by K. E. Mills
Assuming there is one. I really want there to be one. I suppose that makes me a bad person. But he’s telling people I killed a king! All right, I did. But that’s not the point! And anyway, he was a bad king. The point is—
His disjointed train of thought was derailed by a commotion beyond the scullery’s open door. As he turned, half-cleaned beaker in hand, Japhet Morgan rushed back in.
“You’ll never guess!” he panted. “There’s been another portal accident! It’s all over the wireless. Quick, come and listen!”
Japhet rushed out again. Gerald, staring, didn’t even feel the beaker slip from his grasp. Hardly flinched as it smashed to splinters on the scullery’s brick floor.
Oh, damn. This is my fault. I should’ve found a way to stop it.
He stepped over the shards of glass, dreamlike, and drifted out to the complex of laboratories.
The wizards of R&D were huddled around the lab wireless. Even Errol was listening. But was that to learn first-hand of his success or because—like everyone else—he was horrified and wanted to know what had happened?
Was this what that crystal ball communication was about? Did Rottlezinder call Errol for permission to proceed?
He didn’t know. He had to find out.
“—and details are scarce at this time,” the news announcer was saying. “There is no word yet of casualties. We shall update as new information comes to hand. I repeat, there has been an accident at the Central Ott General Post Office Portal. No official statement has been released by the Department of Transport, as yet, and details are scarce at this time. There is no word—”
Turning blindly away from the huddle of wizards, from the ruthlessly unemotional voice emanating from the wireless, Gerald nearly smacked face-first into Ambrose Wycliffe. The company’s hapless owner stood in the wide aisle that separated the two long rows of laboratories, his jowly, whiskered face unhealthily flushed.
“What’s that? What’s going on? Why aren’t you men going about your work? You know the rule about the wireless, gentlemen, it’s only for—”
“There’s been another portal accident,” said Gerald. Sweat was tormenting its way down his spine. “In Central Ott. Mister Wycliffe—I’m sorry—I have to go down there. My—my mother—was coming in to town today. She always uses the Central Post Office Portal. Please, sir, I really, really need to—”
“What?” said Ambrose Wycliffe, and shook himself. Paid attention. “Your mother, Dunwoody? I’m sorry to hear it. Naturally you must go. But don’t forget to punch out. You’ll need to make up the lost time.”
Of course he would.
As he made his surreptitious way out of the R&D block Gerald looked back at Errol, still standing closest to the wireless, still listening to the repetitive droning of the plummy-voiced announcer. If his dismay was an act, he belonged on the stage. But then traitors had to be good actors, didn’t they?
Feeling himself watched, Errol glanced up. Seeing who stared at him, his face hardened and his eyes chilled as his expression shifted from shock to sneering contempt. Then it shifted again, to a dawning suspicion…
Bugger. Before Errol could challenge him Gerald ducked out of the side door. Ranged down the length of the R&D block was a collection of prototype scooters and velocipedes. Rubbish, Melissande had called them. And she was right: the first three scooters he tried to start just spluttered at him, protesting. The fourth one kicked over, but chugged so pathetically he feared it would expire altogether before he could cover the distance between Wycliffe’s and the Central General Post Office.
Put-put-puttering down the driveway that led to Wycliffe’s front gates, he heard a wild flapping of wings and looked up.
“Reg? What are you doing?” he whispered, as she landed on the back of the scooter. He was chugging past the main office building, past window after window that could at any moment contain an inconvenient witness. “Go away. Someone might see you!”
“Not likely,” said Reg, flapping herself into a more comfortable and secure position, pillion on the scooter. “Any gel caught looking out of the window is summarily dismissed, sunshine. And it’s only gels working in there.”
“Yes, all right, fine, if you say so, but—”
“I was stretching my wings and I saw you making a desperate getaway,” she said. “What’s going on, Gerald? Don’t tell me that pillock Errol Haythwaite’s put the wind up you?”
He risked a glance over his shoulder at her. Felt the most enormous wave of relief wash over him. I’m not alone. I’m not alone. “If only,” he said, and heard his voice shake. “There’s been another portal incident, Reg.”
