by K. E. Mills
“No, you might not,” said Gerald, with a bite in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “You and I, Sir Alec, have nothing to talk about. This isn’t Ottosland. You have no jurisdiction here.”
And now it was Rupert’s turn to join the fray. “Sir Alec has whatever jurisdiction I choose to grant him,” he said, joining Melissande. “Professor-”
Gerald turned. Eyebrows lifting, he ran his dreadfully altered gaze up and down Melissande’s other brother. On the ground beside him, amidst the beds of hollyhocks, pansies and snapdragons, Lional trickled blood and moaned.
“Why, Rupert. You look… different.”
“Not as different as you,” said Rupert, standing his ground despite all the changes in New Ottosland’s royal court wizard. Impressed, Monk wished he could tell him to shut up before he talked himself into trouble. “Gerald-is it true? What they’re saying? Did you-have you-”
“Stuffed a few new tricks down my shorts?” Gerald grinned. In that swift moment he almost looked like himself. “Yes, Rupert. It’s true.”
Rupert shook his head. “That was very brave of you. And very, very foolish. I wish you hadn’t.”
“And I wish I hadn’t had to,” said Gerald, shrugging. “But the thing is, Rupert, life can be a bugger that way. Now-what about you? What’s your explanation? Because right now, old chap, I’d have to say that despite the unfortunate plus-fours you’re looking positively kingly. As though you wouldn’t know the difference between a Dumb Cluck and a donkey.”
And the notion didn’t seem to amuse him at all. His etheretic aura was electric. Feeling it, Monk didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Stand Gerald near a thaumatograph now and he’d melt it to slag.
Oh, Saint Snodgrass’s bunions. I’m good, but if it comes right down to it I don’t think I can take him. I don’t think I can take him even if Sir Alec lends a hand. I don’t even know if that’s Gerald any more.
The notion was so appalling he was hard put to keep his dismay a secret. He could feel fear and a terrible grief building in his throat.
God, Gerald. Please. Let’s stop this before it’s too late.
Rupert was dithering, uncertain how to answer this new and not-so-improved Professor Dunwoody. Even Melissande seemed shocked to uncertainty.
“I think,” said Sir Alec, with a sharp look at the royal siblings beside him, “that this might not be the best venue for our discussion. King Lional requires medical attention-and rigorous incarceration, given-”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Gerald. Despite his dangerous aura he sounded positively cheerful. “Lional’s perfectly harmless now. Couldn’t hurt a butterfly. Not any more.” He nudged Lional’s flaccid left arm with his foot. “Could you, Your Majesty? And you wouldn’t want to either, would you? You’ve been a very bad boy but you’ve learned your lesson, haven’t you?”
Bloodied eyes closed, his ribs hardly moving as he breathed, Lional didn’t respond.
But Reg did. Having abandoned her sergeant-majorish struttings and tail-rattlings, now she sat on the grass with her feathers fluffed out like a hen ready to roost.
“ Harmless?” she hooted, monumentally disbelieving. “That deranged tosser? That’ll be the day! You need a cool drink and a lie down, Gerald, all this excitement has gone to your-”
Gerald’s dreadful crimson eyes flared. “I said I’ve taken care of it.”
Monk felt the power behind the words sear the air and scorch his skin. He heard Melissande’s little gasp. Rupert’s, too. Saw Sir Alec fail to hide a flinch. On the grass, Reg opened her beak in shock, all her feathers abruptly flattened.
“Now, now,” she said, rallying. “I’m sure there’s no need to take that tone of voice.”
“Sorry,” said Gerald-but any sorrow was perfunctory. There radiated from him now the most obliterating sense of power, as though a candle had been transmogged into a blast furnace. “I just-I don’t like it when people doubt me. You know that, Reg. It hurts my feelings.”
“Oh, stop being so sensitive,” she snapped. “This isn’t about your feelings, sunshine, it’s about you having taken leave of your senses. And another thing-why are you talking like a third-rate mustache-twirling villain all of a sudden? It’s not like you, Gerald. None of this is.”
“No?” Gerald’s slow smile was chilling. “What if you’re wrong, Reg? What if this is the most like me I’ve ever been?”
Monk swallowed. Never in a million years would he have believed he’d ever have to treat carefully around Gerald Dunwoody. But this was like balancing polarity-opposed tetrathaumicles in an etheretic combustion chamber.
