Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  Errol breathed hard, torn between contempt and uncertainty. Then he dropped his gaze and folded his arms. “Of course I knew something was wrong,” he muttered. “But he threatened me. When I turned him down. He threatened my family. He threatened my friends. He said if I knew what was good for me I’d pay no attention to the newspapers. He said if I didn’t want to spend the next six months attending funerals I’d mind my own business.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Yes, I believed him!” said Errol, violently. “God, you’d have believed him too if—”

  “If I’d shared a few youthful indiscretions with him?”

  Stark silence, as Errol stared. “You know about that?” he said at last, dully, emptied abruptly of fire and fight. He shrugged. “Well, then.”

  Sympathy flickered. Resenting it, Gerald frowned. “Errol, while it’s true you’ve been cleared of involvement in the portal sabotage, we have learned something else. Something very… disquieting. I wanted to know what you thought about it.”

  “You wanted to—” Errol glared, his anger rekindling. “You?” Unfolding his arms, he shoved to his feet. “You aren’t fit to polish my shoes, Dunwoody. As far as I’m concerned this conversation is over. I’m leaving. And you can rest assured, you and—” His gaze swept the small room. “—whoever else is party to this charade, that Lord Attaby shall shortly be receiving a visit from my legal counsel. This has been nothing but a farrago of harassment, assault and intimidation. And if you think you can get away with it you are sorely mistaken. I shall take immense pleasure, Dunwoody, in seeing you broken in a very public Court of—”

  “Sit down, Errol,” Gerald said softly. “We’re not finished here.”

  “We most certainly are!” snapped Errol. “You’re finished, Dunnywood, you’re—”

  “I said sit down!”

  Errol gaped at him, stunned.

  “Please, Errol,” he said. “Sit. Don’t make me make you.”

  Errol sat jerkily, like a puppet with faulty strings.

  “The Jandrians are building a fleet of military airships using your designs,” he said flatly. “Would you care to explain how that’s come about?”

  “I’m sorry?” said Errol, after another long silence. His voice was faint. Uncertain. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

  He leaned forward across the table. “I think you do, Errol. You’re not deaf, or stupid. The Jandrian government has broken the armistice. The Jandrians are dreaming of war again. And you’re helping them. I don’t understand. Why would you do that? Betray your country, most likely to its death?”

  “But I didn’t,” said Errol. “I would never—” He shook his head, stunned. “The Jandrians? You think I’d crawl into bed with those filthy scum? My God, they’re barely one rung up the ladder from animals.”

  “Perhaps,” said Gerald, shrugging, and sat back. “But they’re wealthy, Errol. And you have expensive tastes. Perhaps you lied to Rottlezinder about not needing money. Perhaps your trust fund has run dry.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from Errol, once the accusation of treason was made. Fury. Wild denials. Possibly even a physical or thaumaturgical attack. He was braced for all of that.

  What he wasn’t prepared for was… anguish.

  Errol leaned forward, his hands splayed flat and hard on the table. “No. No. You must believe me. On my wizard’s oath, I did not do this. I haven’t betrayed Ottosland to Jandria.” He swallowed convulsively, a terrible desperation in his eyes. “I swear it.”

  “Then how do you explain copies of your airship designs being found there?”

  A bead of sweat trickled down Errol’s blanched cheek. “I can’t. All my work is triple-warded and kept in my office at Wycliffe’s. I don’t let anybody touch it, not even Ambrose.”

  He shrugged, feigning indifference. “Then like I said, Errol. You’re in very hot water.”

  “Oh, God,” said Errol. It was almost a sob. “This can’t be happening.” On a gasp he pressed his hands flat to his face, then let them drop. “You have to help me, Gerald. Whatever you are, whatever freakish powers you possess, use them. Winnow my memories. Break my mind, if you have to. I don’t care. I am not a traitor. And I’m asking you… I’m begging you… help me to prove it.”

  Sighing, Gerald stood up. Looked to the ceiling, where he suspected the scrying crystals were concealed. “Sir Alec? If you know anything about Errol, you know what asking that cost him. He’s telling the truth. You need to look for your traitor somewhere else. And now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long night. I’m going home.”

