Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  “Gemstones?” said Bibbie in shocked disbelief, once she’d heard what was hidden in Eudora Telford’s reticule. She fired up the jalopy’s engine. “Are you sure?”

  “Trust me,” said Melissande. “If there’s one thing I know about it’s jewels. I had to sell off most of ours to pay the palace gardeners towards the end.”

  Bibbie whistled. “Gemstones and Haf Rottlezinder. Gosh. Things aren’t looking too good for Permelia, are they?”

  “No,” she said shortly. “But let’s not jump to conclusions, Bibbie. We need to meet with Gerald and see what he found out. Let’s get back to the office, shall we? Fingers crossed Reg is waiting there for us, and she can fill in at least some of the blanks.”

  It nearly killed him, but Gerald finally got Errol safely back to Wycliffe’s.

  He came up with his plan of action during the mildly precarious journey to Errol’s parked car. Precarious not because the docilianti compulsion was in danger of wearing off, but because scant minutes after they left the ruined boot factory various civilian and government folk began descending on the area. Having paused to retrieve his staff from the vacant lot, he’d been forced to drag Errol further into the smelly shadows to avoid them being noticed. He’d stared anxiously at each passing vehicle but hadn’t—praise Saint Snodgrass—caught sight of Sir Alec. He did see Dalby, though, and thought his heart would stop altogether. But Dalby couldn’t see him this time… which meant he could start breathing again.

  Once it was safe to get moving, he hauled Errol into an awkward dog-trot and hustled him as fast as he dared back to the wizard’s silver Orion. The old boot factory’s destruction had enticed quite a few people out of their homes, which was helpful. He and Errol lost themselves in the general excitement and reached the car without incident. It was still there, of course, its don’t-steal-me hex glowing a bold red warning on the windscreen.

  “Unhex it, Errol. We have to get out of here.”

  Dreamily, Errol did as he was told then let himself be bundled into the driver’s seat.

  “Right,” he said, stowing his staff in the back and clambering into the passenger seat. “To Wycliffe’s, Errol. Slowly. Don’t draw any attention to us, whatever you do.”

  Still trammelled in the docilianti, all the mean, superior sharpness in his face smoothed away, leaving it peculiarly pleasant, Errol obeyed. And as they glided through the advancing night in a car that cost more money than Gerald knew he could hope to earn in ten years, he ran through his plan again, looking for any holes that Sir Alec might poke in it. And then, when he couldn’t find any, hunched in the passenger seat and worked very hard at not thinking about anything… most especially what had just happened back there at the factory.

  Wycliffe’s front gates were locked, but he took care of that with a touch of his staff. Still beautifully obedient, Errol drove them round to the R&D block. Gerald had to admit it: while he didn’t at all care for the docilianti, or having to use it, he couldn’t deny it was coming in handy.

  As he and Errol got out of the car a winged shadow swooped down from one of the nearby tall and spindly balibob trees.

  “Reg?” he said, then shook his head. Surprise, surprise. Nothing changes. “What are you doing here?”

  “What does it look like, sunshine?” she said, landing on his outstretched arm. “I’m waiting for you.”

  “But—but how did you know—”

  “I didn’t,” she said, shrugging. “Not for sure. But it seemed like a safe bet. When I saw you and Mister Puppet, here, weren’t blown to smithereens along with that boot factory, I—”

  “Reg! You were there? But I told you to—”

  “Yes, well,” she said, insufferably complacent, her eyes gleaming sardonically in the meagre light from his newly-kindled illuminato. “I don’t take orders from you, Gerald. I might, every now and then, adopt a politely worded suggestion, but—”

  “So you saw what happened?”

  She sniffed. “I saw you save Errol, here. I saw the factory blow itself to matchsticks—you’re making a bit of a habit of that, aren’t you?—and then when I saw all the bigwigs rolling in, I scarpered. So what happened?”

  Briefly, he told her.

  “Well, well,” she said when he was done. “You’re turning lucky escapes into an art form, aren’t you?” Considering him closely, she tipped her head to one side. “Gerald…”

  He roused himself from unpleasant memory. “What?”

  “It’s not your fault if that Rottlezinder’s dead.”

  “If he’s dead? Come on, Reg. That explosion spread him across half of South Ott.”