He took a cautious step forward. “That sounds… wonderful, mate. I’m pleased for you. Honest. But if you don’t mind me asking-when you say you’ve taken care of it- you’re talking about King Lional, right? You’ve-you’ve-” He tried not to look at the bloodied, stuporous, half-blind man at his friend’s feet. “You’ve rapped him over the knuckles, let’s say, and-”
“I mean I’ve sorted him out,” Gerald said, impatient. “For good. I’ve defanged him, Monk. No more magic. I took back the potentias he stole. Thanks to me Lional can’t hurt anyone ever again.”
He’d done what? “But-but-” He beat down the urge to stagger about clutching at his hair. “Gerald-”
“Oh, come on, Monk,” said Gerald. Smiling again, but not nicely. Not like the Gerald he used to know. The Gerald he’d bullied and cajoled into answering Melissande’s desperate job advertisement. “I thought you of all people would understand.”
He stared, his heart painfully pounding. Understand what, mate? That Reg and I are right and you’ve gone around the bend? “Am I being thick? Sorry. It’s only-well-this is all a bit much to take in, y’know?”
“It’s not that much,” said Gerald. Impatient again, with a nasty undertone of arrogance.
But Gerald’s not arrogant. That’s not who he is.
Or-who he was.
And that’s the question, isn’t it? How much of this man is still Gerald? My friend. The stubbornly conscientious wizard I left behind.
From the looks of things… not enough.
“If I might inquire,” said Sir Alec, breaking the taut silence. “Once you removed the stolen potentias, Mr. Dunwoody, what did you do with them?”
Gerald shrugged. “I got rid of them.”
“You didn’t-” Sir Alec hesitated, “-make use of them yourself?”
“No!” said Gerald. Now he looked genuinely shocked. “What do you take me for? A ghoul, like Lional? I dissipated them into the ether. It was the least I could do.”
“I see,” said Sir Alec. He was very quiet, and so watchful. “That’s impressive, Mr. Dunwoody. Really. But it’s not what one might call orthodox incanting. So I take it that means-”
“Oh, come on, man!” said Gerald. “Stop being coy. Yes, I made use of the proscribed texts Lional took from Pomodoro Uffitzi. Enhanced my natural thaumaturgic abilities-which as it turns out are a lot more impressive than I’d been led to believe. But don’t tell me that’s news to you. I’ll bet when I activated all those interesting incants the etheretic surge blew up half the DoT’s monitoring equipment.”
Sir Alec risked a swift, wintry smile. “As it happens we did notice some unusual thaumaturgic activity. And we assumed it had something to do with you. But it never hurts to have one’s theory confirmed.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” said Gerald, choosing to be amused. “Especially since someone somewhere is expecting a report about this. Am I right?”
“Well…” Sir Alec flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “I do serve a bureaucracy, which would grind to a halt without regular reports.”
Gerald pulled a rueful face-and for a split second he looked like his old self. “I know. I used to be a probationary compliance officer. Practically gave myself arthritis, writing reports.”
“I’m gratified you understand, Mr. Dunwoody.”
“Oh, I do, Sir Alec,” said Gerald, as earnest as ever he u
sed to be. Only now his sincerity struck a sour, false note. Hearing it, Reg rattled her tail.
Monk managed to catch her eye. Don’t. Don’t. It’s too dangerous. Don’t. But Reg, being Reg, ignored him.
“So let me get this straight, sunshine,” she said. “Just so there aren’t any misunderstandings. Even though I told you not to, you barged right in and mucked about with those filthy grimoires.”
Haughtily surprised, Gerald looked down at her. “That’s right. Because the last time I looked, Reg, you weren’t my mother. I did what had to be done. What you and Monk were too frightened to do. What Shugat was too selfish to do, and Melissande and Rupert here were too incompetent to do. I stopped Lional. I saved New Ottosland. And I think it’d be nice if you just said thank you and left it at that.”
Monk blinked, the blood thundering in his ears. Oh, no. Oh, no. The heartbreak in Reg’s eyes as she stared at Gerald was breaking his heart…
Dammit, mate. You bloody fool. You didn’t have to do this. We’d have found a way to stop Lional without this.
