by K. E. Mills
Bastard. “That isn’t what happened!”
Mysterious Sir Alec breathed out a whispery sigh. “Your loyalty is admirable, Mr. Markham, but we both know it’s precisely what happened.”
With an effort he kept his fingers from fisting. Made himself not look at Melissande and Reg. “There were mitigating circumstances.”
“Which will be discussed in full once Mr. Dunwoody has returned to Ottosland,” said Lord Attaby, at his most repressive. “And most likely taken into account. But that is a discussion for another day, Mr. Markham.”
Yes. Right. In other words Get on with it.
And Lord Attaby had a point. Even now Gerald could be locked in a desperate battle for his life. Waiting for him. Relying on him.
I never should’ve let him talk me into leaving.
Standing adrift amidst the Department’s sea of thaumaturgical monitoring equipment, he took a deep breath to steady his thumping heart. “Have we got a recording of the event on a machine that hasn’t been melted?”
Sir Alec swept his keen gaze around the cramped, crowded room then nodded. “Try that one.”
That one was probably the oldest thaumatograph still in use anywhere in the Department—or possibly the civilized wizarding world. Oversized and clunky, its plain copper wiring antiquated, it hulked in the corner, largely overlooked these days. The latest-model thaumatographs employed wiring composed mostly of brinbindium, newly discovered in the darkest jungles of Ramatoosh. Highly etheretically conductive, a little temperamental, prone to spontaneous reverse thaumaturgic fluctuations, yes—but terrifically sensitive to the most minuscule of etheretic fluctuations.
Which is possibly why the new monitors tossed in the towel once they picked up the goings-on in New Ottosland.
“Well, Mr. Markham?” said Lord Attaby, shifted from repressive to impatient. “Can you do this or can’t you? Time is fast slipping through our fingers, you know!”
“Sorry, sorry, my lord, yes, I do know,” he muttered, and wriggled his way between the crammed-in desks and gooified modern thaumatographs to the aged pile of copper wiring, circuits and gears that was the Abercrombie Eleven Etheretic Thaumatograph (1843 Patent Pending). “If you’d give me a moment—”
“There are no moments remaining, Monk,” said Uncle Ralph, sounding tense. “Now prove yourself a Markham and get the job done! We need to know what’s going on in New Ottosland!”
He risked a single glance at Melissande, defiantly ramrod straight beside her odd brother. She slayed him. Tart-tongued and bossy and horrifyingly self-sufficient. Everything a well-bred girl wasn’t supposed to be. Her eyes met his and his heart banged like a hammer.
I’m going to save her kingdom for her.
With a loud flustering of wings Reg joined him at the thaumatograph. “So, Mr. Clever Clogs, can you really do this or are you just flapping your lips for the exercise?”
Offended, he looked down his nose at her. “What do you think?”
“I think we’re all going to get terminal indigestion if you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, sunshine.”
Bloody hell. How did Gerald stand it? “D’you mind? I’m Monk Markham.”
“Oh, really?” Reg fixed him with a glittering stare. “And what else would you like engraved on your headstone if this doesn’t work and my Gerald ends up paying the price for your thoughtless meddling in his life?”
Oh, God. Gerald. He had to look away. Pretend interest in the old monitor before him. “He’s my best friend too, Reg. Don’t you know there’s nothing I won’t do to save him?”
Reg sniffed. “I never said your heart wasn’t in the right place, sunshine. But this?” She shook her head. “It’s never been done.”
“Well, you know what they say, Reg,” he retorted, flicking the Abercrombie’s switches to stand-by. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“And that includes blowing yourself to smithereens!” the dreadful bird retorted. “Which is a first and last time event, my boy.” She tipped her head and glared at him, dark eyes bright with irritated frustration. “Or hadn’t you thought of that, Mr. Genius?”
A betraying bead of sweat trickled down his temple. “Of course I’ve bloody thought of it, Reg. Now would you please be quiet? I need to concentrate.”
“Need your head examined’s more like it,” she snapped. “Now what can I do to help?”
He stared at her. “Gosh, Reg. I don’t know. Let me think. Hey, here’s an idea. Maybe you could shut up?”
“Mr. Markham…”
And that was Sir Alec, using his voice like a cattle prod.
