by K. E. Mills
“Sure,” said Monk. “Remind me to take care of it before you leave. So. If you’re at Wycliffe’s, that means…”
“Yeah. I’m in the field. My first assignment.”
A slow smile spread over Monk’s thin, anarchic face. “You passed the final test.”
“Well, I didn’t fail.”
“Eh? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me and we’ll both know,” he said wryly. “Hey, I don’t suppose the bar’s open, is it?”
“Been one of those days?” said Monk, sympathetic.
“You have no idea.”
Monk uncoiled from his armchair. “Brandy all right?”
“Bless you, my son,” he said, letting his head fall back. “Brandy is perfect.”
Monk frowned as he sloshed a generous amount of liquor into the first of two balloon glasses. “Wycliffe’s,” he murmured. “Hang on… hang on…” His eyebrows shot up, and he stared. “Errol Haythwaite’s working for Wycliffe’s. Very smartly turned down the Aframbigi post and… oh. Oh, Gerald. Tell me you’re not.”
Trust Monk to leap to the right conclusion. “Not what?”
“Tell me you’re not investigating Errol Haythwaite!”
Careful now, careful. “I’m not investigating him specifically.”
Monk poured the second brandy, brought both glasses back to the armchairs and held one out. “But…”
He took the brandy and swallowed a generous mouthful. The smooth bite of fermented apple flamed across his tongue and down his throat, and he smiled.
“That’s good stuff.”
“Yeah, well, Great-uncle Throgmorton was a cranky old sod but he kept a good cellar,” said Monk, sitting again. “Gerald. What’s going on?”
“Look, I’m not trying to be coy, honestly,” he said, “but can we wait till the girls get here before I spill the beans?”
Monk frowned. “The girls?”
Terrific. “They didn’t warn you?”
“Warn me about what?”
“That we’d all be meeting here tonight. At nine.”
“No,” Monk sighed. “They didn’t.”
“Probably they wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Or Mel was just being regal again.” Monk grinned. “She does that, you know.”
“I had noticed,” he said. “So… you and Melissande… you’re still…”
“Yes, Gerald,” Monk said primly. “We are still—what’s the word? Courting?”
“I think so. Though when it comes to Melissande it must be like courting disaster.”
“It has its moments,” Monk admitted. “I’m busy. She’s busy. And she’s the next in line to a throne, at least until Rupert marries and has a sprog. She’s genuine working royalty, mate. That kind of complicates things.”
“Only if you let it, Monk. Unless, of course, you’re looking for an excuse.”
“An excuse?” said Monk, startled. “To do what—exit stage left? No. No. I just—I don’t know—I’m not good at this, Gerald.”
“Not good at what?”
“You know. Romance,” said Monk, harassed. “I don’t think I know what women want. What do they want?”
He swallowed laughter, along with more brandy. “How would I know? Ask Reg. She’ll tell you—at length.”
“Yeah…” Monk half-drained his glass. “So. How are you? What’s it like being a janitor? Answering to Sir Alec? Is he as tricky as everyone says?”
Instead of replying, Gerald stared into his brandy balloon. He shouldn’t answer. In fact, he should leave. He’d been told, point blank, not to make contact with his friends.
And I didn’t. I tripped over them, which is hardly my fault. The damage—if there is damage—is done, so there’s no point in me leaving. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t find out what Melissande and Reg are up to at Wycliffe’s.
As for Monk, well, he wasn’t just anybody. He was the best friend who’d risked everything for him in New Ottosland and had come damn close to losing his career on the strength of it. Monk Markham knew the same secrets as he did. Which meant, in his book, they were practically the same person.
Which means the rules don’t apply.
Besides, he really needed someone to talk to about… stuff. And he had questions that only Monk could answer.
He looked up. “Remember in New Ottosland when you said to me, ‘Don’t do it’. Not unless I really wanted to? You meant the janitoring, right?”
Monk considered him warily. “Yeah. Right.”
“So what did you know that you weren’t telling me?”