“Bugger,” she said. “Anybody dead this time?”
“I don’t know. I’m going down there. I have to see—maybe I can help, maybe I can—” His throat closed. “Melissande was right.”
“No, she wasn’t,” said Reg, as they bumped over the gratings set between the front gates of the Wycliffe Airship Company. Above their heads the tethered, antiquated airship bobbed in the light breeze. “You know she wasn’t. She knows she wasn’t. And even if she was this wouldn’t be your fault. You’re not a miracle worker. Incidentally, why are you wearing bright pink rubber gloves?”
He looked at his hands as though he’d never seen them before. “Oh. Yes.” With a bit of precarious manoeuvring, he managed to get the gloves off and shove them in his pocket. “I was—” The scooter’s engine gurgled, threatening imminent expiration. “Oh, this useless, hopeless, rubbish piece of—”
“Then fix it,” said Reg. “Soup it up. What’s the matter with you, Gerald? You’re not a Third Grade wizard any more, sunshine. You’re just playing one!”
Oh. Yes. So he was. He’d forgotten…
The road outside Wycliffe’s wasn’t the busiest of thoroughfares, but there were a few cars, and some carriages, and even a handful of scooters. Not Wycliffe models, that he could tell. Even so, he should be all right. The slowest carriage was still moving too quickly to tell what he was doing on his pathetic little piece of Wycliffe machinery.
He switched off his shield-incant. Took a deep breath, feeling his rogue powers stir. Thought for a moment, sorting through his repertoire of incants, chose the good old reliable Speed-em-up hex, gave it a twist, then zapped the gasping engine to within a thaumicle of its life.
The scooter roared like a ravenous tiger.
“Blimey!” said Reg, startled. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Hold on,” he said grimly. “We’re about to go really, really fast.”
“Gerald—now Gerald—” said Reg, warbling with unease. “You’re not that Markham boy, remember, just you think about this—just you—Gerald—Geraaaaaald!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
And you’re perfectly certain, are you, Miss Cadwallader, that these—these hexes of yours will do the trick?” said Permelia Wycliffe, coldly displeased behind her desk. “Because up to this point I cannot see that you’ve made any progress. Worse than that, I have just discovered that three more boxes of Buttle’s Best Assorted Cream Biscuits are missing from my executive cupboard.”
Melissande managed not to squirm. “Oh dear. I am so very sorry, Miss Wycliffe. Still. Biscuits. It could be worse, couldn’t it? I mean, all your Golden Whisks are still here.”
“It’s not the biscuits, it’s the principle!” snapped Permelia Wycliffe. “We continue to succour a thief in our midst! And you seem to have taken steps to apprehend this—this criminal only this morning!”
“Yes, well, as I explained, Miss Wycliffe, the hexes we’ve employed to identify your miscreant are extremely complicated and delicate. Moreover they are unique. My colleague Miss Markham has invented them specifically for your use. Hours and hours of work have gone into them. I assure you they will do the trick.”
Mention of Bibbie softened the severe pinching of Permelia Wycliffe’s lips. “Yes. Well,” she said, fractionally mollified. “No less could be expected of Antigone Markham’s great-niece. Neverth
eless, Miss Cadwallader, I must insist that you—”
The telephone on Permelia Wycliffe’s desk buzzed, one long blurt of noise indicating an internal communication.
As Permelia Wycliffe answered the summons—it was her horrible brother, Ambrose—Melissande rested her gaze on that crowded wall of boastful photographs. Honestly, the more she thought about it the crazier it seemed. How was it possible that so many women around the world, important women—or at least women who were married to important men—could get so excited about baking cakes? Surely there was a better way of solving world hunger…
She realised then that Permelia Wycliffe had stopped talking. Had hung up the telephone. Was sitting behind her desk like a woman carved from meringue, sugar-white of face with a hectic dot of strawberry jam on each sunken cheek.
“Miss Wycliffe?” she said, alarmed. “Miss Wycliffe, are you all right?”
