Wizard Squared (17 page)
Gerald’s eyes shone like wet blood. “If you’re asking whether I’m prepared to defend myself, Sir Alec, the answer is
yes
. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know why you were sent here? You’re not a paper-pusher, you’re a spy for the Department. A shill. A
stooge
. Well, let’s get one thing straight, shall we? I care as much for the vaunted Department of Thaumaturgy as I do for Holy Shugat and his stupid gods! Where was the Department when I saved the day at Stuttley’s? I’ll tell you where it was, Sir Alec. It was standing behind me kicking me in the ass. Washing its hands of me. And what—now you think I’m going to bow and scrape and hope I’m forgiven for doing what needed to be done here? For saving thousands of lives? Think again. Because the days of kicking Gerald Dunwoody’s ass are
over
.”
Shocked, Monk stepped forward. “Gerald—mate—”
“Don’t
you
bloody start, Monk!” Gerald said viciously. “What would you know about it? The Department’s golden-haired R&D boy. Its resident genius. Born into the right family, with the right connections. You were never
not
going to be asked to join the Worshipful Company, were you?”
What? “Now hang on a minute,” he said, feeling his own temper stir. “Since when did I ever rub your nose in any of that? It’s not
my
fault who my family is, Gerald. I never asked to be born a Markham, did I?”
“Maybe not,” said Gerald, his crimson eyes hateful. “But you never stopped to ask yourself what you were getting out of it, either. All the little lurks and perks of being in the right clan.”
He could feel the others holding their breaths, willing him to back down, to go along, to let it be. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand here and let the man wearing his best friend’s face spout this kind of claptrap and get away with it. Not without being challenged, at least.
And who knows? I might get through to him. Gerald’s still in there somewhere. I know he is. And if I can just get him to hear me…
He shook his head. “That’s not true, mate. I’ve always known I’ve had advantages other wizards never got. The best tutors. The best equipment. A ride to the top in the fast lane. I’ve always known it, and I’ve never been comfortable with it.”
“Oh, Monk, I don’t think you’re that uncomfortable,” said Gerald. “You never looked that uncomfortable from where I was sitting. But I’ll grant you—yes, sometimes I think you felt a
tiny
twinge of guilt.” He shrugged. “But hey, that’s easily fixed, isn’t
it? All you have to do is make friends with the pathetic Third Grader. That way you can pat yourself on the back for not being a bigoted plonker like Errol bloody Haythwaite.”
He heard Reg sigh, brokenly.
“Oh, sunshine…”
“And that’s your theory on why we’re friends, is it?” he said, keeping his voice steady with enormous effort. “That’s how much—how little—you really think of me?”
Gerald’s expression twisted. “Yes, it bloody well is! You don’t understand, Monk. You’ll
never
understand. You can do what you like and get away with all of it. Because you’re a Markham. Because you’re
special
. Well it turns out
I’m
special too,
mate
. So watch yourself. I’m not going to be patronized by anyone ever again. Not even you.
Especially
not
you
.”
The words were like punches from a clenched fist. Swallowing the pain, closing his eyes to the raw antagonism in Gerald’s face, which was worse than the crimson eyes, he took a deep, steadying breath. He could feel Melissande beside him, horrified, and Reg’s dumbstruck distress. Even Sir Alec was taken aback. Even the old man Shugat who’d appeared out of nowhere.
Another deep breath, and he looked at his friend. “I’m sorry, Gerald,” he said, very quietly. “If I made you feel—inadequate—I’m sorry. I never meant to. And I’m not your friend so I can feel superior to a tosser like Errol. I’m your friend because I like you. Because you’re a good, decent man.”
“He
was
a good, decent man,” said Reg, still slumped on Melissande’s shoulder. Her voice trembled. “Before he mucked about with those grimoires. But now he’s—he’s—”
“Don’t,” he said, turning, and touched a fingertip to her wing. “You’ll only make things worse, Reg. He can’t hear us. What’s happened to him—it’s too new. Too overwhelming. Just—don’t take any of it to heart. He’s not himself. He’s not thinking straight. He doesn’t mean any of it.”
“You fool,” said the old man Shugat, and bowed his bald head. “He means every word. Woe to the wizard who has lost his way.”
“
Lost
it?” said Gerald, incredulous. “You’re the fool, old fool. I’ve
found
my way. After bumbling in the dark for years I finally know who I am.
What
I am.”
Sir Alec cleared his throat. “And what would that be, Mr. Dunwoody?”
“The best damn wizard
you’re
ever likely to meet!” said Gerald, and laughed.
