by K. E. Mills
“You have them arrested!” he cried. “You don’t-you don’t-”
“What, like you had Lional arrested?” retorted his counterpart. “Really? You’re going to stand there on your high horse and lecture me with your Lional’s blood all over your hands?”
He shook his head. “That was-”
“If you say different, sunshine, I’ll bloody knock you on your ass!” said the other Gerald. “Besides, I told you, I gave Sir Alec three chances. I was prepared to forgive him for trying to kill me-if he’d join me. But he wouldn’t. And like I said, I couldn’t shadbolt him. So Gerald, I’m telling you, he brought this on himself. And now I’m tired of discussing it.” A savage fingersnap, and the dreadful sight of endlessly dying Sir Alec disappeared inside a smoky dome. “Now if you don’t mind we’ve a few more exhibits to look at, and then we’ve somewhere else to be. So do yourself a favor and just look where I point and no more wringing your lily-white hands. Or I’ll bloody forget how much I need you and I will do you a mischief. Understood?”
Numbly, he nodded. “Yes, Gerald. Understood.”
“Fine,” snapped his counterpart. “Then come on. We’re running late.”
Their nightmare visit to the parade ground took nearly three excruciating hours. By the time it was over, every single monstrous exhibit examined, its history lovingly detailed, Gerald wanted to crawl into a hole and never crawl back out again. Depravity would no longer be an abstract word.
“Do cheer up, Professor,” said the other Gerald briskly, as they made their way back to the car. “Nothing you’ve seen here will happen to you. Well. You know. Probably.”
They piled into the glamorous Kingsmark and drove next to Government House. And if the rest of the exhibits on the parade ground had been appalling, what had been done to Lord Attaby-no, make that Prime Minister, he was wearing the official chain of office-and his colleagues was unspeakable.
Standing in the lavish blue and gilt Cabinet room, with Bibbie’s arm once more threaded possessively-controllingly-through his and the other Gerald standing to one side, gloating, Gerald looked at Ottosland’s vanquished leadership and its senior civil servants, shadbolted to a man-and felt the enormity of the situation threaten to crush him like an avalanche.
I can’t fix this. How am I supposed to fix this? If I had an army of janitors behind me I don’t think I could fix this.
One of the shadbolted officials was Monk’s Uncle Ralph. The change in him was dreadful. The Sir Ralph Markham of his world was a wily and powerful First Grade wizard. Forthright, no nonsense-but a man with hidden depths and inconspicuous influence. Fierce in his defense of both family and country. This Sir Ralph was a defeated man, with fearful, haunted eyes and a tic in his cheek that leaped and leaped without ceasing.
Sir Alec was his friend. Was he made to watch what was done to him? Does he spend every waking minute wondering if he’ll be next?
Knowing the answer, sickened, he looked at the rest of the Cabinet and its servants. All in all some thirty men, crowded into the Cabinet room like bullocks in a butcher’s yard. As a janitor he was vigorously encouraged to stay well out of politics, a stricture which didn’t bother him in the least. But even so, some three-quarters of the group before him looked familiar, echoes of portfolio and junior ministers back home. Thanks to his short-lived career as a probationary Department of Thaumaturgy compliance officer he even recognized some of the permanent Secretaries and Under-Secretaries-the men whose busy paddling kept their nation afloat.
But look at them now. They’re as paralyzed by fear as they are by those shadbolts. Even if I could reach them, I doubt they’d be any help. They’re too far gone. I think their minds are close to breaking.
And of course he could never blame them for that. Not when he still visited his own breaking in bad dreams.
Who knows about this? Have the ordinary, everyday people noticed there’s something terribly wrong with their government? What about the Times? Its journalists always sticking their noses into things. I can’t believe they’ve not sniffed this out. I can’t believe they aren’t shouting protests from the rooftops.
A flicker of shadow. A vibration of glass. A deep, almost subliminal thrumming in his bones. Through the vast, uncurtained Cabinet room window he watched an airship sail majestically past the building. Up this close its guns looked particularly lethal.
