by K. E. Mills
“I know,” he said, soberly. The thought was so appalling he couldn’t manage an answering grin. “We’d have no hope of doing this.”
Monk nodded firmly. “Bloody oath. In fact, they ought to give us a raise.”
I’ll settle for a whole skin, and our world sqfe. Or at least a decent breathing space between disasters.
“Come on, come on,” said Reg, rattling her tail. “That’s enough chit-chat. Get on with it!”
With an exchange of eye-rolling glances, they got on.
Weaken the sub-dimensional etheretic link… reverse the polarity, on the secondary directional matrix… tag the wave amplifier with an amended target… and hide every last trace of their tricks. Done and done and done and done.
“Bloody hell,” Monk muttered, and blotted sweat from his pale face. “Is that it, mate? Please tell me that’s it.”
“Yeah, I think so,” he said, just as sweaty and exhausted. “You all right?”
Monk pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “This bloody shadbolt,” he muttered. “It doesn’t half give me a headache.”
“I know. But honestly? It won’t hurt for him to notice you’re in pain. There’s nothing he likes better than someone suffering on his behalf.”
“Right,” said Monk, giving him an odd look. “If you say so.” And then he bit his lip. “Look. Gerald. Are you sure about this? Because if you can’t handle it-if you’re not as good as you think you are? Ass over elbows won’t begin to-”
“Monk, I can handle it,” he said flatly. “You worry about-”
The hot, sharp stirring in the ether turned both of them towards the hexed laboratory door.
“Is that him?” said Reg, craning her head. “Is he coming back? Bugger. Then tie that old biddy’s beak shut again and chuck her in the cage, quick.”
He stared at her. “Reg!”
“Don’t you Reg me, Gerald Dunwoody!” she retorted. “I’m the one who’s got to hide in that manky bathroom. Quick, can’t you feel him? He’s in a right state!”
And she wasn’t wrong about the other Gerald’s angry approach. Still a ways distant, this world’s Mr. Dunwoody was burning through the ether like a wind-whipped summer fire through the dry grass. He couldn’t feel Bibbie with him-and that was a relief. Even knowing she wasn’t really his sister, Monk was distracted when she was in the room. And they couldn’t afford any distractions. One false step and they’d be toast.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered to the other Reg. “But she’s right. You need to go back in the cage.”
“I know,” she said, her familiar eyes warm with a smile. “If she hadn’t said it, I would have.”
He fetched the red ribbon and started winding it around her long beak. “Look. If this goes right we-we won’t see each other again. So I’ll wish you good luck, Reg. After he’s taken care of there’ll be a lot of work to do. I expect your Melissande will be up to her eyeballs in that. She’ll need your advice. She’ll need you to-to nag her. Will you do that for me, Reg? Nag her and make rude comments about her butt-her behind? Complain about her tweed trousers and her terrible hairstyles and how she walks like a hockey player instead of a princess?”
Bound to silence now, the other Reg nodded.
“Thanks,” he whispered, and kissed the top of her head.
“Right, right, so if you’ve finished slobbering all over my third-rate understudy, Gerald,” his Reg snapped, her head poked around the bathroom door, “maybe you could get her in that cage before your evil twin kicks the front doors down?”
Ignoring the wretched woman, he returned the other Reg to her prison and re-hexed it. “Monk. The portable portal opener. Is it-”
Monk slapped his chest. “Safe in my pocket, mate.”
“And you’re sure it’s still working?”
“Sure as I can be.”
“He really can’t sense it?”
A shrug. “He hasn’t so far.”
“And if we manage to do this and have a shot at escaping, where do we-”
“He was a bit clever, that other Monk,” said Monk, not quite smiling. “It’ll take us back to the last place it opened. In this case, your bedroom. All very neat.”
“And if that’s not proof positive it was a different Monk Markham who made it…” Heart pounding, he turned to stare at the hexed door. Raised his voice a little. “Reg, if he’s taking us out of here I’ll make sure the lab door stays open. Follow us as soon as you can and for the love of Saint Snodgrass, don’t get caught.”
“No, really?” said Reg, from the bathroom. “That’s a bugger. Because I was planning on introducing myself and asking for a matching cage!”
