Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  All around him the crowd was muttering and agitating and speculating. “Heard it was just a breakdown, not like the other times… I don’t know, they tell us all these thaumaturgics are safe, Harry, but I don’t think I’m going to trust them any more… new airships, did you see that advertisement? Yes, they might be slower but they’re safer, you can’t deny they’re safer… are we quite certain no-one got hurt this time?…”

  He nearly turned to see who’d said that. It was disgusting, the speaker had sounded positively disappointed. But his attention was caught by more movement at the portal entrance. Someone was coming out.

  Lord, it was Dalby, the senior janitor with the inexplicable fondness for stewed tea. Gerald held his breath and stared at the cobbled street in front of him, willing the rumpled, bruised-looking agent not to see him, not to feel so much of a skerrick of his presence. He didn’t dare switch his shield back on in case Dalby felt the etheretic disturbance and came to investigate what had caused it.

  He risked a glance up, just in time to see Dalby nod to one of the Department of Transport officials, get into a small, nondescript car parked a little way past the ambulances and drive off.

  Gerald, lungs aching, let out an enormously relieved rush of air.

  The Department of Transport officials said something to the idling ambulance drivers. They nodded and touched their caps, then returned to their emergency vehicles. One by one they drove away too. A few moments later an empty bus pulled up in the space left by the ambulances, and the people who’d been eagerly talking to the Department of Transport officials loaded onto it.

  Reg bounced up and down on top of the street sign, flipping her wing towards the grand Central Ott Post Office building with its imposing colonnaded entrance and carved sandstone cherubim and gargoyles, half a block down from the portal station.

  Gerald stared. What? How was he supposed to get to the Post Office with all these policemen and Department of Transport officials clogging the street?

  Reg bounced harder then flew from the street sign down to the Post Office, where she perched on a gargoyle making more impatient come on, hurry up gestures with her wing. Which was all well and good for her, but she was a bird, wasn’t she? Who paid any attention to her?

  He looked up and down the crowded street. No sign of any other agents. Well, not agents he could recognise, anyway. No regular wizards he could recognise either. Just lots of ordinary people, starting to drift away now that it seemed the excitement was over.

  He took a deep breath and drifted with them.

  When he was finally opposite the Post Office he stopped drifting—quite a few people swore and cursed—and looked across the street to where Reg on her gargoyle was bouncing up and down so violently she was in danger, surely, of giving herself a concussion.

  One of the crowd-control policemen stepped forward, his expression stern. “Thank you, sir, move it along if you please. We need to clear this area now so folk can get back to minding their own business.”

  Gerald looked up into the policeman’s uncompromising face. The brass buttons on his dark green uniform shone brightly in the sunshine. “Yes, Constable. Of course, Constable. Sorry to be a nuisance, Constable.”

  The policeman nodded, then turned to chivvy someone else. Gerald shuffled along as slowly as he could, thinking furiously. He wasn’t going to get across the street unnoticed, not with so many policemen still about. What he needed was a diversion…

  I am not supposed to do this. If Sir Alec finds out he’ll have my guts for garters. The problem is I don’t have much choice.

  He agitated the ether again, a little harder this time. Hard enough to tingle. Sent the ripple running back the way he’d come so the crowd leapt and exclaimed and fussed. And then, as the startled policemen rushed to investigate, he nipped across the closed-off street to the Post Office and dived for shelter in its inky-deep shadows.

  Reg flapped down to join him. “Nicely done,” she said, landing on his shoulder. “Gerald Dunwoody, you’ve got a real talent for sneakiness.”

  “Let’s just hope Sir Alec doesn’t find out,” he muttered. “I’ve lost count of the rules I’ve broken so far and it doesn’t seem like this case is anywhere near over.”

  “I thought sneaky would be an advantage in your game,” said Reg. “As for rules, well, if they’re getting in the way they’re not much use to you, are they?”

  He wasn’t too sure about that, but this wasn’t the time or place for a philosophical debate. “What did you overhear, Reg?”

  “Well, the good news is nobody got hurt,” she said. “Mainly because someone called in a warning, apparently. There was enough time to get folks to safety and put some kind of dampening field in place so the portal just fizzled out instead of unravelling like the others.”