  And he walked out, closing the interrogation room door very gently behind him.

  But the idea of returning to his rented bedsit, which was hardly better than that horrible attic room in the Wizards’ Club, depressed him beyond bearing. Besides. After everything that had happened… he didn’t want to be alone.

  Monk answered his front door wearing the harassed, distracted expression that meant he’d just been talking to his sister.

  “Gerald? Blimey, you look like death dragged backwards,” he said. “Come on in. Amuse yourself for a moment, I’m on the telephone with Bibbie.”

  As Monk muttered his way down the corridor, Gerald pushed the front door closed behind him and heaved a deep sigh. Lord, he was so tired. He was also, technically, in possession of stolen property, having ridden his pilfered, souped-up Wycliffe scooter straight here from Nettleworth. He’d have to take it back to the airship company sooner or later, but now all he could think about was sitting down before he fell down.

  Monk’s voice drifted into the corridor from the parlour. “—was Gerald.—Yes, he just got here.—No, I don’t know what’s going on. Didn’t I say he just got here? Blimey.—Well yes, I think you should come round right away. I want my jalopy back.—No, I didn’t say you could keep it indefinitely, I said you could borrow it for one night and—Bibbie. Bibbie. Bibbie, I swear, if you don’t bring my jalopy back I will tell the folks about the time you and Tiffany Mc-Sweeney—yes, I do know what you did.—It doesn’t matter how I know. I know.—Yes. Good. I’ll see you soon.”

  Gerald leaned against the parlour’s open doorway, frowning muzzily. “Everything all right?”

  Monk stopped glaring at the telephone. “Sisters! You can’t say no to ’em and you can’t kill ’em. Doesn’t leave much else, does it?”

  “I’ll take your word on that.”

  “She’s bringing my car back,” said Monk. “And it goes without saying she’ll have Mel and Reg with her. Are you feeling strong enough to face them? Or would you rather escape while there’s still time?”

  He managed a smile. “I’d love to, but after what happened last night I need to talk to them.”

  Monk paled. “Why? What happened last night?”

  “I ran into them while they were gallivanting about South Ott.”

  Monk stared. “What? They were gallivanting where?”

  “In South Ott. In the old factory district. I can’t believe you let them go there, Monk. It’s a dreadful part of town!”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault!” Monk protested. “I had no idea where they were headed!”

  Unbelievable. “You mean you lent those three maniacs your jalopy and you didn’t know what they had in mind? What the hell is wrong with you, Monk?”

  “Well—well—I tried to stop them,” Monk said feebly. “But you know what women are like. You know what those three are like, especially.”

  “Yes! They’re maniacs!” he retorted. “And they nearly ended up getting themselves blown to bits. All because you lent them your jalopy, you idiot.”

  “Blown to bits?” Monk said, his voice faint with horror. “What are you talking about, blown to bits?”

  “You haven’t listened to the wireless this morning?”

  “Come on, Gerald. You know I never listen to the wireless.”

  There seemed little point now in slavishly following Department protocols. That b
oat had not only sailed, it had sunk. “I suppose Reg will have already told the girls,” he sighed. “So. An abandoned boot factory blew up in South Ott last night.”

  Monk stared at him, lips twitching. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Son of Stuttley’s?”

  He raised a warning finger. “Don’t. Just don’t, all right? Not this morning, Markham. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Yeah,” said Monk, sobering, and looked him up and down. “Yeah, I can see that. Maybe you’d better sit down, mate, before you fall down.”

  “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.” He weaved his way across the parlour’s dingy, thread-bare carpet and collapsed onto the two-seater sofa. “Monk, I could murder a cup of tea. And some toast. And some scrambled eggs.”

  “And after that sleep for a week, it looks like,” Monk added. He held out his hand. “Here. Give me that staff and I’ll put it somewhere safe.”

  Vaguely surprised, Gerald looked down at the gold-filigreed First Grade staff still clutched in his right hand. “Oh. Yes. I forgot about this.”

