by K. E. Mills
He felt a prickle of temper. “No-one’s controlling me, Lional. I’m in the Department of my own free will.”
Lional’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? All right, Gerald. If you say so. But what if you wake up tomorrow and choose another path? What then?”
“I won’t.”
“Perhaps not,” said Lional, watching his rubies flash and sparkle in the sun. “But that wasn’t the question, was it?”
Gerald shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the sky. Once upon a time he’d been twinned with a dragon. Had flown untrammelled in the wild, warm air. Sometimes, in his dreaming, he was that dragon again. A creature of myth and magic, bound only by his will. Born because he wanted it. Brought to life because he could.
No, said a sharp, scolding voice in his head. Because Lional was about to commit wholesale slaughter. So you took a small innocent life, because it was there and you needed it. And then you warped it, tortured it and in the end destroyed it to fix the mess you made. Nothing glorious about that, sunshine.
Frowning, he scuffed his shoe-heel in the gravel.
“Would you like to know what I think, Gerald?” said Lional. His eyes were glittering. “I think you do repine. I think you repine daily. I think if we could turn back time you’d choose differently. You’d join me. You’d run to me.”
He stepped back. “No, Lional. I wouldn’t.”
Lional laughed, softly mocking. “The true test of honesty is what a man says to himself when no-one else can hear the words. Remember the cave? I know you, Gerald. Better than any man alive. Or dead.”
The cave. He took another step back. “You don’t know anything. You’re not real.”
“I’m real enough to know you resent that ridiculous etheretic shield,” said Lional, with a nonchalant shrug. “I know you’re tired of being restrained. After all, what’s the point of having power if you never get to use it? And they won’t let you use it, you know. Sir Alec and his minions. They’re so frightened of you, Gerald, they can hardly spit.”
“That’s not true.”
Lional smiled. “Isn’t it?”
Sickened, Gerald stared at him… forced at last to confront what he’d been trying for weeks now to deny. Lional was right. They were afraid of him. All that poking and prodding. All those tests. All those questions. Always someone watching when he ran through his selected, approved repertoire of incants. Watching. Measuring. Taking careful notes. As though they didn’t trust him. As though they thought that if they turned their backs he’d do something crazy… like make another dragon. Or turn them all into stoats.
“The real question, Gerald,” said Lional, “is what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” he retorted. “They’ve got good reason to fear.”
I’ve got good reason. I need to be watched.
“Do you know what I think, Gerald?” said Lional, considering him carefully. “I think you’ve let them bamboozle you. You’ve let them turn you inside out and upside down. Got you convinced there’s something wrong with who you are. What you are.”
Gerald folded his arms. “And what am I, Lional?”
“Whatever you desire to be, of course.”
“Which makes you what—my conscience?” He snorted. “Thanks, but I’ve already got one of those. Her name’s Reg. And one is more than enough.”
Lional laughed, mocking again. “One is one too many, Gerald. No man can fly with a millstone round his neck. Genius requires freedom. Morality is for the weak. Compassion is—”
“If you think that argument’s going to convince me I made a mistake when I killed you, I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment.”
Lional’s cerulean eyes opened wide. “Oh, no, Gerald. I know you don’t regret killing me. I know you think you did the world a favour. I’m merely stating my position, that’s all.”
He shook his head. “Then why—”
“Because I want you to believe me,” said Lional, simply. “I want you to believe yourself. I want you to be perfectly clear on the facts. You’re convinced you did the right thing in New Ottosland. You do repine. You know they’re afraid of you… and even while a part of you shares that fear, another part—a much bigger part than you’re willing to admit—resents them for holding you back.”
Gerald stared at him, silenced. This isn’t fair. Murderous madmen who tortured you to the brink of insanity aren’t supposed to tell the truth.
Lional yawned. “Was there anything you wanted to add?”
“Just this,” he said quietly. Are you listening, Sir Alec? “I do know I did the right thing, Lional. But when you claim I don’t regret it… that’s where you’re wrong. I regret I wasn’t able to save you.”