Melissande and Rupert were staring too, in guilty dismay. As for Sir Alec, his face was glass-smooth, revealing nothing of his thoughts or feelings. The silence surrounding them seemed to deepen. Grow cold. Even the palace garden birds were hushed.
“Now I realize,” said Gerald, turning to Sir Alec, “that what I’ve done is a violation of the Official Code of Conduct but I’m sure you’ll agree I didn’t have a choice.” He spread his empty hands wide and smiled, one bureaucrat to another. “Exigent circumstances. I was saving a kingdom.”
Sir Alec nodded, still giving nothing away. “Certainly that’s a legal argument, Mr. Dunwoody. One I’ll be sure to mention in my report to the Ministry.”
As Gerald and Sir Alec stared at each other like fencers over their crossed, unbuttoned blades, Monk cleared his throat. “So, Gerald-exactly how much of those proscribed thaumaturgics did you take on board? Was it just Grummen’s Lexicon, or-”
“No,” said Gerald, his voice edged, his gaze still locked with Sir Alec’s. “I took them all.”
“And when you say all,” said Sir Alec, glacially calm, “what exactly do you mean?”
Gerald’s face tightened. “You’re being coy again, Sir Alec. I don’t like it.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Never mind what you do and don’t like, sunshine. Just answer the bloody question.”
And that earned her a hot look, nastily annoyed and so not-Gerald. Suddenly afraid- bloody hell, I’m afraid if Gerald Dunwoody — Monk took another step forward, seeking to distract him. Because if Gerald lost his temper and did something awful to Reg “I know it’s a nuisance, mate,” he said, trying to sound helpful and unafraid, “but probably we should know what texts Uffitzi was hiding. Probably there’ll be forms to fill out about them, once we get back to-”
“I like patronizing even less than coy, Monk,” said Gerald, his dreadful crimson gaze narrow. “Do you mind?”
And maybe Reg was right. Maybe the time had come for a little pushing back and bugger the danger. “Actually I do, yeah,” he retorted. “You’re the one being coy here, Gerald. Not us. So come clean and be done with it. What other grimoires did Lional have stashed away besides the Lexicon?”
Gerald seemed genuinely shocked by that. “ Come clean? You make it sound like I’m a criminal, Monk, instead of-”
Of what. A hero? His gaze flickered to Lional. What kind of hero does that to a man? “That’s not what I mean.”
“Oh, all right,” said Gerald, with a theatrical sigh. “If you must know, New Ottosland’s former king had six grimoires in total.” He held up his fingers and started counting them off. “The Lexicon, a Pygram ’s, a Foyle’s Foilers, a Compendium of Curses, Madam Bartholomew’s Little Surprise and-oh, yes. Trinauld’s Guide to the Unnatural. All in all a really fascinating collection.” He smiled. It was horrible. “I can personally vouch for the Pygram ’s. Lional used every last hex on me in the cave, y’know.”
Turning to Sir Alec, feeling sicker than ever, Monk saw that his uncle’s mysterious colleague had paled. Oh, no. This can’t be good. “Sir Alec?”
“Every one of those texts is on the international proscribed list,” Sir Alec said, his voice harsh with revulsion. “Arguably they are the six most feared grimoires in the history of thaumaturgy. Not to put too fine a point on it, they are notorious.”
“Notorious, eh?” said Gerald, obscenely cheerful. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Bloody awful, some of those incants. Enough to turn your stomach inside out-and I’m not talking metaphorically.”
“Although-” Sir Alec was watching Gerald closely. “I was under the impression that both the Bartholomew and the Guide were no longer extant.”
“Were you?” said Gerald, one eyebrow raised. “Oh. Then somebody in Records needs their wrist slapped, don’t they?” Then he frowned. “Mind you, now that I think about it-” He looked down at Reg again, lips pursed. “D’you know, it occurs to me that in between all that nagging you might have had a point.”
“Oh, yes?” Reg said warily. “And I’m supposed to be flattered now, am I?”
“Keep on like that and you’ll be better off silent,” Gerald retorted.
“Can you be a bit more specific, mate?” Monk said. Bloody hell, when this is over I should find work as a lion tamer. “I mean, Reg spends half her time nagging, doesn’t she?”
And that made Gerald laugh. “Too bloody true, Monk!”