“No,” said Shugat heavily. “Not the best. The worst. Boy, you have become an abomination. The bird warned you. Woe to the world that you did not heed its advice.”
Gerald spat on the grass. “If I’d heeded her advice, Shugat, you’d most likely be inside that dragon’s belly right now. You and Zazoor and your silly camel army. Are they still here, by the way? Hiding? That’s wise, if they are. Trust me, if they know what’s good for them they’ll bloody well stay hidden. And if
you
know which side your bread’s buttered on—”
Shugat stabbed the ground with his staff, and the ether trembled. “Think not to threaten a man who talks to the gods!”
“I’m not,” said Gerald, chin lifted, eyes glittering. “I think Lional was right ab cl wp hout you, Shugat. You’re
a man who
claims
to talk to the gods. You’re a man who claims the gods exist. But I don’t see them anywhere. If I’m so bad, so dangerous, an abomination, why haven’t they stopped me? Why didn’t they stop Lional?” Another laugh, sneering and contemptuous. “I’ll tell you why. Because they don’t exist. It’s all a flim-flam, Shugat. And you’re a holy flim-flam man.”
The rough crystal in Shugat’s forehead flared once. Monk winced, feeling the power roil through him. “A sad day, this is,” said the old man. “A day to make the gods weep. Turn back, young wizard. Turn back if you can. For if you do not you will live to see your name a curse.”
Melissande leaped forward as the old man raised his staff. “No—wait—you’re not
leaving
? Shugat, please, you can’t leave. We need you. We need Kallarap’s help.
Stay
.”
Shugat shook his head. “Kallarap is Kallarap, Highness. We dwell in our desert and the world wanders its own way.”
“But—”
Another blinding flash of light and she was talking to herself. Shugat had vanished.
“Silly old fart,” said Gerald, still sneering. “If he and Zazoor think they’re getting those back-tariffs now they’re sorely mistaken. And if they try anything funny you refer them to me, Rupert. I’ll sort them out for you.”
“Thank you, Gerald,” said Rupert faintly. “I’m sure that’s very kind.”
Gerald smoothed his sleeve. “Well, it is, actually. But that’s the whole point, which I rather think you’re
all missing. I
am
kind. And I’m generous—at least to my friends.” He looked around at all their faces. “You are my friends, aren’t you? I’m not mistaken in that?”
Monk swallowed the bile that rose into his throat.
God help us.
“Of course we are, mate.”
Gerald nodded, pleased. “Good. Because you know, you really don’t want to be my enemy. Just ask Lional.” Then he sighed. “And since we’re back speaking of Lional again—and of friendship—” He snapped his fingers once and the long, daggerish teeth piercing Lional’s palms, keeping the unconscious former king pinned to the ground, pulled free and tumbled to the grass. Lional moaned but didn’t open his eyes. “He’s all yours, Rupert. And while I just know you’re going to have a physician look at him, I’ll tell you this for nothing. You’ll be wasting your time. The bastard’s too far gone. Me taking back those stolen
potentias
didn’t agree with him at
all
.”
Rupert, his face ashen, turned to Melissande. “Stay with him, Melly. I’ll go and fetch a handcart or a wheelbarrow or something.”
“All right,” she said, almost tearful. “But hurry.”
“Perhaps you’d care for some assistance, Your Majesty?” said Sir Alec.
“What?” said Rupert, startled. “Oh—yes—er, why not? You can help, if you like.”
Gerald watched them head back to the palace, his crimson gaze amused. “So funny,” he murmured.
“What csizon is?” said Melissande, crouched beside Lional and dabbing his forehead with a surprisingly frilly, feminine hanky.
“Sir Alec, of course,” said Gerald, his eyes wide. “Thinking that I don’t know he’s going to try and
contact the Department. Warn them about me.” He pretended to shiver with fear.
“Take precautions.”
Monk exchanged a look with Reg, who raised one wing in a tiny, tiny shrug. The gesture was eloquent.
You fix this, sunshine. I’m all out of ideas.
“I don’t know, Gerald,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I mean—”
“I do,” said Gerald, the contemptuous amusement dying out of his face, leaving it cold and remote, the face of a stranger. “But that’s all right. Trust me, I have
everything
under control. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Monk. The world will never have to fear a Lional of New Ottosland again.”
Ottosland, nearly three months after the
Wycliffe Airship Company affair
C
ome
on
, Reg, flap
harder!
”
“Harder?
Harder
? If I flap any harder my bloody wings are going to fall off!”
“Then I’ll hex them back on again, all right? Just
flap!
