Author's Note: Many thanks to zanderthegreat and Iolo for the kind feedback. This one's for you.

Disclaimer: Lamentations to the authors of any works referenced in the following.

Chapter Three – Wuthering Plights

The case of The                   is a confounding and intriguing one. In situ at the Great Library, the lost Bronte has been perused by numbers in excess of 700,000. It is of considerable note that many of these visitors are themselves literary in origin. For the inhabitants of BookWorld, viewing the lost Bronte could be construed as a sobering experience. A memento mori, the tome is a macabre aide memoire to the PageBound, an dark assurance that they too can die as swiftly or painfully as any Outlander.

The PageRun Paradox - Prof. J Moriarty


To be honest, the whole ye olde worlde thing isn't really my scene.

Edmunds(sic) Field was leafy, green, and populated by the ilk of oik usually hunkered in third-rate adaptations of Austen or Thackery. There was even a Maypole jutting from the Green. It was all revoltingly quaint.

Naturally, Agent Iron Dick was lapping up the ambience but the slack-lipped bumpkins made me feel about as welcome as super-glue in a knackers yard.

'Don't misinterpret simple curiosity, Agent Belle,' advised Dick in his most condescending tone (and he had quite a selection). 'These folk don't often see Jurisfiction Agents.'

'They know who we are?'

'Of course. All the villages are low-grade generics. Most were harvested from surplus Hardy novels.'

'So these yokels are from Wessex?'

'Far from the Madding Crowd, to be precise. We managed to encourage Master Rigby Junior, subliminally of course, to incorporate a variation of the title into Randland. The success of the scheme has exceeded expectation.'

He would say that; the ploy was doubtless championed by Goliath. The cost-effective ones usually were.

'Let me do the talking,' reminded Iron. We had stopped outside The Brandywine Inn – it looked the usual spit 'n sawdust complete with mock-Tudor façade.

A scatter of menfolk dotted the gloomy bar like any number of boozy early-birders showing at a fleapit near you. Smoke wafted beneath the rafters along with the tart tang of ale and mead. It was a heady mix - whatever they were puffing wasn't tobacco.

'Remember scrumpy?' said one rheum-eyed codger to another in the monotone of oft-aired chagrin. 'An' I don' 'arf miss a nice rum an' Coke.'

'Aye. An' pork-scratchins,' mourned his chum as they gazed moodily into their tankards.

Dick was heading for a corner where, veiled by swirls of bluish pipe-smoke, a shady figure lurked.

'Agent Belle,' Dick murmured. 'This is Lan.'

I thrust out my hand. 'Nice to meet you, Al.'

Dick wilted as Lan shook my hand in much the same way a mastiff might shake a Yorkshire terrier.

Agent Iron excused himself under the pretence of getting a drink. I sat and eyed my new friend warily. He was tall and blocky, like a statue awaiting the last few nicks of a chisel. I got the impression the word 'stony' featured in his description a lot.

'So, you've got one of those nifty cloaks too, eh?'

Lan let the glaringly-obvious speak for itself.

'Got any spare?'

'No.'

'What's it made of? Mithril?'

'No.'

'Are you always this verbose?'

'Yes.'

I decided to change tack; by charging his monosyllabic grunts with meaning, surely I could gain some valuable insight into this intriguing man.

'Have you been a Warder long?'

I endured a blank look. 'As long as necessary.' He elaborated enigmatically.

'I bet you get to kill things a lot.'

Lan ignored me majestically.

'Is your Aes Sedai here?'

'Yes.' Lan assured assertively.

'I bet she's pretty.'

'     ,' retorted Lan silently.

'Excuse me.'

I made it to the bar, no easy feat when trying to stay afloat on a Swiftian tide of adverbs.

'Jordan actually writes about that bloke?' I asked Agent Dick, jerking my thumb in Lan's general direction.

'Lan's fairly typical for a stoic-heroic B-class. The A's are more interactive.'

'A's?'

Before he could pounce on the opportunity to condescend, a small kerfuffle erupted behind us.

A thin, harried-looking youth had charged into the room. After skittering around a few tables he made a dash for our tense, terse warder.

