Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  A mutter of comments ran through the watching wizards. Keeping a cautious eye on them, Gerald manufactured a suitably shocked expression. “What? Oh, no. That’s not right, Mister Methven. Who told you that?”

  “Mister Wycliffe,” said Robert Methven. “Are you calling him a liar?”

  Well… damn. He looked past Methven, down to the far end of the lab complex towards Ambrose’s office. Its door was closed. “A liar? Oh, no, Mister Methven. Not at all. Either Mister Wycliffe—ah—misunderstood what Mister Haythwaite said, or else he’s teasing. Yes. I’m sure he’s just teasing. Perhaps if you asked him to step out of his office for a moment, we could—”

  “Mister Wycliffe isn’t here,” said Robert Methven. “In Mister Haythwaite’s absence, I am in charge of this facility until Mister Wycliffe’s return.”

  Oh. Well, it could be worse. “I see,” he said humbly. “In that case, Mister Methven, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble letting me into Mister Haythwaite’s office, just for a few moments? You see, when I visited Mister Haythwaite this morning he asked me to stop by and fetch something for him. It might be a bit uncomfortable if I have to say I couldn’t perform this small errand for him because Mister Methven wouldn’t let me.”

  Around the laboratory, the other wizards were gradually, grudgingly, returning to work. Robert Methven made a strangled sound in his throat, clearly torn between doing down the accident-prone, unpopular Third Grader and not getting on the bad side of the Wycliffe’s senior thaumaturgist. Just like Sir Alec, Errol cast a long shadow. Trying not to look as though he cared very much one way or another, Gerald shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed his fingers. Because if Methven decided to be an idiot about this, life was about to get very, very complicated…

  “Fine,” Methven grunted, and jerked his head towards Errol’s office. “Go on, then, Dunnywood. But make it quick. You’re a bloody jinx, you are. You’re thaumaturgical quicksand, and the sooner you’re out of here the better I’ll like it.” He grimaced. “Truscott’s must have taken leave of their senses, sending you here.”

  “Yes, Mister Methven,” he said, backing away. “Thank you, Mister Methven. I’ll be as quick as I can, I promise, Mister Methven. You won’t even know I’m around, you’ll see.”

  With a withering stare of utter contempt, Robert Methven turned on his heel and stalked away. Acutely aware that he was still being surreptitiously stared at by his former colleagues, Gerald hid his relief, showing only the kind of servile gratitude expected of a Third Grader, and headed for Errol’s office before Robert Methven changed his mind. Passing the Mark VI lab, he noticed it was warded shut, with a big red warning poster pasted onto the explosion-buckled door. Its forbidding black lettering read: No Admittance, by strict order of the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy.

  Well. Sir Alec wasn’t messing about, was he?

  Easing Errol’s office door closed, but not latched, he took a moment to breathe deeply, subduing nerves, and let his gaze roam around the room. It was immaculately tidy, which was a help. On the desk a blotter, a crystal ball, a telephone, an ink pot, a selection of pens and pencils and some drawing instruments: compass, slide rule, thaumic protractor and an etheretic plumb-bob. Beside the desk was an oversized filing cabinet, designed to house Errol’s top-secret airship and thaumic engine designs.

  But before he explored that likely target for proof of theft, he took a moment to get the feel of the office’s etheretic ambience. Rather like a strong perfume, thaumic signatures lingered, sometimes for weeks, if their inherent strength was impressive enough. And the black market wizard who’d designed the hexes Permelia—or whoever was behind the thefts—had used to steal Errol’s work was no weakling Third Grader, that much he knew for certain.

  He may be a genius but he’s a bloody menace, too. I wonder if Sir Alec will let me hunt him down when this is over? Unless of course it was Rottlezinder. In which case…

  It was a possibility that hadn’t occurred to him. But it would make a kind of twisted sense… as well as provide more proof against Permelia.

  Slowly, carefully, holding his breath in case he inadvertently set off one of the laboratory’s etheretic sensors, Gerald unfurled his potentia and let it taste the air.

  Yes. There was Errol, sharp as snow on the wind, a bitter, biting essence of power. No warmth in his thaumic signature at all. Muddying all around it, the faint scents of other wizards who’d been summoned to his presence over the past week or two. Robert Methven, in particular. His potentia was tinged with anxiety… which wasn’t surprising. Being Errol’s direct underling would make anyone sweat.