  A wave of giddy relief crashed over him. “Who called in the warning?”

  “Don’t know,” said Reg. “But bless his mother’s apron, whoever he is. Or she, of course.”

  Of course. “And the bad news?”

  Reg ruffled her feathers. “The bad news is that every single witness was bleating how they’d never travel by portal again,” she said. “And you can bet your warmest flannel long johns they won’t be the only ones. So if this is a big conspiracy to put the portal network out of business and usher in the Second Great Age of the Airship, whoever’s behind it is on a winning formula, sunshine.”

  Damn. “I need to speak to Sir Alec,” he said, chewing the side of his thumb. “I’ve got more information for him which may or may not mean something.” He glanced through the small window in the Post Office’s grandiloquent front doors, to the bank of recently installed public telephones in the lobby. Glanced back at the street, where his small etheretic sleight-of-hand still kept the crowd and the policemen usefully preoccupied. Then he twitched his shoulder. “Stay out here, would you? And keep both eyes open in case someone looks like coming in.”

  With a rattle of tail feathers Reg flapped up to perch precariously on a little bit of jutting stonework. “All right, but make it snappy,” she said. “I’m not being paid to help you out, sunshine. I’ve still got a job to do back at Wycliffe’s. Melissande’s all alone, getting into who-knows-what kind of mischief without me.”

  He smiled, briefly. “You’re really enjoying this whole Witches Inc. adventure, aren’t you?”

  “It’s something to pass the time,” she said, pretending indifference. In the gloom beneath the Post Office’s porticoed entrance her eyes gleamed.

  “Yeah. You love it,” he said. “Okay. Sit tight. I won’t be long.”

  The Post Office’s front doors surrendered to a particularly sneaky unlocking hex he’d learned during his training. Feeling a no-doubt reprehensible flicker of satisfaction, he slipped into the lobby and hurried to the nearest public telephone. He could have hexed that too but somehow the notion seemed wrong so he fished out a few coins from his pocket and called Sir Alec’s very private number.

  “What are you playing at, Mister Dunwoody?” Sir Alec demanded. His voice was so cold it was a wonder the telephone receiver didn’t freeze solid. “Mister Dalby has already told me where you are. You are not supposed to be there, Mister Dunwoody. Your brief is simple: keep a close eye on Errol Haythwaite.”

  Dalby had noticed him? Damn. “I’m sorry, Sir Alec,” he said. “I just—I had to—when I heard on the wireless about the new accident, I—”

  “Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec, his icy voice warming the smallest fraction. “You will not last five minutes in this business if you don’t learn how to find a proper distance—and follow explicit instructions imparted to you by your superiors. Do I make myself clear?”

  He leaned his forehead against the public telephone booth. “Yes, Sir Alec. Sorry. Ah—there was one thing I thought you might like to know.”

  “Yes?”

  “Errol was contacted early this morning. I don’t know who by, but the conversation upset him.” Oh Mel, please be right about this. “
He was angry and afraid, and that’s very out of character.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then return to Wycliffe’s at once, Mister Dunwoody, and make sure to keep both eyes on our quarry. Thanks to Mister Dalby the destructive hex was contained, and we’ve been able to ascertain without a doubt that it was authored by Haf Rottlezinder. It is now imperative that we either establish a link between him and Haythwaite or discount that avenue of investigation once and for all, thus freeing our resources.”

  Thanks to Mister Dalby? Him? That stringy, bruised-looking chap had managed to foil a Rottlezinder hex? Gosh. Nothing about him had suggested that kind of power.

  In other words, Gerald, books and covers. You shouldn’t need to be reminded of that.

  “That’s good news, sir.”

  “Indeed,” said Sir Alec. “Now follow my instructions, Mister Dunwoody, and in future curb the temptation to meddle. I am not new to this tea party, which is why you should be less concerned with doing my job and more concerned with doing your own.”

  “Yes, Sir Alec,” he whispered, wincing. “I’ll—ah—I’ll get back to Wycliffe’s, then.”

  “Please do. And bear in mind that I did not supply you with this telephone number for the purpose of engaging in cosy chats.”