'Master Lan,' gasped the boy. 'Have you seen Rand?'

'No,' said Lan.

The boy's dark eyes were darting like startled voles. 'Perrin, must find Perrin,' he gabbled before bolting from the inn.

'That's not a good sign.'

I squinted at Agent Iron. 'Why?'

'He must have already seen the Black Rider. And no,' he drawled. 'That does not mean a Nazgul.'

Lan was beside us in an instant. 'Nazgul?'

'Keep your cloak on, Al. Same genre, different book.'

Lan's face couldn't manage 'mollified' but his fingers relaxed on his slinky sword. 'Let's go,' he growled.

'He was an A-class?' I guessed as we followed Lan into the weak sunlight. 'That wittery little twerp?'

'The sprawling scope of this series means he will have aged at least three years by the final battle. I'm sure you can appreciate that a certain amount of development can occur in that time.'

'What, puberty?'

A concentrated snort flared Agent Iron's shapely nostrils. 'Excuse me.'

He sort of refused to speak after that so I strolled behind and tried to entertain myself. I had just ankle-swept a strutting duck when something caught my eye. Well both of them, to be pedantic.

It was a group of people holding signs behind a wicker fence. I spotted an emblazoned 'Al Can Crown Me Anytime' while another screamed 'Tug This, Wisdom'. The second was punctuated by a doodle that was ragingly phallic.

I plucked at Dick's sleeve.

'What now?'

'There are people following us. With placards.'

''I saw the White Tower and All I Got was this Stupid Cloak'? 'Justice for Asmo'? 'Free the Shayol Ghul One'?'

'That sort of thing, yes.'

'Lan-Lusters, Neo-Nynaevists, Friends of the Forsaken.' His lips thinned. 'As long as they don't bother the A-class characters they're free to petition at will.'

'Tourists! That's ridiculous!'

'It's all above board, I assure you.'

'Let me guess; Goliath's latest money-spinner, right?'

'The corporation does not endorse their behaviour,' said Dick stiffly.

'But still makes a packet from sneaking them in?'

'The visitors have the requisite documentation. I have no further comment on the matter.'

Dick swished his fancy cloak about him and strode on with his head held high (about six feet from the ground, to be exact).

Amazed, I took my first proper look around the square and spotted two girls in dinky uniforms pointing, giggling and generally swooning over an oblivious Lan. Nearby, an apple-cheeked merchant flogged chestnuts to an awestruck youth wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with 'RAFO!'.

I felt a mortal rush of postmodernism – salvation was a sniff away.

'Agent Belle! I was becoming increasingly fraught.'

'It's good to hear your voice, Jherek.'

'Thank you, dearest. Would you like me to sing?'

'Maybe later. How's the portal situation?'

'Not yet resolved, my voluminous vexed vixen.'

'Best get a wiggle on. I've got a scoop here; those bastards at Goliath have started whoring Randland.'

'Just a moment, Agent Belle.' There was a muffled discussion before Jherek announced, 'I venture you're mistaken, loveliest of liberties. I just had a chat with Mister Schitt and he assures me his parentage is wholly legitimate.'

'Jherek, is someone from Goliath with you?'

'Indeed!'

'And can they hear me right now?'

'Yes,' announced an unfamiliar and decidedly flat voice

'Shit.'

'Yes?' enquired the voice.

'No, not you Mister Schitt.' I scrubbed a hand over my face. 'Jherek, stop playing with Goliath and get to work on that portal.'

'Yes, Agent Belle.'

I tugged my now scraggly braid and cursed. With such a prestigious name, Schitt had to be a Goliath big-wig. Worse still, I had been snippy with Jherek who was trying his best, albeit in his arse-backward way, to get me out of this mess. There was only one person I should be taking this out on. I caught up with Dick and delivered a swift punt to his shin.

'Better now?'

I gave him my sweetest smile. 'Much.'

'Hurry, Outlander.' Lan's stork-like strut had put him some way in front. 'I seek to return before dark.'

'Why?'

'It's Winternight, Agent Belle.' Dick spoke with the air of one admonishing a puppy for cavorting in its own faeces. 'All hell is going to break loose.'