”
“Y’know,” Melissande said to Bibbie, leaning sideways on her stationary pushbike, “this would actually be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous.”
“Hey!” said Monk, turning on her. “If you’ve got breath to talk you’re not pedaling fast enough!
Mush!
”
She glared at her improbable and wild-eyed young man, beads of unladylike sweat dripping off her nose and chin. “I beg your pardon?
What
did you say?”
“You heard me!” Monk retorted, dancing around the experiment-crowded attic like a demented dervish with ants in his pants. “Come on, Mel, this is important.
Pedal
!”
“Why don’t
you
pedal, you lazy plonker!” panted Bibbie, madly pumping the pedals of her own stationary bike. “Why are
we
the ones doing all the work?”
“Good question,” said Gerald, who was busily plunging an etheretic agitator up and down in its housing, by hand. “I wouldn’t mind an answer to that myself.”
Monk dashed along the row of thaumatic containers that he’d crammed up against the attic’s windowless wall, checking each one’s fluctuating capacity gauge.
“You know why! Come on everyone, this is
important
.”
It was Gerald’s turn to mop sweat from his face. “Well, yes, Monk, we know it’s important to
you
. But explain again why it’s important to
us
?”
“
Why
?” Abandoning the slowly-filling containers, Monk gaped at him. “Well—because it’s important to
me
, of course! Gerald, how can you even
ask
me that?”
“He can ask,” said Bibbie, only half-heartedly pedaling now, “because if anyone finds out about this it’ll be our necks in the noose alongside yours!”
“Oh, Bibbie, stop being such an alarmist,” said Monk, and held up an etheretic pressure gauge to the attic’s fitful light. “Nobody’s going to find out.”
Still flapping in front of the pedestal fan Monk had converted into a thaumaturgic generator, Reg hooted breathlessly. “You keep saying that, sunshine,” she panted, “but so far your Department watchdogs have found out about the portable portal, the tetrathaumic compressor, the etheretic particle slicer
and
the go-lightly hex.”
“Yes, but
not
the interdimensional portal opener!”
said Monk, triumphant. “Or the bits and pieces I’ve got going in here. So you see? We’re all perfectly safe.”
“From everything except heart failure; said Bibbie, and collapsed over the handlebars of her pushbike. “That’s it. I’m done.”
“And so am I,” added Reg. She swooped away from the fan, landed heavily on the nearest thaumic container and skewered Monk with a smoldering glare. “Flapped to skin and bone, I am. So mark my words, you bloody young reprobate. There’d better be some prime beef mince in my very near future or there’ll be prime trouble. Savvy?”
Monk ran at her, hands waving. “Reg, Reg, what are you
doing
? Get off there, get
off
! I’ve nearly killed myself building up enough thaumic charge to last the week and you’re going to tip that container over and waste it!”
“
You’ve
nearly—
you
have—” Reg gobbled incoherently, tail rattling. “Right. That’s it. Gerald Dunwoody, get him out of my sight, quick, before I forget I’m a lady!”
“Now, now, everybody, just calm down,” said Gerald, abandoning the agitator and staggering between Reg and Monk, both arms outstretched. “There’s no need for violence.”
“Speak for yourself, sunshine!” Reg screeched. “Right now my need is bloody overwhelming!”
“
Reg
…” He wiped his shirt-sleeve across his sweating face. “Look, I know he’s irritating but fair’s fair. I mean, we did agree to this, didn’t we? We did promise we’d help him out of his temporary difficulty. So I don’t think it’s right to start complaining now.”
“When it comes to difficulties there’s nothing
temporary
about your muggins of a friend!” Reg retorted. “He lurches from one crisis to the next dragging us in his wake! And don’t try to deny it because we both know it’s true!”
“Well, sometimes it’s true,” said Gerald, fighting a grin. “But then you could say the same about me, couldn’t you? In fact, I seem to recall that you do. Quite often.”
“That’s different,” said Reg, sniffing.
Aggrieved, Monk stared at her. “Why? k atsni”
“Because he’s my Gerald, that’s why. And
you
, Monk Markham, are trouble with a capital T on two bandy legs!”
Melissande sighed and let her feet slip off her own pushbike’s pedals.
Time for the voice of reason to speak up.
“I’m not going to say he isn’t, Reg, but he’s
my
trouble on two legs. Which aren’t bandy at all, if you don’t mind. So leave him alone.”
“And get off that container, Reg,
please
,” Monk added. “It’s not designed to take your weight.”
