by K. E. Mills
He could feel the build up of energy within the crystal’s confines, feel the rising stresses on its matrix. The Department used only the best recording crystals, but even so…
His long hair started to stir, prickles of thaumic energy nipping over his skin. Deep in his bones he felt an answering thrum. In his blood, a growing incandescence.
“Oy,” said Reg, feathers nervously rustling. “Mr. Clever Clogs. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
And neither did he, but there was no turning back. The air around the old thaumatograph shivered as the invisible ether started to dance. Then the recording crystal began to vibrate, protesting the speed and density of information being funneled into it. He heard a thin high note of stress, a diamond chip scraping glass.
“Mr. Markham-”
“Almost there, Lord Attaby,” he said, lifting one hand. “Just a few more seconds.”
“We might not have a few more seconds, Monk!” Uncle Ralph retorted. “Now shut the damn thing off before-”
“I can’t,” he said, as the recording crystal continued to protest. “I need every scrap of information on the event that the monitor captured.”
“But-”
“It’s all right, Uncle Ralph. Don’t lose your nerve now.”
Uncle Ralph spluttered. “Lose my nerve? Lose my nerve? You arrogant young whippersnapper, who d’you think you are, talking to me like I’m some-”
“Mr. Markham.”
He nearly leaped clean out of his shoes. How did Sir Alec do that? Creep so close without so much as stirring the air? What was it, some kind of secret thaumaturgical stealth enhancement?
And where can I get one? Or maybe I could whip up a version of it for myself…
“Oy, bugalugs,” said Reg, always so helpful. “Don’t look now but your recording crystal’s about to go kablooey.”
Ignoring the bird and the disconcerting Sir Alec, he turned back to the thaumatograph. Reg was right, damn her eyes. The recording crystal was edging towards black now, rattling in its slot on the shuddering machine. The etheretic gauge’s inky needles skewed wildly across the unspooling paper, scrawling a terrifying warning of things gone madly awry half way around the world.
Bloody hell, Gerald. What did you do?
“Shut it down, Mr. Markham,” Sir Alec said quietly. “It’s an old machine, and right now it’s the only reliable long distance thaumatograph we’ve got.”
“Yeah-yeah-in a second,” he said, not taking his eyes off the recording crystal. He was pushing, he knew he was pushing, but a partial recording of what had just happened in New Ottosland wasn’t enough. He needed to know the whole story. Without the whole story he might not be able to help Gerald. Besides, the recording was nearly finished. Just a bit more-a bit more “Mr. Markham.”
“Nearly, Sir Alec. Nearly. If I can just-”
But no, he couldn’t just. With a snap and a sizzle and a belch of choking smoke the Abercrombie Eleven Etheretic Thaumatograph (1843 Patent Pending) emitted a grinding groan and started dripping melted copper onto the floor.
Reg flapped cursing into the air. “You stark raving nutter, Monk! Now look what you’ve done!”
Oh bugger bugger bugger bugger Heedless of the gut-churning agitated ether, of splattering copper and acrid smoke and the risk of imminent explosion, of Lord Attaby’s protests and Uncle Ralph’s incoherent fury, seeing only the fleeting look of despair on Melissande’s face in the heartbeat before she managed to regain her self-control, he flung himself at the dangerously overburdened thaumatograph.
Sir Alec stared at him from the other side of the monitor, his nondescript face calm, his eyes narrowed and cold as mid-winter.
“We have less than two minutes in which to balance the etheretic energies, Mr. Markham,” he said, as though he was commenting on the weather. “And then there’s going to be a rather large explosion. So let’s not dally, shall we?”
Monk nodded. “Right. After you, Sir Alec.”
And on a blind leap of faith they plunged their potentias into the etheretic maelstrom engulfing the thaumatograph.
Heat and cold and bright, bright colors. The stink of burned ether and the emptiness of freezing thaumic particles. Dimly he felt Sir Alec’s presence as the senior wizard wrestled with the monitor’s etheretic balances, thrown so far off-kilter by whatever had happened in distant New Ottosland. Recognizing a superior discipline, if not exactly a superior potentia, he followed Sir Alec’s disciplined lead.