“Please, Reg,” he muttered. “Gerald’s life depends on me getting this right.”
And those were the magic words. The bloody bird shut up.
Everybody was staring at him again, waiting for him to pull a thaumaturgical miracle out of his… hat. The air in the small, closed room trembled with tension, the atmosphere taut like a thunderstorm waiting to break. Bloody hell, Dunnywood. The things I do for you. Willing his hand steady he selected an empty recording crystal from a tray on the table beside the Abercrombie and slotted it into place. The old thaumatograph beeped once and started to hum. That was his cue to bang his fist on the replay button, pass his hand over the recording crystal to activate it and then monitor the readout closely for signs of brewing trouble. Close to holding his breath, he watched the etheretic gauge’s needles jump and the ink squiggle on the paper and the etheretic transducer crystals flash orange, then red, then a brighter red until they glowed like the heart of an overheated sun. The ’graph’s blank and colorless recording crystal began to shimmer, then blush. Pale pink. Dark pink. Now shading to bright red. To crimson.
He could feel the build up of energy within the crystal’s confines, feel the rising stresses on its matrix. The Department used only the best recording crystals, but even so…
His long hair started to stir, prickles of thaumic energy nipping over his skin. Deep in his bones he felt an answering thrum. In his blood, a growing incandescence.
“Oy,” said Reg, feathers nervously rustling. “Mr. Clever Clogs. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
And neither did he, but there was no turning back. The air around the old thaumatograph shivered as the invisible ether started to dance. Then the recording crystal began to vibrate, protesting the speed and density of information being funneled into it. He heard a thin high note of stress, a diamond chip scraping glass.
“Mr. Markham—”
“Almost there, Lord Attaby,” he said, lifting one hand. “Just a few more seconds.”
“We might not have a few more seconds, Monk!” Uncle Ralph retorted. “Now shut the damn thing off before—”
“I can’t,” he said, as the recording crystal continued to protest. “I need every scrap of information on the event that the monitor captured.”
“But—”
“It’s all right, Uncle Ralph. Don’t lose your nerve now.”
Uncle Ralph spluttered. “Lose my nerve? Lose my nerve? You arrogant young whippersnapper, who d’you think you are, talking to me like I’m some—”
“Mr. Markham.”
He nearly leaped clean out of his shoes. How did Sir Alec do that? Creep so close without so much as stirring the air? What was it, some kind of secret thaumaturgical stealth enhancement?
And where can I get one? Or maybe I could whip up a version of it for myself…
“Oy, bugalugs,” said Reg, always so helpful. “Don’t look now but your recording crystal’s about to go kablooey.”
Ignoring the bird and the disconcerting Sir Alec, he turned back to the thaumatograph. Reg was right, damn her eyes. The recording crystal was edging towards black now, rattling in its slot on the shuddering machine. The etheretic gauge’s inky needles skewed wildly across the unspooling paper, scrawling a terrifying warning of things gone madly awry half way around the world.
Bloody hell, Gerald. What did you do?
“Shut it down, Mr. Markham,�
�� Sir Alec said quietly. “It’s an old machine, and right now it’s the only reliable long distance thaumatograph we’ve got.”
“Yeah—yeah—in a second,” he said, not taking his eyes off the recording crystal. He was pushing, he knew he was pushing, but a partial recording of what had just happened in New Ottosland wasn’t enough. He needed to know the whole story. Without the whole story he might not be able to help Gerald. Besides, the recording was nearly finished. Just a bit more—a bit more—
“Mr. Markham.”
“Nearly, Sir Alec. Nearly. If I can just—”
But no, he couldn’t just. With a snap and a sizzle and a belch of choking smoke the Abercrombie Eleven Etheretic Thaumatograph (1843 Patent Pending) emitted a grinding groan and started dripping melted copper onto the floor.
Reg flapped cursing into the air. “You stark raving nutter, Monk! Now look what you’ve done!”
Oh bugger bugger bugger bugger—
Heedless of the gut-churning agitated ether, of splattering copper and acrid smoke and the risk of imminent explosion, of Lord Attaby’s protests and Uncle Ralph’s incoherent fury, seeing only the fleeting look of despair on Melissande’s face in the heartbeat before she managed to regain her self-control, he flung himself at the dangerously overburdened thaumatograph.