Permelia Wycliffe was breathing with such harsh restraint she seemed in danger of bursting a blood vessel. “There has been,” she said, though her jaw was clenched to breaking point, “another portal incident, Miss Cadwallader. It is very distressing.”
Melissande felt herself go cold. “Oh. Oh, no. Oh, that’s awful. Has anyone been—”
“You must excuse me, Miss Cadwallader,” said Permelia Wycliffe stiffly. “My brother will be joining me shortly. A confidential business meeting.”
“Of course, Miss Wycliffe,” said Melissande, standing. “I’ll just—I’ll leave you to—I’ll go now. Thank you.”
As she reached the office door, Permelia Wycliffe said, “Miss Cadwallader?”
She turned, desperately hoping her face wasn’t betraying how close she was to tears. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe?”
“You must appreciate, given the current business climate, that the Wycliffe Airship Company cannot be expected to pay for your services indefinitely. Particularly when you seem unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion to your investigation. I believe the amount of your retainer covers one more day? Then you have one more day, Miss Cadwallader, to unmask the thief. After that your services shall no longer be required.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. “I see. Yes. Well. I’m sure Witches Inc. will do its utmost to provide satisfaction, Miss Wycliffe.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Because people do talk, Miss Cadwallader. It would be unfortunate if they were talking about you for all the wrong reasons.”
“Yes, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, and made her escape past horrible Miss Petterly, who looked at her with deep disfavour as she returned to her horrible little grey cubicle. Safely hidden she sat for a moment, willing the tears and nausea to subside, then mechanically reached for the next purchase order requiring her attention.
Another portal accident? So was last night a premonition? And was I wrong to let Gerald and Reg talk me into staying silent? Oh, Saint Snodgrass, if anyone has perished…
The spectre of leaving Wycliffe’s a failure paled before this latest dreadful news. Heart pounding, stomach churning, she tried to focus on the paperwork…
But all she could see were her dead and dying people sprawled on the palace forecourt, struck down by Lional, innocent in death…
Like fingernails down a classroom blackboard, Miss Petterly’s horrible handbell rang out. Melissande held her breath, knowing every gel in the office was doing the same.
“Miss Carstairs. Miss Carstairs. To me, if you please!”
Well… bugger. Biting her lip, she went to face Miss Petterly.
“What is the meaning of this, Miss Carstairs?” demanded Miss Petterly, brandishing a sheaf of paperwork. “You have been altering the customers’ purchase orders!”
What? Oh, yes. Tantivy Tourist Extravaganza’s order, from first thing that morning. “I’m sorry, Miss Petterly. I was just trying to help. They seem to have confused themselves and ordered the Gyrating Pandoscopic Side-mirror when what they really needed was the—”
Miss Petterly leapt to her feet. “Miss Carstairs. No gel under my supervision presumes to tell a customer he is confused! Are you trying to cost this company business?”
“Well, no, Miss Petterly, I was trying to—”
“Don’t you talk back to me, young lady! No gel under my supervision shall—”
At the other end of the office, somebody’s silver handbell tinkled.
“Wait here,” said Miss Petterly coldly. “This conversation is not concluded.”
Miss Petterly stalked off to make someone else’s life miserable. Melissande pulled a face at her retreating back, then took the blue hex-detector from her black skirt pocket and surreptitiously waved it over the horrible woman’s desk. Sadly there was no reaction.
Bugger. How wonderful it would be if Miss Petterly was the thief.
In Permelia Wycliffe’s office, behind Miss Petterly’s guard-dog desk, Permelia Wycliffe and her useless brother Ambrose were deep in private consultation. Although the door was closed and the curtains before the internal window were almost completely drawn, she caught a snatch of raised voices.
“—I would take care of it, Ambrose! You must be mad to… such a foolish decision… quite despair! If Father were alive, he’d… clearly up to me to save the company. So this is what you’re…”
She didn’t catch the end of the sentence.
Trying to be nonchalant, trying not to attract unwelcome attention, Melissande inched her way around Miss Petterly’s desk, to see if she could overhear anything else.