“Gerald…” Monk shoved out of his armchair and returned to the drinks trolley, sloshed more apple brandy into his glass and brought the bottle back with him.
He held out his own glass. In the fireplace the flames crackled merrily, devouring wood. “Don’t mess me about, Monk. I really need to know.”
His expression derisive, Monk topped up the brandy balloon. “That was fast. I thought it’d take longer.”
“Thought what would take longer?”
“For Sir Alec to mess with your head. Seven months? That must be some kind of record. From what I hear, most agents are good for a couple of years at least.” He sat down again and plonked the bottle of brandy by his feet. “So. What happened?”
Gerald put down his drink. “In a minute. First tell me why you tried to warn me off.”
“Why d’you think?” Monk muttered, brooding into his glass. “Because I’m your friend.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Monk took a much bigger mouthful of brandy, swallowed, spluttered and made a big production out of coughing and wheezing and banging his chest. Playing for time. Trying to avoid the truth.
“Monk…”
Monk sighed and gave up. “I had a cousin. On my mum’s side of the family. Mordecai Thackeray. He was a fair bit older than me, and he was an agent too. Not for your lot. He worked for a different Department. Same business, though. Dirty tricks. Investigations. Swimming in the political sewers. Domestic, not international. Though sometimes the two spheres… well, they crossed paths. They still do from time to time.”
Gerald nodded. He’d been fully briefed on the government’s other thaumaturgical investigative branch. Been made blisteringly aware of their not-always-cordial relationship and warned he was never to tread on their toes. Not unless it couldn’t be helped. The last thing Sir Alec wanted was junior janitors muddying already murky waters.
“And this Mordecai,” he said. “What happened to him?”
Shifting in his armchair, Monk glowered at the fire’s leaping flames. “Short answer? He died.”
Oh. “And the long answer?” Not that he was sure he wanted to hear it. Not with a look like that on Monk’s face. Monk was the most resilient, the most stubbornly uncrushable man he knew. For him to look stricken…
But if I’m going to be this—this person, this agent, then I have to know. I never want to be taken unawares again.
“I don’t have a long answer,” said Monk eventually. “At least, not one I can swear to. I was only a nipper when we lost Mordy. Bibbie was still in nap-pies. And the folks never talk about it.” He brooded into his glass of brandy. “I think Aylesbury knows something. I think he overheard something he wasn’t meant to hear—but you know Aylesbury. If I asked he’d know it mattered, so he’d let himself be torn apart by wild dogs before telling.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Tell me again how sad it is I’m an only child.”
Monk smiled, but his amusement was brief. “The official story,” he continued, looking up after another long pause, “is that Mordy contracted Assowary Fever and didn’t run to the nearest hospital because he thought it was only a bad cold. By the time he realised he was wrong it was too late.”
“And unofficially?”
“Unofficially—from what I’ve been able to glean and ferret and snoop and fossick—he was involved in a case that went spectacularly wrong. Good people d
ied, another agent included. He blamed himself. And… he didn’t want to live any more.” Monk shrugged. “But none of that’s official. It’s just me leaping to conclusions.”
Gerald rubbed a finger over the shiny spot on the knee of his trousers. “Yeah. But you’re good at that. So, what? You think that could be me one day?” A charming thought. But Monk was wrong. He’d never do it. Not to his parents. Not to Reg.
Monk swallowed more brandy, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t say that.”
“Monk.”
“It’s just, you remind me of him a bit, right?” said Monk, goaded. “Like I said, I was only a nipper but I never forgot him. Mordy was a good man. He cared about things. About right and wrong and helping people who needed to be helped, no matter what it cost him. Looking back, I can see there was something sad about him. Something driven.”
Gerald felt his jaw drop. “And you think that’s me? You think I’m sad and driven? Bloody hell, Monk. Don’t beat around the bush—you think I’m pathetic!”
“Not pathetic,” Monk protested. “You just… take things to heart. Like Mordy did.” He got up again and crossed to the fire. Stared down into the mesmerising flames. “And if you are feeling a bit… down… no-one could blame you. Not after what you’ve been through.”