“Oh, Gerald, Gerald,” said Lional, and wagged a roguish finger. “Such an arrogant young man. Whatever makes you think I wanted to be saved?”
He shrugged. “I never said you wanted it. I only know you needed it.”
Lional laughed again, a soft, shivering sound. “Well, well. Fancy that. It seems, my dear Gerald, there’s hope for you yet.”
Okay. That’s it. Enough is enough. If I wanted mental therapy I’d have kept my second appointment with the Department’s brain boffin.
“Look,” he said. “It’s getting late and I have a test to pass. Whatever game this is, I’m tired of playing it.” He turned on his heel and started walking. “Goodbye, Lional. Or whoever you are.”
“Oh, you know who I am, Gerald,” Lional called after him. “And you know where to find me. I’m never far away.”
Right. Fine. Gerald hunched his shoulders, feeling the gravel scrunch under his feet. Feeling his belly churn. What the hell was Sir Alec playing at? They’d already talked about Lional. Spent days and days dredging through the sorry escapade in New Ottosland. There was nothing new for Sir Alec to learn. Lional was dead. Literally and metaphorically. And the dead should stay buried.
He stopped walking, struck by a horrible thought.
Unless, of course, this has nothing to do with Sir Alec. Unless it’s not even happening. What if I’m still in bed, back in Nettleworth, dreaming this is my final test? Because this is impossible. The hexed gates, the wall, Lional. It’s crazy, all of it, just like a dream.
Profoundly unsettled, he swung about. The driveway behind him was empty. Lional had gone.
Yes, but was he ever there? Am I here? Or am I going to wake up in the next five minutes with my alarm clock dinging and drool on my chin?
Feeling like an idiot he slapped his own face, hard. Ow. The stinging in his cheek and palm seemed to suggest that yes, he was here.
But does that mean I’ve spent the last twenty minutes talking to myself? Because if I have there’s a good chance I’ve gone mad. On the other hand, if Lional really was here that means I’ve been talking to a ghost and that means, hello, there’s a good chance I’ve gone mad.
“Bloody hell, Reg,” he said to the empty sky. “Why aren’t you ever around when I need you?”
He spun on his heel again and stamped the rest of the way up to the house.
It was an old place, two storeyed and rambling, built from weathered yellow sandstone. Thick green ivy crept up the walls in search of a better life. There were five timber-framed windows, all crooked, all with sun-bleached curtains blocking the glass. A long time ago the front door had been painted fire-engine red. Now it was faded, its brass gargoyle knocker and round doorknob desperate for attention. An ivy-covered archway protected anyone forced to bang on it in the rain.
Gerald hesitated, just for a moment, then marched right up, rapped the gargoyle knocker emphatically, twice, and waited.
No answer.
He pressed his hand flat to the door’s dulled red paint, expecting to feel some kind of incant or hex. Nothing. He banged the gargoyle knocker again, hearing a faint suggestion of hollow echoes deep within the house. Still no answer.
“Well, bugger this for a boatload of monkeys,” he said at last, grabbed the doorknob and turned it.
The door opened without protest, a conservative inch. So he took a deep breath, pushed it wide, and stepped over the threshold…
… into Sir Alec’s austere office at Department headquarters, Nettleworth.
Seated behind his polished teak desk, neat and tidy as always, Sir Alec made a note in an open file then looked up. His unremarkable face was expressionless, but in his cool eyes lurked the merest hint of approval.
“At last, Mister Dunwoody,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if we’d see you again.” He nodded at the discouraging wooden visitor’s chair. “Have a seat. Just a few formalities, then we can discuss your first assignment.”
Stunned, Gerald sat. “My first—you mean—that’s it? That was the test? And I passed?”
Sir Alec was the least casual man he’d ever met. Sir Alec never slouched. He never slumped. He never leaned against anything. And if he was weary he never ever showed it. There was nothing whatsoever restful about him. His wintry smile appeared, briefly.