  “Right,” said Monk carefully. “Okay. So maybe you shouldn’t be making any sudden moves.” He grabbed the staff and lifted it out of the way. “Just… sit there. Don’t think about the girls, or my jalopy, or South Ott, or exploding factories. Think—think happy thoughts, Gerald. You can do it if you try, I know you can.”

  He stared at his friend, bemused. “Monk, what are you going on about? I’m fine. I’m tired and starving, but aside from that I’m fine.”

  “Really?” said Monk. “Then you and I have very different definitions of ‘fine’, mate. Look—you relax. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I wasn’t planning to,” he said, around a jaw-cracking yawn. “Bloody hell, Monk. You won’t believe what’s been going on. Exploding factories is just the beginning.”

  “I’ll believe anything if you’re mixed up in it,” said Monk. “I should’ve known what I’d be in for after you turned that mad king’s bloody cat into a lion.”

  Monk was only joking, he was trying to play the fool, like he always did… but suddenly nothing felt funny any more. “Give it a rest, Monk,” he said, appalled to hear the little quaver in his voice. “Can you?”

  “Oh, God,” said Monk, equally appalled. “Who died?”

  “Haf Rottlezinder.”

  Monk’s eyes nearly started out of his head. “Really? Someone died? You’re not joking?”

  He gave Monk his most jaundiced look. “Is this my joking face, Markham? Is it?”

  “You don’t have a joking face, Gerald.”

  “Then take the hint.”

  “Bloody hell,” Monk muttered. “Rottlezinder’s really dead?”

  “Yes. He’s really dead.” Very dead. Comprehensively dead. Unmistakably, unreservedly dead. Every time he closed his eyes he heard the annihilating boom of the factory exploding. Smelled the tinny thaumic discharge. Imagined himself enveloped in a fine red mist…

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. What’s done is done.

  Monk cleared his throat. “Did you—you didn’t—bloody hell, Gerald—”

  With a grating effort, he dragged his eyelids open. “If you mean did I actually, personally kill him, then no. Not exactly. He was killed by his own unstable hex. But I had to choose between saving him and saving Errol.”

  “Blimey,” said Monk. “Rather you than me, mate.” Then he winced. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. That makes two of us.”

  “Look, I want to hear all about it, but—let me get you some breakfast first.”

  “I don’t want to make you late for work. I can—”

  “I’ll call in sick,” said Monk. “Or late. Or something. Don’t worry about that. You just—take some deep breaths. Cultivate your appetite. I’ll be right back.”

  The remains of Monk’s breakfast were sitting on the parlour table. He’d buttered his bread roll but hadn’t eaten it. Perhaps the telephone call from Bibbie had distracted him. With a heartfelt groan, Gerald staggered off the sofa, snatched the bread roll off its plate and devoured it. Then he fell onto the sofa again and enjoyed the sensation of being still and quiet. Could eyelashes ache? He rather thought that they could.

  Time meandered by. He didn’t quite fall asleep, but he did drift into a kind of aimless doze. The room was pleasantly warm, with a cheerful little fire crackling in the fireplace. It was like being in a shabby cocoon…

  “Here you go,” said Monk, returning to the parlour with a mug of tea and a plate of scrambled eggs, only slightly charred bacon and four thick slices of butter-dripping toast. Bless him and the camel he rode in on. “Wrap your laughing gear around this, mate. You’ll feel like a new man, afterwards. And while you’re eating you can fill me in on the rest.”

  So he did. When both breakfast and tale were finished he sat back, replete, the worst of his dizziness subsiding. Looked at Monk, who was staring at him with dazed fascination.

  “Bloody hell, Gerald.”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “I know.”

  “So what’s going to happen to Errol?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t much care. He’s Sir Alec’s problem now.”

  “But you’re convinced he didn’t sell his work to the Jandrians?”

  “You’re the one who didn’t believe he’d sabotage the portal network. Does Errol selling secrets to an enemy government sound likely to you?”

  Monk shook his head. “No. I said from the start he’s a pillock, not a traitor.”

  Which reminded him… “So which Haythwaite was it then, who did the dirty on Ottosland?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It was something Sir Alec said. About Errol maybe not being the first treacherous Haythwaite.”