“ Ease back on the throttle a trifle, Mr. Markham,” Sir Alec’s ghostly voice whispered. “ Just because you have it is no reason to use it. ”
What? And then he realized he was pouring all of his potentia at the problem. Letting his fears overtake his good judgment.
“ Sorry,” he said, his own voice ghostly, and hastily readjusted his response.
“ Good,” said Sir Alec. “ Now let’s make a cradle, shall we? ”
It felt damn peculiar, linking his potentia with that of a wizard he knew only by mysterious reputation and had never even spoken to before today. This kind of intricate, complicated thaumic working was usually reserved for wizards who’d had time to familiarize themselves with the quirks and foibles of a colleague’s thaumic signature. Incautious collaborations could-and often did-lead to nasty accidents.
But he and Sir Alec didn’t have time for the thaumaturgic niceties.
A small, observing part of himself marveled at the other man’s icy control. He’d never felt anything like it. The precision of application, the razor-keen mastery of thaumic energies, the deftness of his touch as he honed and narrowed his focus, imposing his implacable will upon the machine that with luck held the key to the conundrum that was Gerald Dunwoody.
Mysterious Sir Alec had just become a whole lot mysteriouser.
With their potentias neatly melded, not a hint of incipient collapse or rejection, they eased the thaumic cradle they’d created around the damaged thaumatograph. Used their blended etheretic energies like glue, sealing the breaches that threatened to explode the vitally important monitor. Its copper wires stopped melting. Its innards stopped belching noxious smoke. The hysterical inked needles ceased their flailing and the recording crystal, undamaged, settled back in its slot.
With a final mechanical groan and a cooling plink plink plink, with scant seconds remaining, the roiled etheretic energies within and surrounding the thaumatograph smoothed out. A heartbeat later came an odd pulling sensation, like a knot coming untied, and their two linked potentias slithered apart.
Very slowly, panting, Monk unscrunched his eyes. “Did we do it? I think we did it. Didn’t we?”
“It would appear so,” said Sir Alec. The only hint that he’d just exerted himself was a slight roughness around the edges of his voice. He cleared his throat. “Nicely done, Mr. Markham.”
“Blimey bloody Charlie!” said Reg, perched on top of a nearby newer-fangled and now defunct monitor. “You cut that a bit close, didn’t you? What were you trying to do, give me a conniption?”
Ignoring the damn bird-how was it Gerald hadn’t throttled her by now? — Monk shook his head. “I think you did most if it, Sir Alec. I was pretty much just along for the ride.”
“Humility, Mr. Markham?” Sir Alec’s thin lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “You surprise me. I wasn’t under the impression you possessed any.”
Oh ha very ha. Fishing in his pocket for the recording of Gerald’s Level Twelve transmog, he risked a glance at Melissande. She was so pale all her freckles stood out like fallen leaves on a snowfield. Even without a magnifying glass he thought he could count every last one of them. Her peculiar brother had his arm about her shoulders, holding on tight. Another risky glance, this time at Uncle Ralph and Lord Attaby, made his heart thud uncomfortably hard. Identical frowns and clenched jaws held the promise of much astringent lecturing in his immediate future.
Not wanting to think about that he hurriedly paid attention to the old thaumatograph. Chan
cing burned fingers he plucked the recording crystal out of its slot. Ouch, yes, it was hot, but since he wasn’t bursting into flames… He closed his grip around it and took a quick surface reading. Oh yes, there was Gerald and his oddly altered thaumic signature.
How about that? I did it. The entire unprecedented catastrophic thaumaturgic event safely recorded for posterity. Ha! Monk Markham strikes again.
But his pleasure didn’t last long.
Bloody hell, Gerald. What did you do?
“Well?” Reg demanded. “What’s it say? Don’t just stand there gawping, sunshine! What’s Gerald done now?”