Sir Alec stared at him from the other side of the monitor, his nondescript face calm, his eyes narrowed and cold as mid-winter.
“We have less than two minutes in which to balance the etheretic energies, Mr. Markham,” he said, as though he was commenting on the weather. “And then there’s going to be a rather large explosion. So let’s not dally, shall we?”
Monk nodded. “Right. After you, Sir Alec.”
And on a blind leap of faith they plunged their potentias into the etheretic maelstrom engulfing the thaumatograph.
Heat and cold and bright, bright colors. The stink of burned ether and the emptiness of freezing thaumic particles. Dimly he felt Sir Alec’s presence as the senior wizard wrestled with the monitor’s etheretic balances, thrown so far off-kilter by whatever had happened in distant New Ottosland. Recognizing a superior discipline, if not exactly a superior potentia, he followed Sir Alec’s disciplined lead.
“Ease back on the throttle a trifle, Mr. Markham,” Sir Alec’s ghostly voice whispered. “Just because you have it is no reason to use it.”
What? And then he realized he was pouring all of his potentia at the problem. Letting his fears overtake his good judgment.
“Sorry,” he said, his own voice ghostly, and hastily readjusted his response.
“Good,” said Sir Alec. “Now let’s make a cradle, shall we?”
It felt damn peculiar, linking his potentia with that of a wizard he knew only by mysterious reputation and had never even spoken to before today. This kind of intricate, complicated thaumic working was usually reserved for wizards who’d had time to familiarize themselves with the quirks and foibles of a colleague’s thaumic signature. Incautious collaborations could—and often did—lead to nasty accidents.
But he and Sir Alec didn’t have time for the thaumaturgic niceties.
A small, observing part of himself marveled at the other man’s icy control. He’d never felt anything like it. The precision of application, the razor-keen mastery of thaumic energies, the deftness of his touch as he honed and narrowed his focus, imposing his implacable will upon the machine that with luck held the key to the conundrum that was Gerald Dunwoody.
Mysterious Sir Alec had just become a whole lot mysteriouser.
With their potentias neatly melded, not a hint of incipient collapse or rejection, they eased the thaumic cradle they’d created around the damaged thaumatograph. Used their blended etheretic energies like glue, sealing the breaches that threatened to explode the vitally important monitor. Its copper wires stopped melting. Its innards stopped belching noxious smoke. The hysterical inked needles ceased their flailing and the recording crystal, undamaged, settled back in its slot.
With a final mechanical groan and a cooling plink plink plink, with scant seconds remaining, the roiled etheretic energies within and surrounding the thaumatograph smoothed out. A heartbeat later came an odd pulling sensation, like a knot coming untied, and their two linked potentias slithered apart.
Very slowly, panting, Monk unscrunched his eyes. “Did we do it? I think we did it. Didn’t we?”
“It would appear so,” said Sir Alec. The only hint that he’d just exerted himself was a slight roughness around the edges of his voice. He cleared his throat. “Nicely done, Mr. Markham.”
“Blimey bloody Charlie!” said Reg, perched on top of a nearby newer-fangled and now defunct monitor. “You cut that a bit close, didn’t you? What were you trying to do, give me a conniption?”
Ignoring the damn bird—how was it Gerald hadn’t throttled her by now?—Monk shook his head. “I think you did most if it, Sir Alec. I was pretty much just along for the ride.”
“Humility, Mr. Markham?” Sir Alec’s thin lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “You surprise me. I wasn’t under the impression you possessed any.”
Oh ha very ha. Fishing in his pocket for the recording of Gerald’s Level Twelve transmog, he risked a glance at Melissande. She was so pale all her freckles stood out like fallen leaves on a snowfield. Even without a magnifying glass he thought he could count every last one of them. Her peculiar brother had his arm about her shoulders, holding on tight. Another risky glance, this time at Uncle Ralph and Lord Attaby, made his heart thud uncomfortably hard. Identical frowns and clenched jaws held the promise of much astringent lecturing in his immediate future.