Gerald reached for his glass and knocked back the remains of his brandy in one swallow. “Well, I’m not down. Right? I’m fine. I mean, I’m sorry about your uncle, but I’m not him.”
“No?” Monk swung round. “Then what’s the problem? And don’t tell me there isn’t one, mate, because I’ve still got two good eyes.”
Brought to it, suddenly he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Hey,” said Monk. “If you’re worried I’m going to let something slip…”
“No. Lord, no.” He shrugged. “It’s just hard to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“The final test.”
“What about it?”
“It was bloody peculiar, that’s what!” he replied, flooded once more with baffled unease. “Even now, Monk, I’m not sure how much of it actually happened. I mean, I know I got on a train in Central Ott. I know I got off the train in Finkley Meadows and a cart took me into the countryside and left me at the front gates of an obscure Department property. And I know I ended up drinking tea with Sir Alec and driving back to Nettleworth with him in a car. But everything that happened in between?” Another shrug. “I can’t explain it. It felt real. Too real. But I don’t think it was real.”
Monk frowned at the hearth. “How do you mean, not real?”
“It felt like a dream,” he said. “Things happening that make sense at the time, even while a part of you knows they’re impossible. You know?”
“Mmm,” said Monk, and gulped some brandy. “Maybe. Did you, ah, ask Sir Alec?”
“Of course I asked Sir Alec! Sir Alec said it wasn’t Department policy to discuss testing with agents.”
“Ah,” said Monk. Suddenly he was looking… uncomfortable. No, more than uncomfortable. He was looking guilty.
Gerald put down his empty glass. “Monk? What’s going on? Do you know something? If you do you’d better tell me.”
“Mmm,” said Monk. “Well. This is bloody awkward.” He stood. “Awkward? What do you mean awkward?” Now Monk’s face was a picture of woe. “I’m sorry, Gerald. I had no idea they’d use it. At least, not on you. They said they were exploring some new ideas. They said they were considering its application, maybe, sometime in the future. Once the kinks were ironed out.”
“They said?”
Monk winced. “He said. Sir Alec.”
Sir Alec. Again, and at every turn. “And what is it?”
“The delerioso incant,” Monk mumbled.
“Never heard of it.”
“No. Well, you wouldn’t have,” said Monk, still mumbling. “It’s on the proscribed list.”
“The proscribed list?” He stared. “Then how the hell did you—”
Monk rubbed his nose. “I invented it.”
“Of course you did,” he said, dazed, and sat down again. “Enlighten me, Monk, before I punch you. Or worse.”
On a deep sigh Monk dropped cross-legged onto the fireplace’s cindery hearth. “What can I say? It was a stupid university prank. Something I dreamed up in second year. Back when I was smart enough to do that kind of thing but too stupid to realise it might backfire.”
“Oh, well, it’s good to know things have changed,” he said, giving sarcasm full rein.
“Bloody hell, Gerald,” Monk muttered. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I? I’m telling you I didn’t know.”
“Never mind the grovelling,” he retorted. “You can save that for later. What the hell is a delerioso incant?”
“It was meant to be a bit of harmless fun,” said Monk. “Good for a giggle, and embarrassing people you don’t like.” His sharkish grin flashed, irrepressible. “Worked a treat on Errol. He didn’t show his face for a week after, stupid git.”
“Monk.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Monk cleared his throat. “The delerioso tickles the subconscious. Gets you reliving a dream, or a memory, as vividly as if it’s happening right in that moment. You know, you think you’re dancing with some bird on the last night of school but in reality you’re making a fool of yourself in the quad waltzing with a broom. Stuff like that.” Monk couldn’t help himself: he grinned again. “So anyway, I tried it on Errol and he re-lived the time his mother dressed him in a sailor suit and it all got very ugly. The upshot was I got sent down for three weeks… and noticed by the Department of Thaumaturgy. They recruited me on the spot. Well, I say recruited but it was more like being strong-armed.”
“Like me,” said Gerald, slowly. “How come you never mentioned this before?”