  “Half?” She snorted. “You do exaggerate, Gerald. I’d say a quarter, if you’re lucky.”

  “Reg!”

  “Oh, don’t start,” she snapped. “If you could’ve saved Rottlezinder too, you would have. But you had to choose, and you chose pillocking Errol Haythwaite. Though why—”

  “Because he’s innocent.”

  “Innocent?” Incredulous, Reg stared at him. “Errol Haythwaite?”

  “Yes. He went to see Rottlezinder to make him stop the portal sabotage. And he tipped off the authorities about today’s attack.”

  “Blimey!” she said. “I don’t mind admitting I never saw that coming.” Feathers ruffled with surprise, she hopped from his arm onto Errol’s head. Obligingly docile, Errol said nothing. He barely flinched. Seemed hardly aware he was wearing a bird for a hat. Reg’s gaze sharpened. “All right, Gerald. What have you done to him?”

  He turned back to the car and fished out his staff. “Nothing permanent,” he muttered. “Just encouraged his co-operation.”

  “Oh, yes? Using one of Sir Alec’s dirty tricks, I take it?”

  “Please, Reg,” he sighed. “Not now.”

  Relenting, she chattered her beak thoughtfully. “I’ll say this much. Dirty trick or not, the incant works a treat.” Suddenly her eyes gleamed with wicked mischief. “What d’you think? I mean, this chance won’t come again, Gerald. I could pretend I’m a pigeon and Errol’s a statue.”

  Despite everything, he grinned. “I think I don’t have time for this,” he said, trying to sound severe. “I have to get him inside and make it look like there’s been a laboratory accident.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Well, as cover stories go I suppose I’ve heard worse. Are you sure it’ll hold?”

  “It’ll have to. At least long enough for me to do what needs to be done.” He pulled a face. “After that he can be Sir Alec’s problem. I’ve had enough of Errol Haythwaite to last me a lifetime.”

  “And you’re quite sure he’s innocent?” said Reg, wistful.

  He frowned, remembering the cryptic comments he’d overheard about sealed records and youthful indiscretions. “Of the portal sabotage? Yes.”

  “Bugger.” She rattled her tail feathers. “And there was me looking forward to him being publicly disgraced.”

  He pushed Errol’s car door closed again. “Reg, that’s not very nice.”

  “Yes, well, neither is Errol,” she retorted. “All right then, so if he’s in the clear then who hired that bounder Rottlezinder?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Not yet. Now please, Reg, you need to leave. Again. And I mean really leave this time. The girls must be going spare, wondering what’s happened to you.”

  “No they’re not, Gerald. They know I’d never leave you in the lurch.” She sleeked her feathers, getting ready to fly off. “You know, sunshine,” she added, abruptly serious. “That was some pretty fancy thaumaturgy you managed tonight. I’m talking about getting past Rottlezinder’s warding hexes. If I were you, I might be a bit… careful… about what I said in my report to that Sir Alec. After all, he’s a very busy man. Probably he doesn’t need to know every little pettifogging detail. Broad brush-strokes. Big picture. That’s what you should be focusing on.”

  In silence they looked at each other. Then he nodded. “Thanks for everything, Reg. Tell the girls I’ll be in touch. I still
need to know what part Eudora Telford played in this—if any.”

  As she flapped away, he took hold of Errol’s sleeve. “All right, you. Come along. Let’s make this look good, shall we?”

  The laboratory complex was dark and deserted, just the way they’d left it. Still passively compliant, Errol deactivated the warding hexes on the side door and they slipped inside. It didn’t take long to set up the latest Ambrose Mark VI prototype for destruction. A fiddle here… a tweak there… a clumsy adjustment or three to the thaumic regulation chamber…

  When he was done, Gerald looked at Errol. In the bright laboratory lights all his scrapes, bumps and bruises from the factory explosion were starkly revealed. The damage to his expensive coat was equally impressive.

  “Haythwaite,” he said, and put one hand on Errol’s shoulder. Snapped the fingers of his other hand in front of Errol’s face, reinvigorating the docilianti. Priming Errol for what was to come. Thrusting aside any nasty, niggling qualms.

  I’m one of the good guys. That means I’m doing good.