“Gerald,” Monk said urgently, standing behind the etheretic gizmo. “Gerald, what about-”
But there was no more time for talking. The other Gerald was here.
With a blinding surge of thaumic power the laboratory door smashed open and the other Gerald strode in, pushing a large wheeled trolley. He’d changed out of his royal blue suit and was garbed now in gold and crimson, garish as bullion splashed with fresh blood.
“Well, Monk?” he demanded, eyes glittering with rage. “Is it finished? You’d better tell me it’s finished, because if it’s not finished I’m going to make you very bloody sorry! ”
Monk flinched and gasped, as though a knife had run through him. The shadbolt. “It’s finished, Gerald. All right? It’s finished!”
“And is it working?” said the other Gerald, silkily smooth. “Because if it’s finished and it’s not working then I don’t see the point. Do you?”
Gerald bit his tongue. Damn. They hadn’t tested the wretched thing. There hadn’t been time. “Gerald,” he said, stepping forward. “It’s working, but it hasn’t been given a proper test run. That’s your prerogative, not ours. Anyway, when did Monk Markham ever build a thaumic machine that didn’t work?”
His counterpart sneered. “When did Monk Markham need me to help him build one?”
“Actually-” Monk cleared his throat. “A few times, Gerald. Only I didn’t have the guts to admit it. I could hardly admit it to myself. So anything I couldn’t do without you, I just-I stopped working on.”
Before Gerald could stop himself, he was exchanging surprised looks with his evil twin.
“Huh,” said the other Gerald. “Y’know, call me crazy, Professor, but I think that touching declaration had the ring of truth about it. Don’t you?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It did.”
And when Monk and I are home again, we’re going to have a little chat.
“Anyway,” said Monk darkly. “The bloody thing’s operational. So what happens now?”
Brief amusement fled from the other Gerald’s demeanor, and fury poured in after it. “Ideally I’d test that claim for myself, Monk, but I’ll have to take your word on it. There’s been a slight change in plans. That stupid bastard Gonegal at the UMN had the gall to threaten my life. There’s a fleet of UMN armed airships on their way here now. He’s coming to take me into custody! Crimes against thaumaturgics! Can you believe it? I can’t wait to put a bloody shadbolt on him.”
Gerald didn’t dare risk a glance at Monk. “Armed airships? But-”
“Frightened, Professor?” said the other Gerald, full of contempt. “There’s no need. Gonegal’s armed airships are no match for ours. And once I’ve shadbolted Ottosland’s wizards and witches and have their harnessed potentias at my beck and call?” He laughed. “Viceroy Gonegal and his toadies won’t stand a chance.”
“Gerald…” He risked a step closer. “Stealing other people’s potentias will make you no better than Lional.”
“That’s a lie! ” the other Gerald spat. “Lional was a murderer. He killed the wizards whose potentias he took. I’m not killing anyone.” And then he smiled. “Well. Not anyone in Ottosland. I won’t vouch for those pustules from the UMN. If they breach our sovereign airspace then all bets are off. And I’m not stealing anything, either. I’m b
orrowing it. In a good cause. I’m not the villain here, Professor. Now shut up. You’re wasting my time.” He gave the wheeled trolley a shove. “Here. Get my machine on that, Mr. Markham. We’ll have to transport it the ordinary way, in case more thaumaturgics upset its calibrations. Quickly! We’ve got a lot of people waiting for us at the parade ground and I don’t want to disappoint them. Thanks to certain troublemakers I’m already running late.”
Monk nodded. “Yes, sir. Ah-Ger-sorry, Professor? Would you mind giving me a hand?”
“Good idea,” said the other Gerald. “I mean, I’d help but I’m not exactly dressed for manual labor.”
Oh, blimey. Puffing and grunting with the effort, he helped Monk manhandle the etheretic amplifier onto the trolley. Touching the gizmo, he could feel its enormous thaumaturgic potential thrumming beneath his hands like a rumbling volcano waiting to erupt.