  Gerald stared at the buzzing telephone receiver for a moment, then replaced it.

  Gosh, that went well. I can just imagine how my first mission debrief is going to play out.

  Especially when he told Sir Alec about his crowd dispersal techniques…

  “So?” said Reg, flapping back down to his shoulder. “What now?”

  “Now it’s back to Wycliffe’s,” he said, hiding in the shadows again. “Are you coming with me, or don’t you want to risk it?”

  “I’ll risk it,” she said grudgingly. “I’m supposed to be on duty in the employee garden, and madam’ll go spare if I’ve missed any important gossip. But when this romp is over, sunshine, you and I are going to have a serious talk about finding you a few less mad-as-hatter friends!”

  Thanks to the appallingly tyrannical Miss Petterly, Melissande was forced to work through nearly all of her lunchbreak, painstakingly uncorrecting all of Tantivy Tourist Extravaganza’s corrected orders. When the last mistake was re-made, certainly guaranteeing Wycliffe’s yet another massively dissatisfied customer, she dumped the pile of purchase orders on Miss Petterly’s empty desk.

  Miss Petterly, of course, was indulging her own long lunchbreak, as she did every day.

  As she rushed downstairs, lunch box in hand, determined to have at least five minutes in the fresh air to clear her head and stave off imminent starvation, she heard a familiar voice at the front reception desk. Instead of turning left, to leave the office block via the staff entrance at the back of the building, she turned right and hovered around the corner, straining to hear the conversation.

  “Yes, that’s right, Eudora Telford,” said the familiar voice. “Here to see Miss Permelia Wycliffe on a personal matter of the utmost urgency. She sent for me, you know. Personally. I am Miss Permelia Wycliffe’s Baking and Pastry Guild secretary, you know. Highly trusted. Highly valuable. I am the person she calls upon when something important must be done.”

  “Yes, Miss Telford,” said bored-sounding Miss Fisher, the receptionist. “Miss Wycliffe has just stepped out for a moment. If you’d care to wait…”

  Melissande eased back from the corner before somebody saw her. What was so urgent that Permelia Wycliffe would send for a wet hen like Eudora Telford to take care of?

  It’s probably nothing really important. That’s just Eudora puffing herself up. It’s definitely none of my business. But it’s certainly curious…

  It was so late now the employee garden was empty of everyone save two of the R&D wizards, and they never deigned to speak to any of the gels. Just as she sat on a sun-soaked bench, desperate to devour her lunch, she heard a rattling of tail feathers in the garden’s bushiest ornamental fig-tree. Ignoring the wretched bird, she opened her lunch box. One mouthful, just one, and then she’d find out what Reg wanted.

  “Pssst. Pssst! Oy! Are you deaf?”

  No, but very soon now she was going to starve to death. Abandoning her lunch, she stamped over to the nearby garden bed and bent over, pretending to admire the pansies. “What? Can’t this wait? I am famished beyond your wildest imagination!”

  “Never mind about that, ducky,” said Reg, almost hidden amongst the foliage. “Last time I looked you weren’t anywhere near skin-and-bone. Have you heard about the Central Ott portal?”

  She felt her rumbling stomach lurch. “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ve just come back from there and thought you might like to know there’s nobody been hurt. It’s all under control.”

  She looked up, startled. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Reg. But what were you—”

  “I went for a little look-see with Gerald. He was all het up about it, convinced you were right and he was responsible for more death and destruction.” She sniffed. “You know, you really want to be a bit more careful, madam. My Gerald takes things very much to heart.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I will. Listen—” She bent again to the pansies, just in case anyone was wondering why she was talking to an ornamental fig tree.

  “What?”

  “It’s probably nothing, probably I’m just being nosy, but how about you go perch on the sill of Permelia Wycliffe’s office window and see if you can hear what she and Eudora Telford are talking about? Eudora’s claiming Permelia’s sent for her, some desperately urgent and important errand that needs doing. I think I’d like to know what it is.”

  “Hmm,” said Reg. “I thought we weren’t investigating our own clients?”

