by K. E. Mills
“Um,” said Monk, his voice strangled. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“How, Monk?” said his uncle, incredulous. “You’ve no reference points, no thaumic signature on record for comparisons, no-”
“Oh dear,” said Lord Attaby, all his teeth on show in a deeply unamused smile. “And would that be guilt plastered across your face, Mr. Markham?” He looked at Sir Ralph. “I think there’s something your enterprising nephew has neglected to tell us, Sir Ralph.”
Sir Ralph covered his face with one hand. “When this is over, I am going to kill him.”
“Certainly that would be one way of solving the problem,” Lord Attaby agreed. “But if we could for the moment stay focused on our more immediate concerns?” Sitting back, he laced his fingers across his middle. “Come now, Mr. Markham. Those of a religious persuasion tell us confession is good for the soul. If I were you I’d start confessing, for I suspect your soul needs all the help it can get.”
Melissande tightened her fingers on Monk’s arm. “Please? You might be New Ottosland’s only hope. And whatever trouble you get into afterwards, Rupert and I will help you out of it. My promise as a princess and a prime minister and an almost-queen.”
With a groan, his face milky pale, Monk nodded. Then he looked at his three superiors, grimly entrenched behind the oak conference table. “I covered up for Gerald when he transmogged King Lional’s cat into a lion.”
“I’m sorry?” said Lord Attaby, after a moment. His ferocious smile had vanished behind a frown. “Did I hear you aright? You falsified official Department records?”
“No!” said Monk, alarmed. “No, of course not, Lord Attaby. I just-I turned off the monitoring alarm before anyone else heard it and reset the etheretic calibrators. The information should still be there. All I did was… gloss over it.”
“All you did,” his appalled uncle moaned. “Nephew, I swear-”
“So what you’re saying,” said Sir Alec, before Monk’s uncle made good on his murderous threat, “is that we have a captured sample of Mr. Dunwoody’s enhanced thaumic signature?”
Monk nodded. “Provided nobody’s accidentally purged the records, yes.”
“And you’re confident you can use this sample to establish the cause of our monitoring meltdown?”
“Confident, sir?” Monk swallowed. “Well, I don’t know about confident but I’ll give it my best shot.”
Lord Attaby pushed his heavy oak chair back from the table and stood. “Then I suggest we waste no more time on recriminations and expostulations and instead get on down to Priority Monitoring. Your Majesty, I’ll have you and your-er-your prime minister escorted to a more comfortable chamber where you can-”
Melissande gave him a look worthy of Lional. “Oh no, you won’t. This is our kingdom you’re talking about, my lord. We’re coming down to Priority Monitoring with you. Aren’t we, Rupert?”
“Why yes, Melissande,” Rupert drawled. “I rather think we are.”
For the briefest moment she thought Lord Attaby might argue the point-but then he gave up. Smart man. “Very well,” he sighed. “Upon the understanding, Your Majesty, that you will be under the strictest code of confidentiality. Whatever you see or hear cannot be discussed with anyone not currently in this chamber. And frankly, after today, I’d rather it were never discussed again. Do I have your word on that?”
“You do, Lord Attaby,” said Rupert, with the most regal nod. “Mine and my sister’s.”
Lord Attaby heaved another sigh. “Fine. Mr. Markham, find somewhere to put that ridiculous bird, will you? This is the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy, not a zoological garden. And if you can’t procure a cage you can stuff it in a cupboard!”
“I beg your bloody pardon?” said Reg, tail feathers rattling. “Stuff yourself in a cupboard, you silly old goat!”
A paralyzed silence. And then Monk plucked Reg off his shoulder and held her up to his face, nose-to-beak. “You had to do it, didn’t you?” he said, sounding desperate. “You had to mouth off and make everything worse. You couldn’t just-just sit in a cage for an hour until I worked out how to help Gerald, could you?”
“Oh, please!” Reg retorted. “As if Gerald’s getting out of this pickle without my help! This pickle you landed him in, sunshine, when you showed him madam’s stupid Position Vacant advertisement without waiting to consult me on whether-”
“Oh for the love of Saint Snodgrass, would the pair of you shut up?” Melissande shouted, and fetched Monk a resounding clout on the back of his head. “What’s wrong with you? Carping and bickering while Gerald’s in trouble!”
“Hey!” said Monk, turning on her. “D’you mind? That hurt!”
