside the heavy iron gates that protected Downing Street from the justifiable derision of the general populace. After inspecting the registration number of the Black Cab, the armed police guards assumed the carefully blank expression of those who don’t want to have seen anything sensitive while on duty.

The taxi driver turned to his passengers, Can I have me fee, Gov?

One portly, well-dressed passenger pulled a chequebook from his pocket.

I’d prefer the usual payment, please, said the taxi driver sternly. I don’t trust your cheques.

The second passenger, who was looking grim and worried by turns, opened his battered red briefcase which was embossed with a gold crown, and took out a small cardboard box which he passed to the driver. Then he started shoving his handwritten notes into the briefcase. The taxi driver opened the box, and smiled at the bar of gold inside.

Have you got to retire, Jim? asked the first passenger.

Sorry, Gov. I’m seventy tomorrow, and Health and Safety will have me badge.

But you do vital work for the country!

Can’t argue with Health and Safety, Gov. How about a last tip? the driver asked.

Yes, please! the passengers replied in unison.

Madcap Harry to win the two-thirty at Cheltenham races.

The taxi drove off, leaving the passengers standing on the pavement outside Number Ten Downing Street.

The Governor of The Bank of England turned to a very worried Chancellor of Her Majesty’s Exchequer.

If Jim’s really retiring, there’s only one thing to save the economy.

What’s that? asked the Chancellor.

We’d best put the last of the country’s gold reserves on Madcap Harry.

Chapter One

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The Lake District of the British Isles is officially an Area of Outstanding National Beauty with all those hills and fells being, well, beautifully outstanding. Outstanding too are the lakes, and the streams and ghylls that feed water to the lakes. Also outstanding (in the personal and particular opinion of the drenched junior Dark Wizard presently squelching his way across an exposed and sodden hillside) was the rain.

Thunder crashed and roared across the valleys, lightning crackled and flared but failed to ignite anything, probably because of the rain. In the public houses the customers shuddered, and attempted to become as wet inside as they were destined to become on their outsides during their personal mystic quests to find their own homes at closing time.

The lightning flashed and stabbed, illuminating in a last eldritch glow the seven cloaked and hooded shapes looming silently among the Standing Stones of the Old Ones’ Circle, high on a hillside overlooking the town.

The junior Dark Wizard shivered, and not just from the cold. Swallowing, he drew himself up to stand tall within his own cloak and hood and strode (or rather splashed) out into the circle to stand before the figures. He looked around, but their faces were hidden within their hoods. Clearly visible however were their Staffs of Power that slowly swung downwards until the business ends pointed directly at him.

There was a moment of stillness, the tableau again lit by a flash of lightning, according to dramatic narrative necessity and the large bribe paid to the Storm God earlier that day. Then the silence was broken.

For Heaven’s sake, Ned, what time do you call this? We’ve been out here for ages waiting for you to show up!

Sorry, boss. It were that big tax return you gave me to finish at the office. Half the stuff was scattered all over yer desk, an’ I had to get Gloria yer secretary ter help me read some of your writing.

Yes, well, that’s office business. This is the Dark Coven, now.

But we always mix business with pleasure! At least, that’s what you said when yer had me put that spell on him with the fish n chip shop who wouldn’t pay his bill.

What did yer do to him, Ned? asked another cloaked figure, greatly interested.

Let’s just say he got battered, shall we? Like his cod.

There was a cough from the other side of the circle. Let’s get this done, Grey Mage, shall we?

Yes, came an unidentified voice in agreement. It’s nearly last orders in the Red Lion.

There was a certain shuffling movement, which stilled as the senior staff swept around the ring before returning to point at Ned.

Grey Mage, intoned the senior staff swinger, deliver the verdict upon this our acolyte.

The Grey Mage coughed, loudly. Ned. We, the leaders of the Dark Coven, have considered your progress and watched with interest and respect your work in training but feel that for your next promotion, either a further time of instruction is needed, or alternatively you could perform some salutary feat.

Ned considered saluting with his feet, but thought better of it.

The Grey Mage coughed again, and continued, So we will meet again in three months’ time to consider the ways and means by which you may demonstrate your prowess.

The seven staffs stopped pointing at Ned, and all pointed at the sky, which obediently produced another low, rumbling growl.

That reminds me, said the Chief Warlock, as the echoes eventually died away. I’m hungry and we can just make the chip shop on the way down, if we don’t hang about.

The Dark Coveners dispersed rapidly into the night, arguing about the wisdom of that choice if Ned’s spell was still active on the head cook, and the merits of the pizza alternative. The Grey Mage and his senior employee were left alone on the hillside.

Sorry, Ned, said The Grey Mage, taking Ned’s arm and walking off in a different direction to the others. Ned followed, having a close attachment to his arm. If it’s any consolation, he added, I was looking for an upgrade myself and was refused.