Gerald snatched her up before she could launch herself at Monk with beak and talons. “Settle down, Reg. He didn’t mean it that way.”
“I’m parched,” said Bibbie, still draped over her handlebars. Still managing to look beautiful, of course, even when pink-cheeked from exertion and damp with perspiration. “And famished. What’s in the pantry?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Monk, eagerly rechecking the thaumatic containers capacity gauges. “When did you last go shopping?”
“When did
I—
” Bibbie straightened, her vivid blue eyes lighting up with temper. “It’s
your
turn this
week. It was your turn
last
week, too,
and
the week before that but you never go. You’ve always got some pathetic excuse. Monk—”
“Gotcha,” said Monk, with his crazy, anarchic grin. “Honestly, Bibbie. It’s like stealing sweeties from a baby.”
Bibbie glowered. “Monk Markham, I loathe you.”
“No, you don’t,” he said cheerfully. “You love me.”
“Believe me, Monk, I
loathe
you,” she retorted. “Reg is right. You’re nothing but a walking talking disaster, brother of mine. If you hadn’t gone and upset Uncle Ralph—
again
—we wouldn’t have to be panicking about the levels of ambient thaumic energy usage around here and
that
means we wouldn’t be nearly
killing
ourselves trying to generate enough of it to store and power your
ridiculous
experiments.”
“Hey!” said Monk. “Do you mind? They’re your ridiculous experiments too!”
Bibbie slid off her stationary pushbike and marched towards him, hands fisted on her slender, muslin-swathed hips. “For your information, Monk,
my
experiments aren’t ridiculous,” she said, halting in front of him. “
My
experiments are adding invaluable knowledge to the field of sympathetic ethergenics. And
most
importantly, Monk,
my
experiments are sanctioned, which is more than we can say for
yours
!”
“Sympathetic ethergenics,” Monk muttered. “Hocus bloody pocus, you mean.”
Melissande exchanged an alarmed look with Gerald, who tucked Reg into the crook of his arm and raised a warning finger at his friend. “Hey! Remember the house rule? No disparaging witchcraft!”
“I don’t see why I can’t disparage it if I want to,” said Monk, truculent. “I mean, it’s my bloody house.”
Bibbie stamped her stylishly-shod foot. “Oh fine, yes, rub it in, why don’t you? Honestly, Monk, why is it you
never
pass up the chance to remind me that I’m only living here out of charity and—and your insatiable need to feel superior?
And
your inability to keep a housekeeper for longer than five minutes?”
Sighing, Melissande rolled her eyes.
Truly, I might as well hobnob with the inmates of the Ott Insane Asylum. I mean, it’s not like there’s any appreciable difference.
She looked at Gerald again.
“Feel free to hex the pair of them, Mr. Dunwoody. I won’t object.”
“No,” he said, grinning, “but Sir Alec probably would.”
“Oh, who cares about him?” said Reg, hopping onto his shoulder. “That tight-lipped, dictatorial, secret Department stooge.”
Gerald flicked her wing with his fingertip, still grinning. “As it happens, I care. You know, seeing how he’s my boss. In fact, seeing how he’s everyone’s boss, at least in a roundabout way, I’d say we should all care.” Then he turned back to squabbling Monk and Bibbie. “That’s
enough
, you two!
Monk—
”
“I know, I know,” Monk groaned, and flicked his exasperated sister a grudgingly apologetic look. “Sorry, Bibs. It’s just—I’m going spare here, not being able to work at full capacity.” He dragged his fingers through his floppy dark hair. It needed cutting. Monk’s hair almost always needed cutting. “Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.”
Bibbie’s crossness collapsed into heartfelt sympathy. “Oh, Monk.” She smothered him in an enthusiastic hug. “I know. It’s awful. But it won’t be forever. At least, it won’t be forever if you manage not to tip off Uncle Ralph. Are you sure you’re not doing anything up here that’s going to trigger one of his stupid alarms?”
“Of course I’m sure,” said Monk. Then he frowned. “Well. You know. Pretty sure.”
“You need to be more than pretty sure,” she said, leaning away from him. “I mean, those alarms of his are dreadfully sensitive.”
Monk wriggled free of her. “I know, Bibbie. I’m the one he tricked into souping them up, remember?”
Bibbie giggled. “I still can’t believe you fell for that, you silly goose. The whole family knows you never trust a
thing
Uncle Ralph says.”
“Yeah, well,” Monk muttered. “I won’t be trusting him again any time soon.”
“So,” said Gerald brightly. “Are we done now? Have we generated enough thaumic energy to keep you experimenting for a couple of days at least?”