“Really?” she retorted. “I find that hard to believe, seeing as how your head’s a solid block of wood!”
Reg rattled her tail even harder than before. “Ha! You tell him, ducky!”
“Shut up, Reg, or I’ll clout you too,” she said, glaring. “Monk’s right, ducky. You should’ve kept your beak shut. I was just about to tell Lord Attaby that you had to come with us because you’re a beloved childhood pet but now — ”
“Now,” said Lord Attaby, his expression forbidding, “I can see we have yet another crisis to contain. I take it this isn’t a mere trained talking bird?”
“Far from it,” said Sir Alec. His voice and face were impassive but there was a definite gleam in his chilly gray eyes. “In fact, my lord, upon a closer examination, I think you’ll find this isn’t a bird at all.”
Lord Attaby stared at him. “Not a bird? What are you talking about man, it’s got feathers. And a beak.”
“True,” said Sir Alec. “But appearances can be deceiving-can’t they, Your Majesty?”
With a puffing effort Reg wrenched herself free of Monk’s grip and flapped onto the oak conference table. Head tipped to one side, she gazed gimlet-eyed at him.
“Speaking from experience, are we, sunshine?”
“Something like that,” said Sir Alec, dry as a desert. “And when this current crisis is resolved I’m sure it will be most edifying to compare notes. But in the meantime-” He turned. “My lord, the bird might well prove useful to our cause. I suggest it accompanies us down to Priority Monitoring.”
Lord Attaby’s jaw dropped. “You suggest-” And then he shook his head. “Very well, Sir Alec. There’s no time for a lengthy debate-and Saint Snodgrass knows your instincts have proven sound in the past. But you can stand surety for its trustworthiness.”
Melissande held out her arm. “Come on, Reg. Let’s go.”
So Reg hopped onto her arm and from there to her shoulder and they all trooped down into the bowels of the Department of Thaumaturgy building, a stiff-backed Lord Attaby leading the way. The Priority Monitoring station was a small, windowless cubbyhole buried beneath floors and floors of less-secret government divisions. Almost every square foot was crammed full of cluttered desks and rickety chairs and extraordinary machines sprouting gauges and thaumostats and wiggly, jiggly thaumatographs. Some of them had indeed melted to goo.
“Everybody out,” Lord Attaby ordered, sweeping his goggle-eyed minions with a glare guaranteed to petrify wood. “In fact, go home. You’re relieved of duty until tomorrow. And not a word about any of this, do I make myself clear? Consider yourselves bound by the Official Secrets Act.”
A chorus of obedient Yes, sirs, and then the four astonished wizards, including Juby, departed before their superior could change his mind about the early mark.
“Right then,” said Lord Attaby, once they were alone. “Get on with it, Mr. Markham.”
As Monk stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, and Lord Attaby withdrew to quietly confer with Sir Alec and Sir Ralph, Melissande let Rupert tug her sideways for their own private conference.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly, smoothing a lock of hair behind her ear.
“No, of course I’m not,” she said, feeling snappish. Refusing to be charmed by his sweet, caring gesture. “R
upert, what’s going on? What’s happened to you?”
Rupert looked at Reg. “Do you mind?”
“Huh,” Reg said, sniffing. “All these public displays of affection. Not what I’d call royal, ducky.”
“Nobody asked you, Reg,” she said, and twitched her shoulder. “Get off. I want to hug my brother.”
“I don’t know,” Reg grumbled, and hopped onto the back of the nearest empty chair. “No decorum. That’s your problem, ducky. You’ve got no bloody decorum.”
Folded hard to Rupert’s skinny chest, surprised by the sudden wiry strength in his arms, she rested her cheek against his velvet coat and sighed.
“You knew all along there was something the matter with Lional, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid I did, yes, Melly,” said Rupert, his voice aching with regret. “Since I was a boy. Sorry. It wasn’t safe to tell you.”
There was so much she could have said. But what was the point? It wouldn’t change a single thing that had happened.
“Oh, Mel,” Rupert sighed. “I knew he was bad, and probably mad, but I never dreamed about the wizards.”
She tightened her embrace. “Oh, Rupes. None of this is your fault. And it’s not mine, either. This is Lional’s doing, all of it.”