“Mister Dunwoody, the testing of your janitorial suitability started from the moment you arrived here. Surely you knew that? Or at least suspected it?”
“No. Well. Sort of. Maybe. At least—I thought—I wondered—” He slewed round in the wooden chair and stared at the office door. “Ah—Sir Alec—if you don’t mind me asking—um—how did I get here? I mean, was that a portal? The door at the haunt—the establishment? Because it didn’t feel like a portal. At least not like any portal I’ve ever travelled through.”
“Really, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. Now he sounded irritated. “We are a secret government Department. Did you think we wouldn’t have a few surprises up our sleeve?”
He swallowed, hard. “No, of course not. So who invented that one? Not Monk, by any chance?”
Instead of answering, Sir Alec reached for another file from the pile on his desk, opened it and extracted a sheet of heavy, official looking paper, embossed in five places with enormous crimson wax seals. The black ink printing looked equally official and impressive.
Gerald read his name on it, upside down, and felt his heart thud heavily.
This is it. I’ve done it. I’m a real live janitor.
He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know nearly enough. The international law, the restricted incants, the seventeen volumes of case files that didn’t even scratch the surface of the Department’s work over the past ten years. He’d barely absorbed any of it. All was chaos in his head, facts and figures tumbling like leaves in a windstorm. He didn’t know enough yet to be let loose on the world.
Sir Alec was holding out a pen and a second sheet of paper. “Mister Dunwoody?”
Still dazed, he took them. “What am I signing?”
“Your permanent contract.”
“Oh.” He looked down. The words swam on the paper. Insofar as… wherefore the agent aforementioned… duty and diligence… penalties under the Act… utmost secrecy… blah blah blah blah…
He looked up again. “Do I have to sign right now, or do I get some time to think about it? And, you know, read the fine print.”
Sir Alec frowned. “Six months isn’t long enough for cogitation, Mister Dunwoody? Or are you having second thoughts?”
The ghost of Lional, whispering in his ear. They’re so frightened of you, Gerald, they can hardly spit.
“No, no, it’s not that. I just—well, you know what they say. Never sign a document you haven’t read at least twice.”
Sir Alec just looked at him.
Oh, blimey. Gerald stared at the contract again. At his black-and-white future. The years stretched ahead of him, full of danger and duty. Deception and lies. Loneliness. Fear.
Full of doing the right thing. Full of making amends. Full of Lionals who have to be stopped. The dead must be honoured… and you gave them your word.
He signed.
“Excellent,” said Sir Alec, and stood. “Now come with me.”
Gerald followed him out of the office, along the dingy corridor, down five flights of stairs to the underground complex beneath the unremarkable premises in Nettleworth, where he’d spent so much of his time lately being poked and prodded and investigated, like a crime.
But instead of going to the laboratory, which had become his second, reluctant home, Sir Alec led him to a small, featureless room with two doors, one chair and a table in it. On the table, in a black cradle, sat a lump of pale yellow scrying crystal.
“Have a look,” Sir Alec invited. “Then tell me what you see.”
Bending over the table, Gerald stared into the crystal. “A man,” he said. “He looks… frightened.”
“As well he should,” said Sir Alec grimly. “The fool’s been caught with the wrong secrets in his pocket. Now it’s our job to find out precisely how much more he knows, that he shouldn’t, and to which of our enemies he’s passed—or intends to pass—his pilfered information.”
“I see,” said Gerald, and gazed again into the scrying crystal.
Slightly distorted by etheretic vibrations, the man sat on a wooden chair rather like the one in Sir Alec’s office, his right arm pressed against his middle as though he had a pain, agitatedly chewing the fingernails of his left hand. He was thin and sallow… or maybe that was just the scrying crystal’s influence. He didn’t much look like a thief of secrets. A traitor to his nation. Or not the way Gerald imagined a man like that would look. If you took away the fear and the fingernail-chewing he appeared earnest and prosperous. Like many of the men he’d worked with when he was a Probationary Compliance Officer.
“Is he a wizard?” he asked, straightening.