  “Dunno,” said Monk, his interest piqued. “I’ll ask Uncle Ralph. He’ll know for sure. He’s got closets full of other people’s skeletons and he hates the Haythwaites as much as we do.” Monk shook his head again, this time with a tinge of admiration. “I can’t believe you read the riot act to Sir Alec. And I really can’t believe he didn’t skin you for it!”

  Oh. Yes. Damn. He cleared his throat. “Ah, Monk? There is one more thing. In the course of the mission debrief I, well, I sort of lost my temper a bit and—well, frankly, I got a trifle carried away and, um, I let it slip that I knew where he got the delerioso incant.”

  “Oh,” said Monk, after a moment’s horrified silence.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But I swear you won’t hear a word about it,” he said quickly. “Sir Alec and I came to a definite understanding.”

  “Yeah,” Monk said slowly. “And by a definite understanding, did you actually hear him say, I will not string Monk Markham up by his short and curlies for blabbing about his super-secret hex?”

  “Well, no,” he said. “I mean, not in so many words. You could say the understanding was definite, but not… articulated.”

  “Right,” said Monk, his expression glum. “In other words it’s back to Probationville for me—if I’m lucky.”

  He shook his head. “No. Not this time. Not on my account. Not again.”

  Monk sighed. “You say that, Gerald, and I know you mean it, but—”

  They both turned their heads at a loud banging on the front door.

  “This has an eerily familiar feel to it,” said Monk. “All right. I’ll let them in, but after that you’re on your own.” He took a deep breath and blew it out, hard. “Brace yourself, mate.”

  Reg flapped into the parlour first to circle under the ceiling, closely followed by Melissande and Bibbie, their long skirts swishing. All three of them were talking a mile a minute. On his feet to greet them, Gerald waited till Monk came in and closed the door behind them, then raised both hands.

  “Put a sock in it, all of you!” he said loudly. “I mean it!” And to show them he was serious, he stirred the ether with a short, sharp breeze. The flames in the fireplace leapt up, roaring. T
he heavy curtains swayed, creaking the old timber curtain rods. The girls’ skirts whipped around their legs and Reg’s feathers fluttered wildly.

  “Oy!” said Reg, gliding down to the arm of the sofa. “Do you mind?”

  “Sorry,” he said, and settled the ether. “But I know what you three are like when you’re in full spate.”

  “Monk Markham, you wipe that grin off your face right this instant,” said Melissande, without turning her head. “Or there will be blood on the carpet and I promise it won’t be mine.”

  “Sorry,” said Monk, hastily sobering.

  “Gerald,” said Bibbie, “you look dreadful.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, trying hard not to be distracted by her. Really, she was so beautiful it was ridiculous. She was so beautiful she made Ambrose’s ban on gels in the laboratory almost seem reasonable.

  “He looks like he’s been blown up,” said Reg. “I told you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but you’ve been known to exaggerate,” said Bibbie, and shook her head. “Really, Gerald? Really, you blew up another factory? I mean, I heard about the explosion on the boarding house wireless, but—”

  “Yes, Bibbie,” he sighed. “Another one. Son of Stuttley’s and so forth and et cetera and so on.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Son of Stuttley’s? That’s a silly thing to say—” Her gaze shifted sideways. “Monk.”

  “Oh, find a sock and swallow it, ducky,” said Reg. “Then put your bum in the nearest chair. Gerald needs to know what we know and vice versa.”

  Grumbling under their breaths, Melissande and Bibbie sat, taking an armchair each. Monk stood in front of the dwindling fire, one elbow propped on the mantel. When everyone was settled, Gerald sat on the sofa again and looked at the girls.

  “All right,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

  “In a minute,” said Melissande. “First, is what Reg told us true? Have you stopped suspecting Errol Haythwaite?”

  “For the portal sabotage? Yes,” he said, with a warning glance at Monk. “It’s true. Your turn.”

  “We found out what Eudora Telford was doing in South Ott last night. She was taking a fortune in gemstones to Haf Rottlezinder.”