“All right,” said the other Gerald. “That’s it. Let’s go. Except-” He looked at poor caged Reg, silent and miserable. “Bring the bird, Professor. She really shouldn’t be deprived of seeing my moment of triumph. And with any luck she’ll choke to death trying to apologize.” He smiled. “I’ll just unhex the cage for you.”
Gerald held his breath, his stomach churning. If his counterpart noticed it had already been unhexed and re-hexed But no. Either their thaumic signatures were close enough to fool him or the other Gerald was just too keyed up with angry excitement, because he didn’t notice a thing.
Praise the pigs.
“Thank you,” he said, and gently took the other Reg out again.
“No, don’t untie her beak yet,” said his counterpart. “She’ll only start nagging. Untie it when it’s time for her to apologize. Until then, Professor, we’ll bask in the silence.”
“Right,” he said, and stroked the tip of Reg’s wing. Surreptitiously, so his counterpart wouldn’t see.
The other Gerald glared at Monk. “Well? Why are you standing there like a lump of dried cowpat? Push the damn trolley! We’ve got to go!”
Monk flinched. “Sorry. Sorry. Um-push it where?”
“Oh, for the love of Saint Snodgrass,” the other Gerald snapped. “Follow me. Both of you. And you’d better bloody well keep up.”
He swept out of the laboratory, crimson boot-heels banging the floor. Gerald, not daring to look at the bathroom, dropped another kiss on Reg’s third-rate understudy’s head, exchanged a grim glance with Monk, and followed him out… making sure to leave the lab door open behind them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A covered, open-backed lorry took them to the ceremonial parade ground. The other Gerald traveled with them, not wanting to let his precious thaumic machine out of his sight. Gerald swallowed frustration. Inconvenient didn’t begin to describe it-now there was no hope of discussing his crazy idea for an evil-twin nobbling incant with Monk. So he consoled himself with holding the other Reg and silently promising her that whatever else happened, when this was over she’d be free to fly away.
As the lorry passed through the gates into the ceremonial parade ground, Monk looked up and saw Lional’s transfixed dragon.
“Bloody hell!”
The other Gerald stared at him. “What is wrong with you? Anyone’d think you’d never seen it before-let alone helped me get it up there!”
“What?” said Monk faintly. “I mean, sorry. No. It’s just-it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I–I forgot what an impression it makes.”
The other Gerald glowered. “One more uninvited word out of you, Monk, and I’ll give that bloody dragon a jockey, I swear.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way.
“So,” said the other Gerald, as the lorry finally ground to a halt. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stand with me on the dais, both of you, with my machine. You’re going to monitor its status while I begin phase one of my plan. If I don’t like the way either of you so much as blinks — the bird dies. Melissande dies. And if it comes to that, Monk, your sister dies too.” He smiled. “She’s not the only pretty blonde witch in the world.”
“You mean-” Monk had to moisten his lips and try again. “Melissande’s here?”
“No. She’s at home,” said the other Gerald, straightening his lapels. “But believe me, old chum. It makes no difference. I can kill her with a thought from a hundred miles away.”
Gasping, Monk dropped to the lorry floor, eyes wide, chest heaving.
“You see? Just like that.” A wide smile. “Saint Snodgrass’s bunions. I love a good shadbolt.”
Gerald set the other Reg on his shoulder then risked touching his counterpart on the arm. “Don’t be a fool, Gerald. You need him.”
“For the machine, yes,” his counterpart snapped. “But for precious little else, believe me! So if he wants to go on living he’ll watch his bloody step!”
Released, breathing harshly, Monk shakily sat up.
“Now come along,” said the other Gerald, leading the way out of the lorry. “I want this over and done with before Viceroy Gonegal and his pathetic armed airships get here.”
There was indeed a dais. It had been assembled in the middle of the ceremonial parade ground. Crowded onto it were the elected government and appointed senior civil servants of Ottosland, every last one of them still shadbolted to the hilt. He could see Lord Attaby, but not Monk’s Uncle Ralph. The rest of the walled enclosure was crammed full of unshadbolted witches and wizards, their potentias stirring thickly in the agitated ether. Bibbie was there too, at the very front of the dais, resplendent in swathes of vibrant pink silk, pouting because she’d been left alone for so long.
