FROM THE LIGHTHOUSE

everyone gathered at the wharf when the gold-hulled ice cruiser docked. Not because they'd been told to, though some people thought there had been some sort of instruction, or invitation. It was simply curiosity.

The Kranu hunters had met the yacht some five relgues offshore and, finding the Kranu refusing to rise through the hot holes and the day dull, had formed up around it as an escort. The villagers, seeing the hunters skating in two lines on either side of a great vessel with sun-colored sails, had naturally come to see the hunters' prize.

Marcus Kilman saw it quite differently. From the poop of the Mercurial Gadfly he waved left-handed, in the manner of a ruler to newfound vassals. His right hand crept finger by finger between the buttons of his crisp white suit. In his gold-heeled boots he was five foot one, and thanks to a nightly exercise with lead sinkers his earlobes were almost pendulous enough to be handsome.

When the Mercurial Gadfly finished tying up at the wharf that poked out of the island's Summer Field into the ice, the crew paraded on the foredeck, the ex-Senatorial Navy bosun plying his whistle in what Kilman believed to be a salute, but was actually the opening bars of the theme from the comic opera The Great Kranu from the Deep. As always, the crew smirked solemnly, laughter submerged in hacking coughs. Kilman frequently had his Bonesman check them for lung rot or throat curse. He was afraid of any kind of infection, physical or intellectual. The Bonesman never found either sort aboard Kilman's ship.

Kilman descended from the poop, reappearing at the gang-way. The waiting crowd of islanders, silent out of politeness rather than awe, pleased him immensely. Respect! At last he had found somewhere untainted by egalitarian ideals. He would be king, and they would be his peasantry.

"People of Lisden!" he declaimed, his voice breaking pitch like a badly blown trumpet. "I am Marcus Kilman, and I have purchased this island. I am your new owner."

The islanders greeted this disclosure with equanimity. Kilman had allocated ten seconds for rapturous applause but resumed speaking after only six seconds of embarrassing silence.

"People of Lisden! I will bring you a new era of peace and prosperity, lower taxes, and good government."

This provoked a reaction of sorts. A murmur ran through the audience like a water spider skidding from lily to lily or, in this case, from each mainland speaker in the crowd. Lisden already had peace; as much prosperity as they could handle without having greed; taxes were nonexistent, as the Kranu cooperative provided all services from its profits (if any); and the only government was the board of the cooperative, which included every adult islander. Theoretically, there was a main-land government department that looked after their affairs, and the Humble and Obedient Senate of the People beyond that, but both had lost the Lisden file years ago, and consequently denied the island's existence.

Kilman saw this reaction as suppressed joy at the good news, and was about to launch into further grandiose announcements when a woman stepped out of the crowd and onto the gangplank. She was much younger than Kilman —but the sort of woman who could be anywhere between sixteen and thirty and very striking in looks and stature. She was at least six foot two, and looked taller in her plain black dress, with a long silver scarf draped over one shoulder like an arrow, emphasizing her height.

"Sir," she said, in Mainland so untainted by accent that it was clearly not her native tongue. "May I ask from whom you purchased this island?"

"Why, little lady," Kilman answered, looking down on her from the high end of the gangplank, hoping she wouldn't come up any farther, "I purchased this island from the Lisden Fish Export Company, for the sum of one point seven five million gold bezants."

"Ah," said the woman, who knew that the Lisden Fish Export Company had been superseded by the Lisden Fish Enterprise Cooperative one hundred seventy-six years ago, and so couldn't sell anybody anything. She turned and spoke briefly to the crowd in their native tongue, explaining that the poor short man with the badly fitting toupee was a crazy millionaire who'd been the victim of a confidence trickster. They should humor him, provided it was not too difficult. Spare him embarrassment, she asked. Be kind, and in due course we will tell him the truth about his purchase.

The crowd nodded, waved, or spoke their agreement and dispersed, laughing and talking among themselves. Kilman watched his audience disappear, disgruntlement showing in the folds of flesh about his mouth.

"Why are they going?" he snapped. "I didn't say that they could go."

"They're going to prepare a proper welcome for our new owner," the woman invented, seeing that he was quite hurt, and a little angry.

She felt sorry for him, having to wrap an ego the size of the legendary Great Kranu Hunter of Remm in flesh not much bigger than the Kranu lures the hunters put down the hot holes. She took a few steps back down the gangplank and slumped a little.

"Who are you anyway?" the proud owner of Lisden asked as she retreated. He suddenly felt an interest in her now, even an incipient fondness. She wasn't as arrogant-looking as he'd first thought.

"My name is… in Mainland, you would say Malletta, or Maryen… even perhaps Margon."

"Okay, Margalletta," said Kilman, who only ever remembered numbers properly. "Why don't you get hold of a wheeler and show me over my new property?"

"It would be my pleasure," replied Margalletta (as she was now resigned to being named). She slumped a little more, and gripped the rail of the gangplank as if overcome by weakness.

Copyright © 2005 by Garth Nix