Yes. Right. Next stupid question, Dunnywood?
As Bibbie continued to cling like a barnacle, the other Gerald regarded the assembled Cabinet as though they were exotic exhibits in a zoo. “Politicians, Professor, should be seen and not heard. Father used to say that all the time. D’you remember? I did this for him, you know. Well. Mainly for me, but it’s a hat tip to him too. I like to think that wherever he is, he knows I still think of him.”
From what he could tell without getting any closer, these particular shadbolts turned people into compliant puppets. The convoluted incants woven into them were composed of various compulsion and direction hexes. Not a single, simple hex to prevent the answering of inconvenient questions, or a choke-chain kind of shadbolt, like the one inflicted on Melissande, but a cobwebbery of thaumaturgics designed to control what its victim said and did. Brilliant… and diabolical.
Prime Minister Attaby, his Cabinet and his civil servants were staring at him in shocked silence. Not only because they were shadbolted, but because the sight of him was surely unexpected and probably terrifying. Look, gentlemen! It’s your lucky day. Two torturers for the price of one! He wanted to reassure them, to tell them, No, no, don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you. But the other Gerald wouldn’t take kindly to that, so he had to content himself with throwing the occasional loathing glance at their tormentor when their tormentor wasn’t looking.
“It turns out they’re proving wonderfully useful,” the other Gerald added. “Which is hard to believe, I know, seeing as how they’re politicians and pencil-pushers. But it’s true. They’re making sure Ottosland creaks along until everything else is in place. Ensuring the general populace isn’t too alarmed by the changes. And of course keeping up appearances in front of various international heads of state. Because that’s a situation still in flux, Professor. Which of course is why I brought you here. To help me de-flux things, as it were.”
Bloody hell, he really has fallen in love with the sound of his own voice, hasn’t he? When I get home I’m going to give Reg strict instructions to poke me in the unmentionables if I ever turn into a tosser like him.
Oh, lord. Reg. Traipsing around that appalling parade ground, being confronted by atrocity after atrocity, he’d been convinced that at any moment he’d be brought face to face with Reg. Dead or worse than dead, like poor Sir Alec. But she wasn’t there. It was the only good thing that had happened since he’d opened his eyes at the house.
“Professor, are you listening?” said the other Gerald, sharply. “Because you’ve got that look on your face again. The one that says your mind’s wandered off. Don’t do that. It’s rude.”
Ignoring Bibbie’s scolding little shake of his arm, he swallowed. “Sorry. I was only wondering when I’d get to see-”
“I told you. Later,” said his counterpart. “But if you don’t shut up about it you won’t see her at all.”
Before he could think up a suitably groveling answer the large crystal ball at the center of the Cabinet room’s conference table hummed, then started flashing bright green.
“Hmm,” said the other Gerald, his frown deepening. “Y’know, if that’s not President Damooj calling to accept my terms I’m going to be bloody pissy. Attaby! Answer it! You know what to say.”
Moving jerkily, like an animated marionette, shadbolted Prime Minister Attaby stepped forward to the conference table and accepted the incoming communication. The green light stopped flashing, the crystal turned cloudy, then cleared a moment later to reveal a man with robust silver muttonchop whiskers and a thin face, dark as ebony and set into an expression of grim intractability.
Attaby tugged at his tie. “Viceroy Gonegal.”
“Prime Minister,” said Gonegal. “On behalf of the Directorate of the United Magical Nations, I wanted to see if you’d made any progress regarding our list of demands. As you’re surely aware, your deadline expires soon.”
“Ha!” muttered the other Gerald, and grinned. “See, Bibbie? I told you. I’ve got the cowards running scared. They don’t have the guts to attack me. They know if they try I’ll wipe them out of existence.”
Bibbie went to him and stroked his arm. “They’re fools.”