'Then why are we leaving?'

'In the event of a mishap, the Taren Ferry was decided the most opportune site for an emergency prose portal. My colleagues will explain more upon our return to the Outland.'

'I can barely contain myself.'

Dick flexed his nostrils and strode to Lan. After a moment, they began to talk in hushed tones. I skulked closer.

'....another GG1 will be just as useless and you know I've searched this book to the Eye and back.' Iron paused then whispered, 'I've got the go-ahead to scout tGH.'

Now that made no sense at all. I edged nearer still.

'Trust me,' hissed Iron. 'I'll keep going until every page has been picked bare.'

'Then what?'

Iron answered Lan's growl with a resigned sigh.

'Look, will one of you sacks of testosterone tell me what's going on?'

Silence.

Scowling, I ripped a leaf from a roadside hedge. The curl of green crisped in my hand, grew white and frail as parchment. I gasped as the paper wisped to grey and four small letters drifted to the ground to spell f l a e.

'Something amiss, Agent?'

Both Lan and Iron were looking at me now. My fellow Agent's face was both wry and wretched.

'It's dying.'

Iron nodded. 'Makes the Blight look like Miracle-Gro, doesn't it?'

'Ye-es.' I blagged.

'You're going to need help, Liberty.' Dick's smile was sardonic. 'Hope your tutor's up to the task.'

'He's one of the best.' No one of accuse old Liberty Belle of disloyalty, no sir-ee.

I uncrossed my fingers as the two men walked on.

The flae – what was left of it – lay ruined at my feet. I toed the forlorn letters softly, winced as they crumbled out of existence.

Something was fizzing like neon in my mind; Moriarty's sombre dissection of the missing Bronte.

No one knew whether Emily, Anne or Charlotte wrote The                  . Thanks to the PageRun of its major character, even the title was a mystery. All that remained of The                   was a handful of valiant vowels and a page of purple prose that had now faded to dim lavender. Like a wheel without its hub, the entire book had disintegrated when the main character got itchy-feet. I suddenly felt a little ill.

'Why bother bringing in GG1,' I demanded, suddenly furious that the Ginger Generic had lost his life for nothing. 'You knew it would make no difference.'

'Goliath was aware of the plan's shortcomings but your precious Jurisfiction insisted.'

Iron paused as though expecting a pithy retort. I decided to disappoint him.

'The boy in the tavern was ta'veren,' he went on, clearly unnerved by my apparent complicity. 'One of three who unwittingly twist destiny wherever they go. Without Rand, the two remaining ta'veren have nothing to be drawn to, compelled by. They will be free to deviate from the plot. The GG1 was a proposed decoy to try and maintain some intertextual normalcy.'

'So that boy scooting 'round like a toddler on tartrazine is ta'veren? And Rand is one as well?'

'The most powerful of the lot.'

'If he can change destiny, then what—?' I licked my lips. 'What if he leaps into another book?'

'That's not the worst of it, Agent Belle. Our ginger PageRunner pulls the other two like leaves in a whirlpool. If he stays rogue for long enough, one of the other ta'veren may follow Rand's lead.'

Agent Iron's spiel ended with significant look. For once I could understand why he had that pickle lodged up his arse.

It was a funereal bunch that reached the ferry. The portal was there; glowing, humming and looking fairly conspicuous on the breezy riverbank.

'After you, Agent Belle.'

I squeezed my eyes shut and stepped into the portal, emerged with a glum plop....and frowned.

Instead of Jherek's cheery study I found myself in a round stone room furnished with owls. They hooted and meeped as I glared at the two men standing before me on the feathery floor.

'Where the Hades am I?'

'Agent Belle.' The taller, thinner of the two strode towards me. 'Sorry about the inconvenience.'

I dodged his clammy handshake. 'Just answer the question, Slim.'

'We would prefer to keep that classified for the moment, Agent,' came a familiar voice. It was the same strange blend of savage urbanity I had heard through my communicator.

'You....shit.'

'Now, Agent Belle, there's no need to be—'

'It's quite all right, Mister Pugh.' Schitt was smiling as he stepped closer. 'I believe Agent Belle is entitled to vent her spleen a little.'