“ Reg- ” He pulled a face at her. “I don’t know yet. I don’t even know if Gerald’s behind what’s gone wrong.”
The lie was told before he knew it-but it didn’t much matter. The truth couldn’t be hidden. It was a stopgap. A way of catching his breath. Of giving him time to figure a way to save Gerald from the fallout. Or as much of the fallout as he could manage. He could feel Sir Alec and Uncle Ralph and Lord Attaby, all three of them sharply staring. Did they believe him?
Somehow… I think not.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Reg squawked, tail feathers rattling. “ Find out, you wretched boy!”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Melissande, “but I agree with the bird. Stop congratulating yourself, Mr. Markham, and read that bloody crystal! Or I swear I’ll forget I’m not the new Queen of New Ottosland and send out for an ax!”
Startled, he stared at her. Flinched and stepped back as insane King Lional’s sister, the unexpected love of his life, glared at him with the heat of a thousand newborn suns.
Oh. Right. So she’s not joking. Fine. I can take a hint when it’s threatening to cut my head off.
Feeling a colder regard, he shifted his gaze to Sir Alec. “What?”
Sir Alec came around the monitor to stand uncomfortably close. “Let’s stop this juvenile pretending, shall we, Mr. Markham? Either your friend has caused this catastrophic event or he’s been caught up in it. Either way he’s in dire trouble. Your friend, Mr. Markham, is what you might call an untidiness. A dangerous untidiness. I wonder-are you ready for what will likely happen next?”
Mouth dry, throat closing, he took another step back. “Next? What are you talking about? Are you implying Gerald’s in-that the government might-that he might-” Suddenly he remembered Uncle Ralph’s inebriated ramblings. I don’t know how Alec sleeps at night. And then, feeling sick, he wondered if he understood anything at all. “Just what is it that you do for the government, exactly, Sir Alec?”
This time Sir Alec’s chilly smile was frightening. “I keep things tidy, Mr. Markham. I clean up other people’s mess.”
Clean up. Now there was a terrifying euphemism. He made himself meet Sir Alec’s intimidating gaze. Summoned a little intimidation of his own.
“Well, you’re not cleaning up Gerald,” he said, his voice low. Painfully aware of Melissande, almost within earshot. “None of this is his fault. Give me your word you’ll leave him alone or-”
“Or what?” said Sir Alec, so impersonally polite. “What is it you imagine you can do, Mr. Markham?”
How odd, that he could go from admiring to hating someone in such a short space of time. “Sir Alec, this isn’t Gerald’s fault,” he said, sounding anything but impersonal. But I don’t care. I don’t. “Something happened to him when Stuttley’s factory went up. Something nobody was expecting, or could have foreseen. In the name of all things thaumaturgical, when he left here for New Ottosland he was rated a piss poor Third Grade wizard! And the next thing he knew he was turning cats into lions. That’s-that’s-”
“Unprecedented. I know,” said Sir Alec, watching him closely. “A word I suspect will be quite worn out before this is over.”
“Please,” he said, and heard the catch in his voice. “ Please. At least say that any cleaning up will be a last resort.”
“I’m not a wasteful man, Mr. Markham,” Sir Alec replied after an awful pause. “I don’t throw anything away if I don’t have to.”
It was the only assurance he was going to get-and it wasn’t anywhere near good enough. Still feeling sick, he glanced at silent Reg. “Well? Come on. I can’t believe you don’t have an opinion.”
Reg chattered her beak, dark brown eyes glittering. “You want my opinion? First we find out what’s happened in madam’s back yard. And then if this government plonker starts waving a dustpan and brush around I think you should knit his intestines into a throw rug while I pluck out his eyeballs and use them for marbles. That’s my opinion. Care to second it?”
He grinned. “Hear, hear.”