“Water under the bridge, mate,” said Monk simply. “Turns out it was the right choice. I’m happy where I am. I do good work.”
“I don’t know about good,” he said, feeling bitter. “It’s bloody effective, I’ll give you that. Although…” He frowned. “I was doing more than re-living memories. I was experiencing new things as though they were real.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that,” said Monk, wincing. “They—he—Sir Alec—got me to kind of—you know—soup up the original incant. He said they were thinking of using the delerioso as an interrogation tool. A way of tricking villains into giving up vital information without having to—to—”
“Make them uncomfortable?” he suggested, with a savage delicacy.
“Well… yeah,” Monk admitted, thoroughly miserable now. “Something like that. I thought it was a good idea. We find out what we need to know and nobody gets hurt in the process.”
“Yes, it’s all very noble, really. So… what? I was your guinea pig?”
Monk rubbed his nose again. “I suppose. Sir Alec’s guinea pig, anyway.”
Bloody Sir Alec. Gerald reached for the brandy bottle beside Monk’s chair. Someone remind me to have words with him the next time we meet. Not bothering with his glass, he swallowed deeply.
“I really am sorry, Gerald,” Monk said quietly. “You know that, right?”
He shook his head. “It’s funny. I should’ve twigged you had something to do with it. There was this hex I had to break. Your fingerprints were all over it. Yours, and a bunch of other wizards.”
“They put that in?” said Monk, surprised. “Huh.”
“Something else you were playing at?”
“Ah…” Monk’s face coloured. “Yeah. The hex Lional used to lock Mel in her palace apartments. Remember? I kind of… borrowed it, and gave it the old Markham touch.”
He swallowed from the bottle a second time then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Speaking of Lional, he and I had an interesting conversation—courtesy of your delerioso incant. Congratulations. Your souping up efforts are a spectacular success.”
“Hell’s bells,” said Monk, and dropped his head into his hands. “Gerald, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t know
what Sir Alec had planned.”
With exacting precision Gerald put down the brandy bottle, temper bubbling beneath the warm apple glow. “And when I finished chatting with Lional I tortured someone to make them talk,” he added, feeling ruthless. The horror of those moments still hadn’t receded. “At least I thought I did.”
“What?” said Monk, his head snapping up. “Gerald, I never—”
“His name was William. Sir Alec told me people were going to die if he didn’t tell us what we needed to know. And because I thought it was real, I started to dismantle the shadbolt that was keeping him quiet. But he screamed and I couldn’t finish. I walked out. And instead of failing me, Sir Alec offered me tea and sent me to Wycliffe’s.”
The fire crackled merrily into the silence.
“It must’ve been the only test they could think of,” Monk murmured. “Using your own strength, your own memories, against you. I mean, if you could break those gate-hexes… you did break them, didn’t you?”
Gerald nodded, remembering the delight he’d felt at outwitting the great Monk Markham. “Oh, yes. I broke them.”
“No-one at the Department could crack them, you know. The best First Graders in the country couldn’t make a dent. Bloody hell, Gerald. You’re good.” And then Monk shook his head. “I can’t believe they used my delerioso against you. That’s—that’s bloody wrong, that is. They know we’re friends. We’re on the same side. You don’t use team mates against each other.”
He felt his lips tug in a small, sardonic smile. “Don’t look now but the game’s changed, Monk—and we’d better keep up. And don’t forget… it’s all for the greater good.”
“Yeah, well, to hell with the greater good!” said Monk, bouncing to his feet. “First thing in the morning, first bloody thing, I’m going to—”
“No, you’re not,” he said tiredly, his bubble of temper abruptly burst by Monk’s genuine distress. “You’re not saying a word about this to anyone. I’m not even supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to breathe a syllable of what happened in Finkley Meadows. It’s janitor business.” Picking up the brandy bottle again, this time he splashed a little into his glass. “I just… I didn’t know… I wasn’t sure…” He sighed. “Well. At least I know it wasn’t real. I didn’t actually—”