“… not the success we’d hoped for, but… my fault I had to buy inferior equipment. There is a market for… need better quality wizards, Permelia… purse strings… had to do something!… You haven’t saved us… shall prevail!”
And that was brother Ambrose, sounding petulant and henpecked. Probably Permelia was complaining about the awfulness of the latest Wycliffe City Scooter. If the number of purchase orders coming in were any indication, it was a lemon to outshine any previous citrus product Wycliffe’s had managed to produce so far.
“Miss Carstairs! Do you mind?” demanded Miss Petterly, marching towards her. “No gel under my supervision stands on my side of the desk!”
Rats. She really wanted to know what Permelia and Ambrose were arguing about. “Sorry, Miss Petterly,” she murmured, leaping back to her proper place.
“Indeed,” said Miss Petterly, taking her seat. “I should think so. Never let me have to tell you again. Now, Miss Carstairs. Regarding these altered purchase orders…”
There was so much traffic snarled on the approach to the Central Ott General Post Office that Gerald had to abandon the souped-up scooter with a don’t-steal-me hex on it, and walk the last half a mile. Reg rode on his shoulder, scolding without bothering, it seemed, to take any breaths at all.
“—practically turned my feathers inside out, you raving nutter! If this is what being a rogue wizard has done for you, Gerald, all I can say is it’s a great pity you ever learned the truth of your condition! You are officially worse than that Markham boy and I never thought the day would come when I’d say that with a straight face! Well? Well? Aren’t you even going to apologise?”
“Not right now,” he said, scarcely paying her attention. The Central Ott streets were clogged with gawkers and police, so much shouting and whistle-blowing and shoving and pushing and clanging alarm bells. He was being poked by elbows, prodded by parasols: if one more person trod on his feet he was going to break down and cry. “Reg… we’re there. Can you please fly around a bit? See what you can see? Chances are they won’t let me get much closer than this.”
“Well!” she spluttered. “If you aren’t the most impossible, the most outrageous, the most—”
“Thanks, Reg,” he said, and heaved her off his shoulder with one enormous shrug.
Swearing a blue streak she took to the air. Good thing there was so much noise and mayhem or somebody would have heard her, and that might have been awkward.
He put his head down and tried to forge his way through
the wall of gathered onlookers, to get to the front of the crowd so he would at least have some hope of seeing what was going on.
No luck. The human wall refused to budge. Thwarted, Gerald let out a hard breath.
This is important. This is government business. I’m a government agent. If people won’t get out of my way I’ll just have to… nudge them. A bit. Not hard. Just enough.
He hadn’t switched his etheretic shield back on. Another breach of protocol, but by now who was counting? With a pang of guilt he whispered a hex beneath his breath, and heated a thin layer of air around him. Agitated the ether, making its thaumicles dance.
Without even knowing why, the crowd parted for him then closed up behind. Like a fish in water he swam to the edge of the street… and got his first look at the Central Ott Portal.
It was intact. At least, from the outside it looked intact. For a moment he was so giddy with relief he thought he might fall over. If there weren’t so many people in the crowd around him, practically propping him up, he probably would have.
Blotting sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, he stared past the imposing line of policemen who’d been posted to keep the milling spectators at a safe distance. A row of ambulances was lined up at the portal entrance, but the drivers were just lounging about, chatting. No frantic scramble to haul out the injured or—or the dead. He caught sight of a couple of Government-looking types, with bright purple badges fixed to their coat lapels. Officials from the Department of Transport, they were. Deep in solemn conversation but not looking panicked. Looking cheerful, if anything. So did that mean there really weren’t any casualties this time?
Oh please, oh please…
Off to one side of the portal entrance a huddle of regular townsfolk were in animated discussion with more men from the Department of Transport. Portal passengers, then? Witnesses to whatever had happened? He caught sight of Reg, bless her, perched on top of a street sign announcing the portal’s entrance, almost on top of them, flagrantly eavesdropping for all she was worth.