“I regret, Viceroy, that our answer remains unchanged,” said Attaby. He was sweating, fat drops rolling down his cheek and off his chin. “You have no right to threaten this nation, or dictate our friendships and political alliances. We stand firm in our commitment to Ottosland’s territorial sovereignty and repeat our warning to the UMN: attempt to set foot on Ottosland’s home soil or breach her airspace or indeed harm any nation who supports us and you will face our fierce and merciless retribution.”
Gonegal’s pale blue eyes blazed with sudden anger. “Prime Minister, I do assure you-any merciless retribution will be faced by you and your innocent population. Ottosland is a founding signatory member of the UMN Charter. If you flout our authority, if you presume to-”
“Oh, shut up, Gonegal,” said the other Gerald, and shoved Attaby aside. “You can’t honestly think I’m actually scared of you and your little box of tricks? Your charter and your rules mean bugger all to me. So why don’t you stop huffing and puffing and making threats we both know you can’t keep and get your nose out of my private business!”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Gonegal, after a long and frigid silence. “But I don’t believe you and I have been formally introduced.”
“We haven’t been formally anythinged,” said the other Gerald. “But who cares? It doesn’t matter who I am. All that matters is what I want. And what I want, Viceroy, is for you to bugger off. I’m expecting an important communication and you’re getting in the way. Don’t call again unless it’s to discuss how you and the rest of the UMN are going to serve Ottosland’s interests.”
Gerald, trying hard not to swallow his tongue, watched his counterpart disconnect from Viceroy Gonegal with a snap of his fingers, then sweep Bibbie into his embrace for an extravagant kiss. Far from being embarrassed by such intimacy in front of practically an entire government, and only one of them family, Bibbie laughed and wound her arms enthusiastically around his neck.
Attaby closed his eyes and waited, like a brutally trained dog.
Turning away, because while he did want Bibbie he did not want that, Gerald thrust his fisted hands into his pockets and crossed to the window. He could feel the shadbolted men’s hungry, disbelieving gazes follow him.
For pity’s sake, don’t look at me like that. I can’t help you. I’m sorry.
Letting his sweat-damp forehead come to rest against the window’s cool glass, he stared down into Government Street many stories below. He knew it was Government Street because he could see the Treasury Building, with its distinctive red and blue sandstone bricks and enormous, imposing brass-bound front door. If not for that, though, he’d have been hard-pressed to name it. Government Street was one of Ott’s main thoroughfares; he was used to seeing it chockful of cars and carriages and businessmen and civil servants and government officials and messenger-boys racing up and down on foot and pushbike, tending to weighty matters of state. Even on working days the foot paths were clogged with sightseers ooohing and aaaahing and pointing excited fingers. But this Ott’s Government Street was eerily empty. Three carriages, one black car, a handful of scuttling pedestrians-and no sightseers. Was it his imagination or even so high up, and inside this impotent Cabinet room, could he feel the city’s ambient fear? He thought he could. He thought that if he closed his eyes and listened hard he’d be able to hear the weeping and the stifled gasps of terror.
Another armed airship ghosted by, its shadow blotting out the fitful sun.
How long has it been since New Ottosland, and Lional? Just over a year? How could so much go so wrong in a year? Are we truly so fragile? Do peace and safety really dangle by such a brittle thread?
Apparently, they did.
Behind him he heard Bibbie utter a deep, petulant sigh. “Gerald, I’m hungry,” she complained. “It’s past lunch time, you know. Government House has a dining room, doesn’t it? Why can’t they feed us? They really should feed us.”
“Bibbie, don’t be a nuisance,” said the other Gerald, impatient. “Weren’t you listening? I’m expecting a call from President Damooj!”
Another sigh. “Yes, Gerald, I know you are. Only have you forgotten it’s practically midnight in Babishkia? President Damooj will be fast asleep.”
The ether trembled with the other Gerald’s displeasure. “He’s got no bloody business sleeping. Not when I’m here waiting for his oath of fealty.”
His what? Gerald turned around. “You’re expecting Babishkia to cede its sovereignty to you?”