Not wanting to think about that he hurriedly paid attention to the old thaumatograph. Chancing burned fingers he plucked the recording crystal out of its slot. Ouch, yes, it was hot, but since he wasn’t bursting into flames… He closed his grip around it and took a quick surface reading. Oh yes, there was Gerald and his oddly altered thaumic signature.
How about that? I did it. The entire unprecedented catastrophic thaumaturgic event safely recorded for posterity. Ha! Monk Markham strikes again.
But his pleasure didn’t last long.
Bloody hell, Gerald. What did you do?
“Well?” Reg demanded. “What’s it say? Don’t just stand there gawping, sunshine! What’s Gerald done now?”
“Reg—” He pulled a face at her. “I don’t know yet. I don’t even know if Gerald’s behind what’s gone wrong.”
The lie was told before he knew it—but it didn’t much matter. The truth couldn’t be hidden. It was a stopgap. A way of catching his breath. Of giving him time to figure a way to save Gerald from the fallout. Or as much of the fallout as he could manage. He could feel Sir Alec and Uncle Ralph and Lord Attaby, all three of them sharply staring. Did they believe him?
Somehow… I think not.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Reg squawked, tail feathers rattling. “Find out, you wretched boy!”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Melissande, “but I agree with the bird. Stop congratulating yourself, Mr. Markham, and read that bloody crystal! Or I swear I’ll forget I’m not the new Queen of New Ottosland and send out for an ax!”
Startled, he stared at her. Flinched and stepped back as insane King Lional’s sister, the unexpected love of his life, glared at him with the heat of a thousand newborn suns.
Oh. Right. So she’s not joking. Fine. I can take a hint when it’s threatening to cut my head off.
Feeling a colder regard, he shifted his gaze to Sir Alec. “What?”
Sir Alec came around the monitor to stand uncomfortably close. “Let’s stop this juvenile pretending, shall we, Mr. Markham? Either your friend has caused this catastrophic event or he’s been caught up in it. Either way he’s in dire trouble. Your friend, Mr. Markham, is what you might call an untidiness. A dangerous untidiness. I wonder—are you ready for what will likely happen next?”
Mouth dry, throat closing, he took an
other step back. “Next? What are you talking about? Are you implying Gerald’s in—that the government might—that he might—” Suddenly he remembered Uncle Ralph’s inebriated ramblings. I don’t know how Alec sleeps at night. And then, feeling sick, he wondered if he understood anything at all. “Just what is it that you do for the government, exactly, Sir Alec?”
This time Sir Alec’s chilly smile was frightening. “I keep things tidy, Mr. Markham. I clean up other people’s mess.”
Clean up. Now there was a terrifying euphemism. He made himself meet Sir Alec’s intimidating gaze. Summoned a little intimidation of his own.
“Well, you’re not cleaning up Gerald,” he said, his voice low. Painfully aware of Melissande, almost within earshot. “None of this is his fault. Give me your word you’ll leave him alone or—”
“Or what?” said Sir Alec, so impersonally polite. “What is it you imagine you can do, Mr. Markham?”
How odd, that he could go from admiring to hating someone in such a short space of time. “Sir Alec, this isn’t Gerald’s fault,” he said, sounding anything but impersonal. But I don’t care. I don’t. “Something happened to him when Stuttley’s factory went up. Something nobody was expecting, or could have foreseen. In the name of all things thaumaturgical, when he left here for New Ottosland he was rated a piss poor Third Grade wizard! And the next thing he knew he was turning cats into lions. That’s—that’s—”
“Unprecedented. I know,” said Sir Alec, watching him closely. “A word I suspect will be quite worn out before this is over.”
“Please,” he said, and heard the catch in his voice. “Please. At least say that any cleaning up will be a last resort.”
“I’m not a wasteful man, Mr. Markham,” Sir Alec replied after an awful pause. “I don’t throw anything away if I don’t have to.”
It was the only assurance he was going to get—and it wasn’t anywhere near good enough. Still feeling sick, he glanced at silent Reg. “Well? Come on. I can’t believe you don’t have an opinion.”
Reg chattered her beak, dark brown eyes glittering. “You want my opinion? First we find out what’s happened in madam’s back yard. And then if this government plonker starts waving a dustpan and brush around I think you should knit his intestines into a throw rug while I pluck out his eyeballs and use them for marbles. That’s my opinion. Care to second it?”