Monk checked the monitors on his row of thaumatic containers. “I think so,” he said at last. “Mainly it depends on what happens with the multi-dimensional etheretic wavelength expander.”
Melissande looked at the expander, Monk’s latest pride and joy, which was the most convoluted contraption she’d ever laid eyes on. Taking up a full third of the large attic’s floor, a complex, confusing tangle of wiring and prisms and conductive coils and strange, disconcerting kdis thbits and bobs of questionably borrowed Department equipment, it had the alarming habit of
drifting in and out of dimensional phase. The thaumic dampeners he’d set up to contain its etheretic undulations were supposed to prevent that, but the restrictions his incensed uncle Ralph had placed on his thaumic usage meant that the contraption’s containment was sporadic, at best.
She jumped as Monk put his hand on her shoulder. “How many times do you need me to say it?” he murmured. “I promise, Mel. It’s perfectly safe.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, with a little shudder. “I can’t help it. I don’t mean to doubt you, it’s just I wish it
looked
safe.”
Even as they stared at the expander it began another dimensional slide. Shimmering like a mirage, random sections of its convoluted construction started fading then pulsing back into brief visibility.
“Dammit!”
said Monk, and leaped for the contraption’s control box. “Why does it keep
doing
that?”
“Um,” said Gerald, diffident behind them. “I can take a gander at it, if you like.”
Melissande watched Monk hesitate. Not because he didn’t trust Gerald’s thaumaturgic abilities, but because the only thing in the world he was possessive about was his experiments. Generous to a fault, willing to strip himself naked to clothe someone less fortunate, when it came to his experiments he was the most miserly man she knew.
“Ah,” said Monk, his gaze sliding sideways to his precious interdimensional expander. “Well—”
Gerald sighed. “Sorry. I should know better than to—”
“No, no, it’s me, mate,” said Monk, hair flopping into his face the way it tended to when he was annoyed.
“Not you. I’m a pillock and a plonker.” He waved an inviting hand and retreated. “Go on. Have at it. Lord knows I’ve tried a dozen times to stop its bloody shenanigans.”
Melissande looked at the bird, still perched on Gerald’s shoulder. “Come sit on me, Reg. Just in case.”
Reg hopped across, and with an almost shy smile Gerald hunkered down beside the fluctuating expander. Held his right hand out over the bit nearest him, fingers spread, and closed his eyes.
“What’s he doing?” Bibbie whispered, joining them. “Saying a prayer? Gosh. I didn’t realize it was that far gone.”
“No, he’s
not
saying a bloody prayer,” Monk whispered back. “I don’t know what he’s doing, exactly. He’s—he’s pulling a Dunnywood.”
Reg looked down at her beak at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what we call it down at the Department,” said Monk, half-amused, half-sheepish. “Nobody understands what he does, you see. Or how he does it. According to everything we thought we knew about thaumaturgics what Gerald can do isn’t supposed to be possible. Mind you,
Gerald’s
not supposed to be possible.” He shrugged. “And yet there he is, large as life and twice as tricky.”
“Oy,” said Reg. “Mind your language, kourtrisunshine. My Gerald’s not
tricky
.”
“Well, Reg, he’s something,” said Bibbie, and whistled. “Phew! Feel those etheretic particles dance, Monk!”
Not for the first time, and definitely not the last either, she knew it, Melissande felt a sharp twinge
of regret as her erratic young man and his scatty sister marveled in low voices at something she’d never be able to feel. Very nearly a year now she’d had to get used to the knowledge that whatever else she was destined to be in this world, a dazzlingly stupendous witch wasn’t part of the picture.
Almost a year. Shouldn’t it have stopped hurting by now?
Startled, she felt Reg’s beak brush swiftly and lightly against her braided hair. “Takes all kinds, ducky,” the bird said softly. “Flash and fireworks are all fine and dandy provided someone’s remembered to stock the pantry—and don’t you forget it.”
Oh, yes. The pantry. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”
“Ha,” Reg snorted. “Bugger all escapes these beady eyes, madam. And if that young man of yours starts making a habit of taking credit where it’s not due I shall definitely be poking him in the unmentionables.” Another snort. “I must say I’m surprised at you for letting him get away with it.”
“Oh well,” she said, resigned. “It’s just this once. I mean, he’s been so terribly depressed about having his thaumaturgic usage curtailed. You know what he’s like, Reg. Without his experiments and inventions I think he’d curl up and die.”
“Who’d curl up and die?” said Monk, turning aside from Bibbie. “What are you going on about?”