  Frowning lightly, Gerald pushed a little harder. There had to be a trace of the black market wizard in here. A hint of him… a suggestion… a shadow…

  Yes. There it was. Subtle. Elusive. A potentia he’d never encountered before—which meant not Haf Rottlezinder. Damn. Nor did it belong to any of Wycliffe’s R&D wizards. He fished the fake diamonds out of his pocket, closed his fist around them and inhaled. Yes. There it was again. The same sour etheretic aftertaste. Powerful. Very powerful.

  Raised voices in the lab beyond the office had him jumping. He leapt back to the door to see what was going on, but it was only another argument between Second Graders Spinkniz and Nye. Idiots. All those two had in common were a lab bench and a bad temper.

  So he wasn’t unmasked. But he really had to get moving, before his precarious situation here deteriorated further. Time to check out Errol’s precious airship designs.

  He risked one last check of the lab complex. Spinkniz and Nye had lapsed into sullen silence, and no-one at all was looking his way. Not even Japhet Morgan, who’d been a sort of, kind of, friend. A fellow sufferer in Third Grade adversity, anyway. Wasn’t that supposed to count for something?

  Apparently not.

  So, Wycliffe’s wizards were busily at work and Robert Methven was nowhere in sight. Hopefully he was up to his eyeballs in an experiment and had forgotten about the appalling Gerald Dunwoody.

  Easing back from the door, Gerald turned and headed for Errol’s filing cabinet. Used one of his newly acquired incants to unhex it, slid the top drawer open, pulled out the first sheaf of blueprints and ran his fingers lightly across them. No. No. No. No. Yes. The same thaumic signature as he’d felt in the fake diamonds, almost too faint to detect. He triggered a recording incant, recited the design code number, then checked the last two designs.

  Nothing.

  Putting those designs back, he pulled out the next file’s worth. No. No. Yes. Yes. No. No.

  Another pile. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. No.

  And another. No. No. No. No.

  Errol had certainly been busy. Six new airship designs, from small personal craft to enormous public carriers. And no less than three new engine designs, all building on the innovations he was trying out in the Ambrose Mark VI.

  Blimey. If Errol managed to get even half of these to work, public transport would be revolutionised. Even if the portal network survived, and thrived, there was still a lot of potential in the designs.

  Of course… there was even more potential for creating a truly formidable and terrifying military fleet.

  Gerald swallowed. With designs like this in the hands of war-hungry Jandria, the world would be in mortal danger. The reminder was nasty: after the harmless fluffiness of Eudora Telford, a prick in the side with a smooth, cold knife.

  This isn’t a game, Dunwoody. You’re a janitor. Get the job done.

  Heart thudding just a little bit faster, he pulled out the last set of Errol’s drawings, and was amazed all over again to see the ideas that had sprung from Errol’s fertile imagination. Pillock or not, Haythwaite had enormous talent. So had the thief plundered these, too? No. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And this time the thaumic signature was practically buzzing. However Permelia Wycliffe had done it—and he was convinced Ambrose’s sister was behind this, no matter how far-fetched the idea—whatever copying incant or thaumic gizmo she’d managed to get ma
de for her, it had been used on these drawings within the last twelve to fourteen hours. Which absolutely tied in with the period between his and Errol’s journey to South Ott, and their subsequent return.

  Things weren’t looking too good for Ambrose’s sister.

  He loaded the recording incant into one of Errol’s pencils and shoved it deep in his inside coat pocket for safekeeping. Then he crossed to the desk and stared at the crystal ball. A pity he didn’t know Errol’s password. Of course he could probably smash through it but that would likely set off the lab’s alarms. So—time to use Sir Alec’s very private phone number again.

  “Mister Dunwoody. How nice to hear from you at last.”

  Oh, ouch. Sir Alec’s tone was so sharp it was a wonder there wasn’t blood dripping from his ear. “Sir Alec, I don’t have long. I’m sorry. Is Monk there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Miss Eudora Telford?”

  “Yes. Where are you, Mister Dunwoody?”

  “In Errol’s office. I’ve found the link between the stolen plans and the fake gemstones—um, do you know about the—”

  “Yes, Mister Dunwoody. I have been apprised of recent developments.”