All the smoky half-domes had been removed, revealing the obscene and terrifying exhibits this world’s Gerald had so assiduously collected.
“Monk,” Gerald said under his breath, as they guided the etheretic wave enhancer on its trolley down the lorry’s portable ramp. His friend was walking backwards, bracing it, keeping it straight. “Monk, listen. When you turn around you’re going to see some things. Whatever you do, mate, don’t react.”
Puzzled, Monk blinked at him. “Yeah? All right. Whatever you say.”
But then they hit the bottom of the ramp and the trolley rolled over the flagstones and Monk had to wrestle it a bit-and he turned.
There was Sir Alec, still dying, dressed in flames. There was Lional, ripped and slashed and pinned to the ground. There was the witch whose name he didn’t know, wrapped in a blanket made of her own flayed skin. And wait-there was a new one-he hadn’t seen that one the last time. It was-it was Monk staggered. “Oh my God. That’s Uncle Ralph.”
“Oh, yes,” said the other Gerald, turning. “Stubborn old coot. Y’know, even with a shadbolt he kept on answering back. I didn’t want to lose him, I really didn’t. A First Grade Markham wizard isn’t something you throw away lightly. But-he was setting a bad example. He didn’t give me a choice.”
Uncle Ralph was front and center, directly in line with the dais. Probably the other Gerald had ordered him set there just so Sir Ralph’s former colleagues were reminded to hold their busy tongues. Compared to some of the others here he’d been granted an easy death: a swift impalement on a long, thin, sharpened stake.
“Monk, don’t,” said Gerald, and grabbed his friend’s arm. “Remember Melissande. And Reg. And Bibbie.”
Dazed, Monk shook him free. “Yeah. Yeah. Right.”
Still clinging to his shoulder, the other Reg was making angry noises in her throat. He patted the nearest bit of her that he could reach. “I know, Reg,” he muttered. “But we can’t help him now.”
The truck was retreating, chugging steadily away. The sky above the parade ground was clear of cloud but clogged with airships. The early morning sunshine turned their gun barrels bright silver. Some were pointed at the ground, covering the uneasily silent crowd of captive thaumaturgists; the rest were pointed outwards, waiting for the airships of the United Magical Nations.
When they got here-if they got here-there
was going to be a bloodbath. There was going to be a bloodbath anyway, of a sorts. All these wizards and witches, waiting to be enslaved.
Sick to his stomach, Gerald turned to the man in crimson and gold who was wearing his face. He didn’t want to take this other Gerald back through the portable portal. The risk to Ottosland was too great. What if he and Sir Alec couldn’t contain him? What if this murderous madman got loose?
What was I thinking? I can’t risk it. He’s too dangerous. There has to be another way.
“Gerald, listen to me,” he said, cajoling. “You don’t have to do this. There’s still time to change your mind. Deep down I don’t think you want to do this. All these grand plans, enslaving wizards, taking over the world… it’s those grimoires talking. It’s not you. Let me help. Let me fix this. Someone has to know a way of getting that magic out of you. There’ll be questions-and yes, there’ll be a tribunal, you can’t avoid that-but I’ll-I’ll testify about how the grimoire magic changed you.”
Monk was staring at him. “What the- Gerald — ”
“Be quiet, Monk.” Desperate, he looked at his counterpart, willing him to listen. “Not all of this is your fault, Gerald. The magics you gave me, in that hex crystal-hardly anything, and I can feel them inside me, changing my potentia. A teaspoon’s worth of grinwire magic, compared to what you took-and I’m twisted. Only a little bit, but I know the twist is there. I know what you went through. And I know why you did it. You did it to stop Lional, to save New Ottosland. You did the wrong thing for the right reason-and that has to count for something, Gerald. I think it counts.”
The look on his counterpart’s face shifted from bafflement to irritation. “Oh, my God, Professor. You’re as bad as the bloody bird. Now shut up before I shut you up. I might not be able to shadbolt you but I’ll bet I can find a gag.”
Swamped with despair, he shut up.
I’m a bloody idiot. Talking to him is like talking to Lional. He’s too far gone to reach.