  “You need to listen to me now, Errol. Are you listening? Can you hear me?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Errol. His altered face was quite blank. Waiting for someone to write his thoughts upon it.

  Slowly, carefully, Gerald reconstructed the evening’s events. “We’ve been working here all night, Errol. Just you and me. Working on the Mark VI prototype. We haven’t set so much as a toe outside of the lab complex. You made me stay behind and work with you to make up for the time I took to go into town. You were very angry about that, Errol. You thought I had no business leaving the laboratory. Do you understand me?”

  Errol nodded. “Yes.”

  “How did you feel about me leaving the laboratory, Errol?”

  Slowly, Errol’s face contorted. “Bloody Dunnywood,” he said, contemptuous. “Have to twist his arm practically out of its socket to get a decent day’s work from him. Well, I won’t have it, you mingy little turd. I’m in charge of this facility and you’ll bloody well work all the hours I say. You’ll work till you drop, do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Mister Haythwaite,” he said, letting his voice cringe. “I’m sorry, Mister Haythwaite. Of course I’ll work back with you, as long as it takes, Mister Haythwaite.”

  “Yes indeed, you will,” said Errol. “Or I’ll see that Ambrose sacks you first thing in the morning.”

  “Good, Errol,” said Gerald, and patted his shoulder. “That’s what you remember. That’s all you remember. And Haf Rottlezinder is nothing to you but a vague memory from your youth. You didn’t know he was in the country. You had no idea what he was up to. Do you understand me, Errol?”

  Errol nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

  Gerald let out a long, unsteady breath. Lord, this is despicable. Even in a good cause. “Excellent. Oh! Yes!” He’d nearly forgotten. “One last thing, Errol. If anyone asks, what happened tonight wasn’t my fault. In fact, I did everything I could to help you prevent this horrible accident. Ah… yes… which wasn’t much, because I am a thoroughly useless lump of a Third Grade wizard… but still. I tried. Right? You got that?”

  “Right,” said Errol. “Got it.”

  He nodded. “Good. So I think that’s everything. Now, Errol, you mustn’t worry. You’re perfectly safe.”

  Using his staff this time, he washed a filtering protective wall around them, leaving it just porous enough for authenticity. Then, on a deep breath, he destabilised the hovering Ambrose Mark VI airship prototype… and watched it explode. Felt the rolling wave of thaumic discharge tumble through the carefully calibrated protective shield and leave the appropriate amount of thaumic residue all over himself and Errol. Not enough to hurt them—though he did feel his eyebrows frizzle—but a sufficient quantity to completely obscure what still remained of the residue from the old boot factory’s destruction.

  Ears ringing, exposed skin smarting ever so slightly, he satisfied himself that Errol was unharmed then looked at the totally ruined prototype airship. Another one. How many did that make now? Four? No. Five. Fresh scorch marks seared the laboratory walls. Smoke swirled beneath its buckled ceiling.

  After deactivating the protective barrier he turned back to Errol. Snapped his fingers again, severing the docilianti’s hold. Errol’s eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped where he stood, his head rapping too hard on the laboratory’s unforgiving concrete floor. He’d have a nasty goose-egg for sure. Ah well, Just another touch of authenticity.

  Feeling bleak, Gerald stared down at him.

  Reg is right. I’m far too good at this. Nobody can know just how good at this I am.

  And then he went to make his panicked phone call to the authorities. On the whole, it wasn’t going to take much acting.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A great deal of fuss and chaos ensued.

  Some time later… he wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed, he wasn’t keeping an eye on the clock and besides, he had a thumping headache… Ambrose Wycliffe and his sister Permelia arrived to force their loudly blustering way through the milling Department inspectors and ambulance orderlies.

  “Mister Dunnywood, is it?” Ambrose Wycliffe demanded. “What is the meaning of this? What’s going on? Who are all these people and why are they here before me?”

  “Before us,” said his sister sharply. “Well, young man? Answer my brother!”

  Gerald, sitting at one of the central aisle benches, flicked an apologetic glance at the junior ambulance attendant who was pressing a strip of sticking plaster to his forehead. “It’s—ah—it’s Dunwoody, actually, Mister Wycliffe,” he said, at his most humble. “And I’m sorry, but I thought proper procedure was to inform the authorities in the case of a thaumaturgical accident. So I did.”