  And, making a wild guess, Sir Alec wasn’t thrilled. Bugger. “Oh. Good. Well, sir, everything ties together. The plans, the gemstones and Permelia Wyc—”

  “Mister Dunwoody, what are you doing?” demanded a horrified voice.

  Gerald spun round, swallowing a curse. Now? You had to choose now to see if we could be friends? “Oh—Japhet—ah—I was just—”

  “Mister Methven! Mister Methven!” shouted Japhet Morgan, backing out of the office. “You were right! Gerald Dunwoody is up to no good! He’s in here using Mister Haythwaite’s telephone!”

  Gerald strangled a groan. “Damn,” he said, and put the receiver back to his ear. “Sorry, Sir Alec. Things are about to get a little bit awkward. If you don’t mind, I’ll call you back.”

  And he hung up before he learned whether Sir Alec agreed with that plan or not.

  A moment later, Robert Methven stormed into Errol’s office. “Right, Dunwoody, you snivelling incompetent toad! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Melissande stood in front of Miss Petterly’s desk and let the foaming waves of vitriol wash over her, unchecked. According to the clock on the office wall, Miss Petterly had been haranguing her for twenty minutes without a breath, and furthermore showed no sign whatsoever of running out of invective any time soon.

  Silly cow. I could have caught up on half the work I’ve missed by now if she’d just shut up and let me get to my cubicle.

  Behind her she could feel the avid, straining curiosity of all the other Wycliffe gels, who never failed to be entertained by someone else’s misfortune. Even the office boy had stopped trundling his squeaky-wheeled cart up and down the aisles between the horrible grey cubicles.

  Behind Miss Petterly, in Permelia Wycliffe’s office, Permelia and her brother Ambrose were once again at odds. In fact, they were so much at odds that Permelia hadn’t closed her blinds properly. She could see bits of them railing at each other. The partially unshrouded glass and the depth of their mutual anger meant it was much easier this time to work out what they were fighting over… although Miss Petterly’s shrill shrieking did make eavesdropping that tad more difficult.

  I hope Reg is hanging upside down outside the window again.

  “—dereliction of duty that is quite insupportable in a Wycliffe gel!” said Miss Petterly. “You, Miss Carstairs, represent everything that is wrong with the young women of today! Flighty! Thoughtless! Concerned with nothing but your own pleasures! If you knew the vicissitudes faced by the women who came before you, Miss Carstairs! Women like myself who had to fight tooth and nail for the right to employment outside the domestic sphere! We battled and we struggled and we—”

  Yes, I’m sure it was a trial. Try fighting tooth and nail with a dragon some time, you ridiculous woman.

  And then, as Miss Petterly continued to rant, she felt a twist of guilt. Actually, that wasn’t fair. Even in modern Ottosland there were barriers to break down. Prejudices to overcome. Women like Miss Petterly—as unpleasant as she was—had helped to make it possible for her and Bibbie to open Witches Inc., live outside the confines of the family, drive a car, wear trousers…

  Well. Get stared at while wearing trousers, but also not get arrested. That’s progress—of a sort.

  With difficulty she tuned out Miss Petterly’s scolding and tried to focus on Permelia and Ambrose.

  “—don’t know what you’re talking about,” he was saying. “That old biddy? Why would I—”

  Old biddy? Were they talking about Eudora Telford?

  “—to call me, or come and see me, and she’s vanished!” shouted Permelia. “Vanished, Ambrose! After going to see that dreadful wizard you—”

  “Miss Carstairs!” said Miss Petterly, and banged her fist on the desk. “Are you paying attention to me?”

  Oh, how much did she want to say no. But instead she nodded, hoping her expression was suitably chastened. “Oh yes, Miss Petterly. I’ve heard every word, Miss Petterly.”

  “I find that hard to believe, Miss Carstairs!” retorted Miss Petterly. “You have a singularly vacant look upon your face!”

  Inside Permelia’s office, the telephone rang. Permelia whirled away from her brother and snatched up the receiver. “What?”

  “Miss Carstairs!” gasped Miss Petterly. “How dare you? How dare you stand there and ignore me, gel!”