“Mel…”
She could feel the tears crowding thickly in her throat. “I know,” she said, choking. “He has to be stopped. And if he won’t surrender willingly-”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Of course they could hope-but hope wasn’t exactly a fearsome weapon, was it? “What d’you suppose has happened back home?” she whispered. “D’you think it’s possible Gerald’s managed to-to kill him?”
Rupert shook his head. “I don’t know. Is Gerald the kind of chap who could bring himself to kill?”
Shamelessly eavesdropping, Reg snorted. “Blimey bloody Charlie. You won’t last five minutes as king with that kind of noddy thinking, Butterfly Boy. Every man jack in the world has got at least one murder in him. Justified or not, in cold blood or in hot. And after what your charming brother did to my Gerald-”
Melissande pulled out of her brother’s arms. Felt herself shudder, remembering what Gerald had told them in the cave. Seeing Rupert’s confusion, she patted his cheek.
“I’ll explain later, Rupes.”
Over at one of the terribly complicated thaumaturgical monitoring stations that hadn’t melted to goo, Monk sat back with a relieved sigh. “All right. The information’s still here.” He held up a small crystal. “I’ve copied it.”
“Very well,” said Lord Attaby, tight-lipped and tense. “What now?”
“Now, sir?” Monk wiped a shirt-sleeve across his sweaty face. “Now I figure out what the hell is going on in New Ottosland. I hope.”
CHAPTER FIVE
They were all staring at him: Melissande, Reg, New Ottosland’s unlikely-looking next king, Uncle Ralph, Lord Attaby-and Sir Alec.
Of them all, Sir Alec’s stare was the worst.
Sir Alec was one of those wizards often whispered about in dark corridors. Lots of rumor, very little fact. Once or twice Uncle Ralph, after partaking of his brother’s fine post-prandial brandy, had dropped mildly inebriated hints about the man’s secret, shadowy doings. Alluded to feats of thaumaturgical espionage and derring-do that could never be discussed in the cold light of day.
“There are some things, Monk my boy, you’ll be happier not knowing,” Uncle Ralph liked to say, waving a fat, confiding cigar for emphasis. “Truth be told, I wish I didn’t know ’em. Truth be told, between you and me, I don’t know how Alec sleeps at night.”
Because he was a Markham on his father’s side and a Thackeray on his mother’s he’d long ago lost count of how many pies his family’s fingers dabbled in, one way or another, but the upshot was that he knew a little something about the seamy underbelly of wizarding. He didn’t need details to guess the kind of nastiness his uncle hinted at. Especially if he let himself meet Sir Alec’s measured, steady gaze.
Which he didn’t. The man’s guarded gray eyes were far too disconcerting. Especially now, watching him prepare for a little thaumaturgical sleight-of-hand which-in theory-shouldn’t be possible.
But that’s what I do, isn’t it? I turn theory into fact. Even when-especially when-I’m not supposed to.
And to think his family had found it amusing when he was a child.
Feeling the wintry weight of Sir Alec’s regard, he tucked the small crystal containing an imprint of Gerald’s unauthorized Level Twelve transmog into his pocket and looked up.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
Sir Alec’s light brown eyebrows lifted. “I doubt it.”
Yeah? Well, Sir Alec, how’s this for size? “You’re thinking-the government’s thinking-that Gerald’s some kind of loose cannon. That he’s a menace. A danger to society-or even the world.” He scowled. “But you’re wrong. Gerald Dunwoody’s the most harmless wizard I ever knew. And the most decent.”
“In my experience,” said Sir Alec, not arguing, just observational, “decent, harmless wizards don’t turn lizards into dragons at the behest of insanely despotic tyrants.”
Bastard. “That isn’t what happened!”
Mysterious Sir Alec breathed out a whispery sigh. “Your loyalty is admirable, Mr. Markham, but we both know it’s precisely what happened.”
With an effort he kept his fingers from fisting. Made himself not look at Melissande and Reg. “There were mitigating circumstances.”
“Which will be discussed in full once Mr. Dunwoody has returned to Ottosland,” said Lord Attaby, at his most repressive. “And most likely taken into account. But that is a discussion for another day, Mr. Markham.”
Yes. Right. In other words Get on with it.
And Lord Attaby had a point. Even now Gerald could be locked in a desperate battle for his life. Waiting for him. Relying on him.
I never should’ve let him talk me into leaving.
Standing adrift amidst the Department’s sea of thaumaturgical monitoring equipment, he took a deep breath to steady his thumping heart. “Have we got a recording of the event on a machine that hasn’t been melted?”