'I'd rather vent yours.'

Schitt blinked, then, with forced jollity, exclaimed, 'Ah! Here's Rick.'

Rick? I turned to see Iron Dick step from the portal. 'Misters Schitt, Pugh.' He inclined his head to the suits.

'Everything proceed as planned?'

'Mostly without incident, Mister Schitt sir, save for the loss of a GG1.'

'Yes, a terrible shame,' lamented Mister Pugh. Even without the ridiculous accent it was clear he was from the Peoples Republic of Wales. He was dressed like a fading maths teacher; beige brogues and blue suit do not a sound fashion statement make.

'Will someone please tell me what's going on?'

Schitt straightened his Goliath lapel-pin with ostentatious pride. 'You are in our secret rendezvous location, Agent Belle. Don't worry, it's perfectly safe - no matter how peculiar our actions, the inhabitants won't bat an eyelid.'

'Where's my tutor?'

Schitt smiled. 'Mister Carnelian had an altercation with some fauna. He should disentangle himself shortly.'

Apart from the owls shuffling and pootling their complaints, there was an uncomfortable silence.

'You still haven't told me what's going on.'

Schitt's smile withered. 'You're role in this operation has reached fruition, Agent Belle.'

'You can't just cut me out now!'

Rick – sorry Dick – cleared his throat. 'I'm afraid she's right, sir. I've already named her mission-partner.'

'Then take it back.'

'Difficult, sir. I believe she knows too much to be excluded.'

'Richard, Richard. Why would you do such a thing?'

Dick shuffled his feet amongst the feathers. 'It was a mistake, uncle....I mean, sir.'

Uncle? Mistake? Git.

'Very well, Richard.' Schitt said wearily. 'I suppose her presence will serve suitable penance for that impetuous streak.'

I'd seen more spontaneity in dry rot.

'Excuse me.' A small voice enquired. None of us had noticed the door creep open or the young boy peering at us through round-rimmed glasses. 'I've a letter – my owl, he's up there. Could I jus—?'

'Teachers meeting,' Schitt snapped.

The boy flapped his parchment limply. 'But it's very importan—'

'Avada Kedavra!'

There was a faint whoosh as the boy legged it.

'Oh dear. I hope he's not going to fetch that terribly bossy creature,' fretted Pugh.

'Right,' announced a suddenly nervous-looking Schitt. 'I'm sure you two are exhausted. Get some rest. Ms Belle, I'll arrange some back-up for you; please acquaint them by the morrow.'

I grunted but the small man's attention was already elsewhere; a puff of green cloud had nosed through the window.

'All right,' fumed Schitt. 'Who did a spell?'

I grinned as a dinky locomotive, chuffling a plume of emerald steam, hovered into view.

A delighted Mister Carnelian stood beaming from the helm of his little train. 'Agent Belle!' He swept off his top-hat and made a deep bow. 'You are indeed a rare sight.'

I laughed, clambered over the sill, took a deep breath and hopped onto the miniature engine. Jherek hugged at least seven years from me as Agent Iron and the other Goliath goons looked on disapprovingly.

'We will brief you on the mission at oh-seven-hundred hours, Ms Belle. Please be prompt.'

'Untwist your knickers, Schitt. Oh, and Dick?'

Iron quirked an expectant brow.

'Keep your pecker up.'

I winked at Jherek and, still grinning, we soared into the cyan sky.

'Why the delay, tutor mine?' I shouted over the whistling wind.

'I was postponed by a mischievous tree, most radiant of virtues. It seemed very fond of my locomotive.'

'Rightly so,' I enthused, immediately smitten with Jherek's Chitty-Chitty-Choo-Choo. 'Where are we off?'

'To the greatest of Great Libraries. Mister Downe has reported the arrival of two ladies intent on meeting you.'

Not even that could raise a gripe; I never realised scudding through the clouds in a flying train could be so cathartic. I flung my arms to the heavens. 'Then onwards and upwards my dearest Mister Carnelian.'

'Wonderful! Mistresses Mary and Sue are so looking forward to meeting you!'

Mary? Sue?

'Bollocks.'