Sir Alec nodded. “A Second Grader in the Department of Industry. The perfect target for subornment, Mister Dunwoody. Likes the ladies a little too much. Enjoys one tipple too many at his local club. Tends to bet just that fraction more than he can afford at the races.” He made a small sound of contempt. “And then thinks he can save himself by betting more the next time.”
“Ah,” said Gerald. “I have a second-cousin like that.” Morley, who’d never met a broken-down racehorse he wasn’t convinced would win the Five Furlong Dash. “So this man—this wizard—ah—”
Sir Alec smiled. “His name’s not important.”
Oh. “So… let me guess. This wizard got into debt, and couldn’t get out of it, and did something stupid to try and save himself. Is that right?” Oh yes. Just like Morley.
“You consider him a victim, do you, Mister Dun-woody?” Sir Alec asked softly. “A hapless, harmless ne’er-do-well who’s just made a silly little mistake? Committed a small error of judgement?”
Surprised by the sudden chill in Sir Alec’s voice, Gerald frowned. “Well, no, not exactly. I mean, if he’s been selling proprietary government information, well, obviously that’s wrong. But—”
“But because he’s not spilled blood, because he’s not a murderer, because, really, how much trouble can you get into with a dull set of chaps like the Department of Industry, you don’t think I should be taking this quite so seriously?”
Sir Alec’s voice was so cold icicles were practically forming in the air.
“No, sir,” he said, close to shivering. “I didn’t say that, either.”
“Shall I tell you the consequences of this traitor’s actions should we fail to uncover the extent of his perfidy and the identity of every last foreign agent in receipt of his stolen information?”
“Yes. Please.”
“You’ve been out of the way here, Mister Dun-woody,” Sir Alec said, his voice clipped. Still chilly. “And fairly well occupied, so it’s not unreasonable you’re a trifle behind the times. Allow me, therefore, to bring you up to speed. There’s been a breakthrough in the application of artificially agitated thaumicals to certain non-thaumically sensitive items. It’s early days still, but should preliminary tests prove out, the patents will be worth a fortune. And before you ask, no, Mister Markham is not involved. I realise you’re a great champion of his talents but he has only eight fingers and two
thumbs and we—the government—have a few more pies to dabble in than that.”
Gerald managed, barely, to keep his face straight. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Can you tell me any more about this breakthrough?”
“Once the process has been sufficiently refined and is applied,” Sir Alec continued, “it will have a significant impact on various sectors of the economy. Enormous benefits will accrue to both government and selected private enterprise—at the expense of several nations currently enjoying certain… monopolies. And that is as specific as I’m prepared to be. The point, Mister Dunwoody, is that should these nations be warned ahead of time as to our progress, or be given access to research on the patents, they could either attempt to usurp the process or take pre-emptive and punitive action that will severely damage our economy.”
Gerald thought about that. “But aren’t we trying to damage their economies?”
“Trying?” Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “Certainly not. We are striving to benefit our nation, the primary duty of any good government. I admit there will be some inevitable realignments in some foreign revenues. An adjustment to income for the nations in question. But that is the nature of international trade. Swings and roundabouts, Mister Dunwoody. A loss here, a gain there, and it all comes out in the wash. Eventually.”
Gerald nodded. “I see.” And I’m getting a headache. “So this is about money.”
“It is about sovereignty and security,” Sir Alec snapped. “And preventing a war.”
“War? How did we get to war? I thought we were talking about trade?”
“Trade is war,” said Sir Alec. “Or at least a close relative. Mister Dunwoody, you are not a stupid man. Ottosland has long been the envy of lesser thaumaturgically-gifted nations. To allow the envious to use our own gifts against us would be to encourage their predations. To give the impression that we are an easy target, disinclined to stand our ground. And as history so amply demonstrates, to give that impression to one’s enemies never leads to a happy ending. In short we must nip this matter in the bud. Before it comes to real war, and people start dying.”
“I can see that it’s necessary,” said Gerald, slowly. “But where do I fit in?”