Sir Alec swept his keen gaze around the cramped, crowded room then nodded. “Try that one.”
That one was probably the oldest thaumatograph still in use anywhere in the Department-or possibly the civilized wizarding world. Oversized and clunky, its plain copper wiring antiquated, it hulked in the corner, largely overlooked these days. The latest-model thaumatographs employed wiring composed mostly of brinbindium, newly discovered in the darkest jungles of Ramatoosh. Highly etheretically conductive, a little temperamental, prone to spontaneous reverse thaumaturgic fluctuations, yes-but terrifically sensitive to the most minuscule of etheretic fluctuations.
Which is possibly why the new monitors tossed in the towel once they picked up the goings-on in New Ottosland.
“Well, Mr. Markham?” said Lord Attaby, shifted from repressive to impatient. “Can you do this or can’t you? Time is fast slipping through our fingers, you know!”
“Sorry, sorry, my lord, yes, I do know,” he muttered, and wriggled his way between the crammed-in desks and gooified modern thaumatographs to the aged pile of copper wiring, circuits and gears that was the Abercrombie Eleven Etheretic Thaumatograph (1843 Patent Pending). “If you’d give me a moment-”
“There are no moments remaining, Monk,” said Uncle Ralph, sounding tense. “Now prove yourself a Markham and get the job done! We need to know what’s going on in New Ottosland!”
He risked a single glance at Melissande, defiantly ramrod straight beside her odd brother. She slayed him. Tart-tongued and bossy and horrifyingly self-sufficient. Everything a well-bred girl wasn’t supposed to be. Her eyes met his and his heart banged like a hammer.
I’m going to save her kingdom for her.
With a loud flustering of wings Reg joined him at the thaumatograph. “So, Mr. Clever Clogs,
can you really do this or are you just flapping your lips for the exercise?”
Offended, he looked down his nose at her. “What do you think?”
“I think we’re all going to get terminal indigestion if you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, sunshine.”
Bloody hell. How did Gerald stand it? “D’you mind? I’m Monk Markham.”
“Oh, really?” Reg fixed him with a glittering stare. “And what else would you like engraved on your headstone if this doesn’t work and my Gerald ends up paying the price for your thoughtless meddling in his life?”
Oh, God. Gerald. He had to look away. Pretend interest in the old monitor before him. “He’s my best friend too, Reg. Don’t you know there’s nothing I won’t do to save him?”
Reg sniffed. “I never said your heart wasn’t in the right place, sunshine. But this?” She shook her head. “It’s never been done.”
“Well, you know what they say, Reg,” he retorted, flicking the Abercrombie’s switches to stand-by. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“And that includes blowing yourself to smithereens!” the dreadful bird retorted. “Which is a first and last time event, my boy.” She tipped her head and glared at him, dark eyes bright with irritated frustration. “Or hadn’t you thought of that, Mr. Genius?”
A betraying bead of sweat trickled down his temple. “Of course I’ve bloody thought of it, Reg. Now would you please be quiet? I need to concentrate.”
“Need your head examined’s more like it,” she snapped. “Now what can I do to help?”
He stared at her. “Gosh, Reg. I don’t know. Let me think. Hey, here’s an idea. Maybe you could shut up?”
“Mr. Markham…”
And that was Sir Alec, using his voice like a cattle prod.
“ Please, Reg,” he muttered. “Gerald’s life depends on me getting this right.”
And those were the magic words. The bloody bird shut up.
Everybody was staring at him again, waiting for him to pull a thaumaturgical miracle out of his… hat. The air in the small, closed room trembled with tension, the atmosphere taut like a thunderstorm waiting to break. Bloody hell, Dunnywood. The things I do for you. Willing his hand steady he selected an empty recording crystal from a tray on the table beside the Abercrombie and slotted it into place. The old thaumatograph beeped once and started to hum. That was his cue to bang his fist on the replay button, pass his hand over the recording crystal to activate it and then monitor the readout closely for signs of brewing trouble. Close to holding his breath, he watched the etheretic gauge’s needles jump and the ink squiggle on the paper and the etheretic transducer crystals flash orange, then red, then a brighter red until they glowed like the heart of an overheated sun. The ’graph’s blank and colorless recording crystal began to shimmer, then blush. Pale pink. Dark pink. Now shading to bright red. To crimson.