  “An accident?” said Permelia Wycliffe. “What are you talking about? What kind of accident?”

  Gerald arranged his face into an expression of servile distress. “We lost another Mark VI prototype, I’m sorry to say. We—”

  “What do you mean we?” Ambrose Wycliffe interrupted. “Who is we, pray tell?”

  “Mister Haythwaite and myself, sir,” said Gerald, earnestly. “We—”

  “Mister Haythwaite?” echoed Ambrose Wycliffe, his florid face paling. “D’you mean to tell me Errol’s been blown up?”

  He bit his lip. Yes indeed, Ambrose, that’s exactly what happened. In fact, our Errol’s been blown up twice. In one night. I wonder if that’s some kind of record? Throttling the urge to laugh—am I in shock?—he cleared his throat.

  “It’s all right, Mister Wycliffe. Mister Haythwaite’s not dead. Some other ambulance officers are taking excellent care of him.”

  Dazed, Ambrose Wycliffe fished a large blue handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his forehead. “Oh. I see. Good. What a relief.”

  “The accident, young man!” snapped Permelia Wycliffe. “What happened?”

  “Well, we stayed back, you see, to do some more work on the prototype’s engine,” he explained, glancing uncertainly at Ambrose’s intimidating sister. If her brother was florid, she was pale as snow. In her eyes, the most unnerving glitter. “Ah—Mister Haythwaite was very keen to see that little—er—little hiccup in the thaumic regulation chamber sorted before—”

  “What?” said Ambrose Wycliffe, startled out of his bewilderment, and glared at the junior ambulance orderly who was packing up his little tin of plasters and salves. “Be quiet, Dunwoody! You’re discussing private company matters in front of witnesses, you dolt!”

  “Oh,” said Gerald. “Sorry, sir. I’m not thinking straight, got rather a nasty bump on the head.”

  But if he was hoping for some sympathy from the Wycliffes he was wasting his breath.

  “Let me see if I understand you, young man,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “You and another wizard were working here alone in the laboratory tonight?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe. That’s correct.”

  “All night?”

>   “All night, Miss Wycliffe,” he said virtuously. “We never left. Everyone else left, but we stayed behind to work. As Mister Wycliffe knows, Mister Haythwaite is devoted heart and soul to the Ambrose Mark VI and he particularly ordered me to assist him. And of course I was only too happy to obey.”

  Now Permelia Wycliffe was staring at him with the most peculiar look on her face. As though she’d swallowed a whole swarm of flies and couldn’t quite believe it.

  “You never left?” she said. “Not even for a late supper?”

  “No, Miss Wycliffe,” he replied. “Mister Haythwaite wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “But I—”

  “Oh, do hush, Permelia,” snapped her brother Ambrose. “You’re a gel. You can’t possibly understand my wizards’ dedication and loyalty. Good lord, woman, you shouldn’t even be here. You know perfect well that gels interfere with—”

  “Yes, Ambrose,” said Permelia Wycliffe sharply. “But I think tonight, of all nights, we can make an exception. Don’t you?”

  Surprisingly, Ambrose backed down. “Ah—yes, well, perhaps this once,” he mumbled. “But only this once.”

  “Actually, sir,” said Gerald, remembering Melissande’s outrage, “I’m pretty sure the notion of gels upsetting the thaumic balance has been thoroughly disproved by—”

  “Who asked for your opinion, Dunwoody?” Ambrose shouted, spittle flying. “Keep your mouth shut, you Third Grade ignoramus. You’ve already said quite enough for one evening.” He rounded on the waiting ambulance orderly. “You there. What is Mister Haythwaite’s condition? He’s my best First Grade wizard. The man without whom Wycliffe’s resurgence is doomed! I demand to know—”

  The orderly leaned away from Ambrose’s rabid intensity. “Ah, sorry sir, I’m not permitted to discuss the—”

  “Don’t you stand there telling me what you’re not permitted! I want to know how he is!”

  Everyone within earshot of Ambrose Wycliffe jumped, even Permelia. Well. Everyone except for Dalby, who was hovering around the edges of the lab, bruised-looking and completely unremarkable. Gerald let his gaze glide right over the man, then turned again to the quaking orderly.