“Monk-” Uncle Ralph joined them. “ Enough. If you can read those damn recording crystals then stop messing about and read them. Otherwise-”
“Sorry,” he said. Glanced over at Melissande. “Sorry. All right. Here I go…”
With the original cat-into-lion transmog recording clutched tight in his right hand and the Abercrombie recording crystal folded hard in his left, he closed his eyes to block out extraneous distractions-like the hint of tears in Melissande’s green eyes-and reached out with his potentia.
The vibrations from the transmog set his bones humming anew. He was astonished all over again, recognizing that this was the new Gerald. Before the accident at Stuttley’s his friend had been a tentative, almost apologetic wizard. A man who found it hard to believe he’d earned the right to wield his cherrywood staff and expected at any moment to have it taken away. And no amount of cheerleading from the sidelines-from himself and Reg-had made a difference. In his heart that Gerald had thought of himself as a wizard by mistake. A tailor’s son from Nether Wallop who’d be unmasked as an impostor any tick of the clock.
But now? After his catastrophic thaumic accident? This Gerald felt as confident as-as Errol Haythwaite, and that was saying something.
I don’t understand how nobody saw this coming. He worked for the Department of Thaumaturgy, for crying out loud. Why didn’t they see it?
Then again… why didn’t he?
It was a question he’d been asking himself ever since Gerald had tripped the monitors with that first Level Twelve trick-and he was nowhere near close to any kind of answer.
Some bloody friend I am. Some genius. A genuine thaumaturgic marvel right under my nose and I couldn’t smell it. I’m a bloody disgrace.
“Mr. Markham…”
And that was Sir Alec, playing cattle prod again.
“Nearly done,” he muttered. “Don’t fuss at me.”
With Gerald’s remade thaumic signature fresh in his mind, he focused his attention on the Abercrombie’s recording crystal. Packed full of energy and imagery, the first touch of his potentia to its contents sent him staggering sideways. He heard Reg say something, steady on, something like that, but her words were muffled by the cold and heat and breath-stealing power surging through him.
Suddenly his mind was filled with a darkness he was frightened to touch.
But I have to. I have to know Except he knew already. A single glance had told him. He was a genius, after all. That darkness was familiar, its thaumic fingerprints belonging to his kind and gentle friend. Sort of belonging. A version of his friend. Because what he could feel, what his potentia showed him, was a gentle power warped and twisted into something no longer itself. Something hungry and brutal and unfamiliar with loving care. Reeling with shock, he collapsed against a handy desk.
Bloody hell, Gerald. What have you done?
A wind was blowing in his face, through his hair. Shrieking. What the No. It was Reg. He opened his eyes.
“- going on, Monk Markham! You tell me right this instant or I’ll be using your eyeballs for marbles, just you see if I don’t!”
She was flapping hysterically in front of him, loosened feathers floating free to drift haphazard into piles of melted copper and goo.
Then someone’s hands seized his shoulders and started shaking him. Started sh
outing, sounding as upset as Reg.
“Monk! Monk, what did you see? What’s happened? Tell us! ”
Melissande.
He let her shake him. He couldn’t pull away, couldn’t argue or complain.
Gerald, you stonking idiot. What have you done?
Letting go of his shoulders, Melissande slapped him hard across the face. “ Mr. Markham! For the love of Saint Snodgrass pull yourself together! ”
“Steady on there, Your Highness! There’s no need for that!”
Uncle Ralph, coming to the rescue? That was one for the books. His father would need a stiff drink and a lie down when he heard.
“Sir Ralph is right, Melly,” said New Ottosland’s unlikely king. “You really mustn’t slap Mr. Markham, you know. I’m sure he’s doing his very best to help.”
Ignoring them both, Melissande slammed her fists against his chest, leaning into him until her nose and his were practically touching. Her lovely green eyes were terrified, and desperate.
“What did you see, Monk? What did you see? ”
He couldn’t keep it a secret. But instead of looking at Melissande he turned his head and looked at Reg, who’d subsided, exhausted, on a cluttered, report-covered desk.
“Go on,” the bird said, her voice ragged. “I can take it. What’s that fool boy gone and done now?”