  “Well, yes, but—that was before we found out about Gerald and why he’s here. I think it’s our duty to investigate anything that smells fishy. And I’ve already overheard a row between Permelia and Ambrose.” She stood up straight. “And d’you know, it was just after she found out about the latest portal accident.”

  “Gerald said that Sir Alec said Ambrose Wycliffe wasn’t involved.”

  “Sir Alec could be wrong,” she said. “Men have been known to be wrong from time to time, haven’t they?”

  Reg snorted. “Not to hear them talk. All right. I’ll go and have a stickybeak into Permelia Wycliffe’s business.”

  “Yes, do that. Only be careful, Reg! They both know who you are, remember?”

  Another snort. “Good. Yes. Thanks for that, ducky. Are you finished? Or would you like to teach your grandmother how to suck eggs while you’re at it?”

  Shaking her head, Melissande watched the wretched bird flap away. Then she returned to her lunch. Finally, finally, something to eat.

  “Miss Carstairs! Miss Carstairs! What do you think you’re doing, Miss Carstairs? Lunchtime is over for gels, Miss Carstairs!”

  Incredulous, she turned. And there was Miss Petterly standing at the employee garden’s entrance, a skinny black-clad scarecrow with her fists on her hips and a face like peevish thunder.

  Her gurgling stomach rumbled a fresh protest.

  If I throw my lunch at her she’ll make sure I’m fired… and that’ll be it for Witches Inc. Curtains. Coda. Dead in the water before we’ve barely begun swimming.

  She let her chin drop to her chest. Swallowed her pride, which wasn’t anywhere near as satisfying as a ham and cheese sandwich.

  “Yes, Miss Petterly,” she said, trudging towards the horrible woman. “I’m coming, Miss Petterly.”

  And somehow, sometime, I’ll pay you back for this.

  After returning to the R&D block, Gerald was hustled back into the scullery by a sneering Errol and only set foot out of it again to collect more trolley-loads of equipment to clean. It seemed he no longer even rated the likes of Japhet Morgan to give him a hand.

  On his third trundle round the laboratory complex, feeling like a tea lady with his trolley and pink gloves
, he caught sight of an arrival he wasn’t expecting: James Kirkby-Hackett. He stared, immediately curious. What was one of Errol’s revolting First Grade chums doing here? In person? Looking… perturbed.

  Of course the worry in Kirkby-Hackett’s face was wiped away by incredulous delight upon seeing who it was trundling the dirty equipment trolley round the lab.

  It doesn’t matter, Dunwoody. It really doesn’t matter. Who cares what Kirkby-Hackett thinks? You know what you are. You know what you’re doing here. Other people’s opinions mean nothing at all.

  And still… and still… his belly burned with dull pain.

  Philpott, Methven’s off-sider, went to fetch Errol, who came out of the Mark VI lab a moment later. Was it a trick of the light or did he—just for a heartbeat—seem monumentally displeased to see his friend?

  Gerald hastily got busy restacking his trolley, just in case it became obvious he was sneakily eavesdropping.

  “James! What a surprise,” said Errol, all cordial good-nature. “Fancy seeing you here. You should have called ahead, I’d have arranged a tour for you.” He laughed, the faintest of edges under his voice. “Well, of anything that’s not classified top secret of course.”

  Kirkby-Hackett hesitated then shook Errol’s outstretched hand. “No. No. That’s quite all right, Errol. No need to go to any trouble for me. Fact is, just passing, thought I’d swing by and give you a nod.”

  “A nod,” said Errol, his eyes narrowing. “Right. I see. Well, let’s go into my office, we can—”

  “Office?” said Kirkby-Hackett. He was definitely jumpy. Ill at ease. Concerned. “Right. Yes. Only I thought we might have a quick word in the fresh air, Errol. You cooped up in here. Me cooped up at Masterly’s. Yes. Fresh air. Just the thing.”

  “All right,” said Errol, after a moment. He didn’t sound at all pleased. “We’ll stroll around the staff garden a time or two.” He turned. “Dunwoody! What the hell are you doing? Can’t you even put beakers in a trolley without creating a catastrophe? Get on with it, man. I swear, if so much as one stage of one project is held up because we’ve run out of clean equipment—”