You, boss? Ned looked at his employer, whose expression was unreadable beneath his concealing hood.

Me. Are you desperate to get home, Ned?

Home? No. Pub? Well ...

I’ve got a bottle back in the desk.

Ned looked unconvinced.

Not the one with the Japanese scotch I keep for the clients, a real whisky.

Right, said Ned.

Without more conversation, but a lot of dark thoughts (what else would Dark Wizards have?), they left the hillside and trudged through the rain towards the offices. A last flash of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the hand-painted sign over the door.

TGM ACCOUNTANTS AND TAX ADVISORS.

The Grey Mage pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, letting them both out of the rain. Ned followed his boss down the dim-lit corridor, their footfalls ringing hollowly in the empty building.

The Grey Mage shoved his office door open with a muttered curse—he didn’t want Ned to know the counter to the spell he used to protect his office at night from unwanted intrusion—and flung himself into his chair. Ned grabbed one of the less comfortable client chairs, especially designed in the factory to create a feeling of unease and inferiority in the occupant. The deluxe models also had a large dried pea in the seat cushion, to ensure that the clients would have to squirm uncomfortably throughout the interview: but The Grey Mage knew that he could make his clients squirm without artificial aids and had opted for the cheaper model.

What were you after then, Boss? asked Ned, curious.

I wanted a transport upgrade. My old Mercedes estate has never been the same since that dragon landed on top of it. And since you lot failed to steal Santa’s Sleigh for me last year, I’m still in need of a replacement.

What did they say to yer?

That since I seemed to drive as many miles as the Starship Enterprise, maybe I should send you to steal that instead.

It might cost less to run in fuel, that’s true, what with it having a warped drive.

It’s not as warped as my estate car. It has a twenty-degree list now when I get in it. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there.

Like the Enterprise, then, muttered Ned, but The Grey Mage ignored him.

What we need to do is ... started The Grey Mage and broke off to treat his employee to a very hard stare, entirely free of charge.

Yes, Boss?

The Grey Mage swallowed. He was about to commit a treasonable act against his coven leader, and if unsuccessful could be remanded for pointed questioning by same—probably with a sharp point.

We need to take over. You and me.

I’d prefer an ‘I’ there, Boss.

So will the coven leader if he catches us. At least one eye from each of us.

No, I meant you and I. Not you and me.

Look, we both know that the author is useless at grammar. Focus, please. Are you in with me Ned, or not?

Course I am, Boss. You’ve been good ter me. I’m behind yer all the way.

Good! The Grey Mage leaned back in his chair, reflecting that someone who was behind you all the way was in a prime position to stab you in the back. He leaned forwards, reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out two glasses and a bottle. He splashed some whisky into each glass, and took a drink first just in case Ned (like Elvis) had a suspicious mind.

Ned had been suspicious, but relaxed slightly and drank. A moment later, he coughed, chocked, and spat the mouthful into the conveniently placed waste bin, which began to melt.

What’s in this? he managed.

Whisky. It’s a local brew.

We haven’t got a distillery here!

Gloria the dragon receptionist has. In her garage. The Grey Mage sipped again, showing every evidence of enjoyment. I admit that it’s an acquired taste.

I’m amazed that anyone can survive long enough to acquire it, grumbled Ned, and took a more cautious sip. There was brief, but still ominous, silence.

So, we both need something spectacular to show the Coven, The Grey Mage said. Ned nodded and frowned.

The Amulet of Kings would be just the ticket. That mystical artefact which provides power to the whole of the Dwarf mansion, The Helvyndelve, without them having to use an electricity meter. With that in my hands, I could push Simpson down the slope to early retirement in Hell—or to be more evil yet the local Nursing Home—and take his place as coven leader.

And? prompted Ned.

And? And what? asked The Grey Mage. Oh yes, and promote you to fill the sudden vacancy of course, Ned.

Ned nodded. Now he knew what he was going to get out of it, he was still right behind The Grey Mage. Which was what concerned his boss, of course. They eyed each other.

Magical bargain? asked The Grey Mage.

Right, said Ned. They both spat on their palms, and briefly clasped hands.

The Amulet of Kings, mused Ned. I held it in me hands, once. I can’t forget how much power it had.

And you let Lakin, King Under The Mountain, get it back from you.

I was outnumbered, said Ned, sulkily.

Let’s see. The Grey Mage had a silky tone of menace in his voice. You only had a few hundred of those special off-world goblins I found for you, a fire troll or two, three rock trolls and an odd Demon on your side.

"Be fair boss. The dwarfs had that blonde teenager with a stroppy attitude, the niece of that witch Grizelda. She could have outnumbered me all on her own. And The Banned Underground were there too. Plus that demon was very odd, yer know."

They’re only musicians. Allegedly.

"Actually, they aren’t bad. But see Boss, the thing is, they drink so much that the spells