  Melissande shot her an impatient look, abruptly tired of the charade. “Oh do shut up, you wittering old bat! I’m trying to hear what’s going on with Permelia and Ambrose!”

  Especially since Permelia’s busy incriminating the pair of them. So kind of her. I must remember to say thanks.

  From the office’s grim grey cubicles came loud, astonished gasps at her outright rebellion. And then the muffled sound of much merriment, repressed.

  Miss Petterly looked like she was about faint. “I beg—I beg—I beg your pardon?”

  “Too late,” said Melissande, and stared through the office blinds. Now Ambrose was on the phone and he didn’t look happy. He growled something into the receiver and slammed it back in its cradle, then marched to the office door and flung it open.

  “My mind is made up, Permelia!” he snarled, pausing to glare back at his sister. “I wanted to sack him last night but you overruled me. Well I’m tired of you overruling me, you interfering scold. I am the head of this family and this company, and I will decide who remains in its employ. This time Gerald Dunwoody stays sacked! And furthermore—I’m having him arrested!”

  As he thudded his way past Miss Petterly’s desk and through the outer office towards the door, Permelia—looking anything but self-controlled and haughty—tottered out after him.

  “Ambrose, no! Ambrose, wait! Ambrose, please, listen, you don’t know what you’re doing!” Ignoring the astonished Miss Petterly she hurried after her enraged brother, pausing only to add, “Miss Cadwallader? Your services have proven most unsatisfactory. Consider your contract summarily terminated. I expect my retainer to be refunded immediately. Ambrose!”

  And she continued after her brother, hurling epithets and pleas.

  Blimey.

  Melissande looked into Permelia’s office, saw that Reg was indeed hanging upside down outside the window and in fact appeared to be in a spot of bother. So she shoved past Miss Petterly and into the office, rescued Reg, plonked the gasping bird on her shoulder and ran out again in pursuit of the battling Wycliffes.

  Every gel in the office was on her feet and staring.

  “Miss Carstairs! Miss Carstairs!” Miss Petterly screamed.

  “Not Carstairs! Cadwallader!” Melissande shouted back, then looked around the office. “Of Witches Inc., Ottosland’s premier witching locum agency. No task too small, discretion guaranteed. And if I were you, gels, I’d start looking for different employment! Wycliffe�
��s is about to go down in flames!”

  Leaving a hubbub behind her she ran down the stairs and out to reception, where Bibbie—who’d insisted on coming to Wycliffe’s with her in the dubious guise of a young gel looking for work—was failing spectacularly to look plain and rustic and eminently employable.

  “What’s going on?” she said, leaping to her feet.

  Ignoring shocked Miss Fisher, Melissande grabbed her by one blue muslin sleeve and tugged her towards the door. “I don’t know, exactly, but it sounds like Gerald’s in trouble. Come on, we’ve got to get to him, quickly, before this whole case goes kablooey in our faces.”

  They hustled out of the administration building and onto the path leading to the Research and Development block. Reg immediately launched herself into the air and flapped ahead.

  The main door to the laboratory complex stood uncharacteristically open. Inside, Ambrose Wycliffe was shouting. As Reg glided into the building, staying high to avoid detection, Melissande grabbed Bibbie’s arm again then pressed a finger to her lips.

  “Not a sound, all right?” she breathed. “Tiptoe and hold your breath! With any luck they won’t notice us. Especially if Ambrose keeps on bellowing like that.”

  Bibbie nodded vigorously, and they crept their way into the Wycliffe Airship Company’s raging thaumic heart.

  All of Ambrose’s wizards were gathered in a nervous, ragged circle, as though they had a wild animal trapped and weren’t precisely sure what to do with it. Gerald, very tense, was staring at Ambrose Wycliffe, who stood inside the ragged circle with him. And Ambrose Wycliffe, scarlet-faced and practically frothing at the mouth, very nearly demented with fury, looked in danger of having a stroke. Permelia hovered behind her brother, her panicked gaze darting from Ambrose to Gerald and back again.

  “—since you got here, Dunwoody!” Ambrose’s meaty hands were clenched to fists. He looked like he wanted to pummel Gerald to a bloody pulp. “At first I thought it was just Truscott’s, slipping up, but do you know what I think now, sir? I think you’re an imposter. I think you’re a spy! I think you’ve been sent here to destroy my company!”