The other Gerald smiled. “Actually, I’m expecting a lot of things, Professor. But yes, that would be one of them.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Well, let’s hope for their sake that they don’t,” said the other Gerald. Then he looked at Bibbie. “You’re really hungry, Bibs?”
Bibbie pouted. “ Famished. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“Oh dear,” said the other Gerald, grinning. “We can’t have that, can we? All right. We’ll go to the dining room and they can feed us an extravagant lunch. You, me and the Professor. But if after that President Damooj still hasn’t called?” Another ominous tremble in the ether. “Well. All I can say is I’ll be glad that I don’t live in Babishkia.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, Professor. We’re going to eat.”
The thought of food was revolting, but there was no question of refusal. Silent and nauseous, not looking at Ottosland’s shadbolted government, Gerald followed them out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Because they didn’t know what else to do with him, they’d put the other Monk in Gerald’s bedroom, on his bed, covered him head to toe with a respectful sheet and closed the door. Then they’d gone back downstairs to the kitchen, where Melissande made tea and buttered toast and they sat around not drinking or eating and waited for Sir Alec to tell them what to do next.
Brooding over his cold, greasy bread, Monk made himself not stare at the kitchen ceiling.
I’m dead. I’m dead up there. That’s not right. He didn’t come all this way just to die. He came so I could save him. But I didn’t. I think I killed him.
“Oy,” said Reg, slumpingly perched on the back of the chair beside him. “Don’t you dare start with that nonsense, sunshine.”
He blinked at her. “How could you possibly know what-”
“Don’t make me laugh,” the wretched bird retorted. “I can read your face with my eyes closed, can’t I?”
“She’s right,” said Bibbie, quiet and composed with tears running and running and running down her face. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Yes, it was,” said Melissande, beside her. “It was the other Gerald’s fault.”
Oh, God. Gerald. Midnight was hours behind them. It would be dawn in a while. The sun was going to rise on a world without Gerald Dunwoody in it.
Reg hiccuped, hunched and feather-fluffed. “My poor boy. I always said he never should’ve got himself mixed up with that government stooge. Didn’t I always say it? Didn’t I say nothing good would come of him gallivanting around the world sticking his nose into other people’s nefarious business?”
“Yes, Reg, and you keep on saying it, but that’s not what happened, is it?” said Bibbie. Did she know she was crying? It didn’t seem that she did. “At least, we don’t know
for sure. I mean, it’s not like you’ve any proof this is Sir Alec’s fault.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Oh. Right. Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve decided to go sweet on him, have you, ducky? The dashing and mysterious older man mistake.” She sniffed. “And here’s me thinking you were smarter than that.”
“ What? ” said Bibbie, outraged, and threw a discarded teaspoon across the table at her. “Sweet on Sir Alec? Are you out of your mind?”
“Oh, don’t even start! ” snapped Melissande. “Put a sock in it, the pair of you! It’s bad enough we don’t know what’s happened to Gerald. But if you two are going to carry on like children you can bloody well go to your rooms!”
As Bibbie opened her mouth to argue, Monk raised a challenging eyebrow at her. Pulling a face she gave up, and slumped a little deeper into her chair.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m thinking it can’t be a coincidence that the other me turned up here around the same time Gerald disappeared on the way to Grande Splotze. Especially since everything points to him not being in our world any more.”
“So what are you saying?” said Bibbie. “That their Monk crossed over here-and our Gerald crossed over there?”
“I think it’s absolutely possible, yes.”
“But how?” said Melissande. “The other you jiggered his portable portal opener to get here. Exactly how many ways are there to open a door between dimensions?”
He shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Well, could you travel between worlds using a regular portal?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “It’d be bloody tricky trying it with one of those big commercial portals but the basic thaumaturgics are the same.”
“And what about trying it with a small, unregistered portal?”
Like one of Sir Alec’s? “Sure,” he said, nodding. “You could jigger one of those if you had some serious thaumaturgic juice.”