“So-”
“I’m referring to what she said about those texts falling into the wrong hands,” said Gerald. “Which they did. First Pomodoro Uffitzi’s and then Lional’s, here. Two complete scoundrels. It’s obvious the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy and the United Magical Nations between them aren’t up to the task of protecting the world from grimoires like the Lexicon and the rest.”
Sir Alec cleared his throat delicately. “And you are?”
“Who better?” said Gerald, and clenched his right fist. Closed his eyes. Whispered something under his breath.
The shock that roared through the ether then knocked Monk to the grass. Sir Alec, too. Even Melissande and Rupert staggered, though they were hardly what anyone would call thaumaturgically gifted. And Reg let out a shriek as though someone had set her feathers on fire.
Tasting blood, Monk shoved himself, shuddering, to hands and knees. Dammit, Gerald. He looked at Sir Alec, just as stunned beside him. “It’s not possible, is it?” he said through gritted teeth. “Not just like that. Not with one word and a thought. He hasn’t just-”
Even Sir Alec’s ironclad composure wasn’t proof against this. “What do you think, Mr. Markham?”
I think we’re neck deep in trouble, sir. That’s what I think.
With an almost-groan Sir Alec found his feet, then held out a helping hand. Monk took it, was hauled upright, and found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with Uncle Ralph’s colleague, who stared at Gerald as though he were facing a firing squad.
“That was unwise, Mr. Dunwoody.”
“Really? You think so?” said Gerald. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. Didn’t look the least bit exerted, even though what he’d just done-what he shouldn’t have been able to do, what no wizard living should be able to do-was momentous. “I don’t.”
Pale as freshly skimmed milk, Melissande stepped forward, shaking off Rupert’s restraining hand. “What’s unwise? What just happened? Gerald, what did you do?”
With a flapping effort Reg took to the cooling afternoon air and landed on Melissande’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you what he did, ducky. He got rid of those manky grimoires. Burned them to a crisp.”
“Really?” said Melissande. “From here? Without even seeing them? Or touching them? How is that possible?”
Gerald laughed again, so pleased with himself. “Anything’s possible, Melissande. All you need is the power-and the will.”
“So those horrible grimoires are destroyed?” She looked around their small,
silent group. “Well-that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“I should think so,” said Rupert. “Those filthy books Uffitzi brought into this kingdom have caused nothing but misery. I for one am glad Gerald’s rid us of them.”
“ Thank you, Rupert,” said Gerald, theatrical again. “It’s good to know someone’s on my side.”
Sir Alec frowned. “It’s not a question of sides, Mr. Dunwoody. Our concerns-”
“Don’t concern me, actually,” said Gerald, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m more interested in what’s happened to Rupert. You’ve gone all assertive and opinionated all of a sudden, Your Highness. Or should that be Your Majesty?” He smiled. “Being sneaky, were you? Hiding from Lional? I like it.” He glanced down at the stuporous king. “Pity he’ll never know how you deceived him. He’d feel like an idiot, and it’d serve him right.” His crimson gaze shifted to Melissande. “Did you know? Or did Rupes here play you for a fool too?”
“Hey,” Monk protested. “She’s not a fool.”
And that got Gerald staring at him. “You mean I was right? You’ve gone ass over teakettle for Lional’s bossy sister? Oh, Monk.” Another smile, dazzling and dangerous. “That’s so sweet.”
He felt his blood freeze. “Ah-yeah. Thanks.”
“Have you set a date yet?”
What? “No. Not exactly. Look, Gerald-”
Ignoring him, Gerald turned to Rupert. “So, Rupes. Given how you New Ottoslanders feel about Tradition-note I used the capital T-would it help if I vouched for Mr. Markham, here? He’s clean, he’s sober-most of the time-and he’s not a half-bad wizard to boot. And really, you’re all in his debt because he’s the one who pointed out that Lional was shopping for another court wizard. You could call him our matchmaker, really. So it only seems fair that I return the favor, don’t you think?”
Monk felt Melissande’s fingers fumble for his hand. He tightened his grasp. Stay calm. Don’t say anything. We need to get out of here and decide what to do. Her fingers squeezed his, and he felt a rush of relief.
Rupert’s smile was careful. “Yes. Well, Professor, any friend of yours must be a friend of mine, obviously. But I don’t think I dare cast myself in the role of Melly’s matchmaker. You know how independent she is. She’d smack me.”
