by K. E. Mills
“Oh, yes?” Reg said warily. “And I’m supposed to be flattered now, am I?”
“Keep on like that and you’ll be better off silent,” Gerald retorted.
“Can you be a bit more specific, mate?” Monk said. Bloody hell, when this is over I should find work as a lion tamer. “I mean, Reg spends half her time nagging, doesn’t she?”
And that made Gerald laugh. “Too bloody true, Monk!”
“So—”
“I’m referring to what she said about those texts falling into the wrong hands,” said Gerald. “Which they did. First Pomodoro Uffitzi’s and then Lional’s, here. Two complete scoundrels. It’s obvious the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy and the United Magical Nations between them aren’t up to the task of protecting the world from grimoires like the Lexicon and the rest.”
Sir Alec cleared his throat delicately. “And you are?”
“Who better?” said Gerald, and clenched his right fist. Closed his eyes. Whispered something under his breath.
The shock that roared through the ether then knocked Monk to the grass. Sir Alec, too. Even Melissande and Rupert staggered, though they were hardly what anyone would call thaumaturgically gifted. And Reg let out a shriek as though someone had set her feathers on fire.
Tasting blood, Monk shoved himself, shuddering, to hands and knees. Dammit, Gerald. He looked at Sir Alec, just as stunned beside him. “It’s not possible, is it?” he said through gritted teeth. “Not just like that. Not with one word and a thought. He hasn’t just—”
Even Sir Alec’s ironclad composure wasn’t proof against this. “What do you think, Mr. Markham?”
I think we’re neck deep in trouble, sir. That’s what I think.
With an almost-groan Sir Alec found his feet, then held out a helping hand. Monk took it, was hauled upright, and found himself standing shoulder to shoulder with Uncle Ralph’s colleague, who stared at Gerald as though he were facing a firing squad.
“That was unwise, Mr. Dunwoody.”
“Really? You think so?” said Gerald. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. Didn’t look the least bit exerted, even though what he’d just done—what he shouldn’t have been able to do, what no wizard living should be able to do—was momentous. “I don’t.”
Pale as freshly skimmed milk, Melissande stepped forward, shaking off Rupert’s restraining hand. “What’s unwise? What just happened? Gerald, what did you do?”
With a flapping effort Reg took to the cooling afternoon air and landed on Melissande’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you what he did, ducky. He got rid of those manky grimoires. Burned them to a crisp.”
“Really?” said Melissande. “From here? Without even seeing them? Or touching them? How is that possible?”
Gerald laughed again, so pleased with himself. “Anything’s possible, Melissande. All you need is the power—and the will.”
“So those horrible grimoires are destroyed?” She looked around their small, silent group. “Well—that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“I should think so,” said Rupert. “Those filthy books Uffitzi brought into this kingdom have caused nothing but misery. I for one am glad Gerald’s rid us of them.”
“Thank you, Rupert,” said Gerald, theatrical again. “It’s good to know someone’s on my side.”
Sir Alec frowned. “It’s not a question of sides, Mr. Dunwoody. Our concerns—”
“Don’t concern me, actually,” said Gerald, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m more interested in what’s happened to Rupert. You’ve gone all assertive and opinionated all of a sudden, Your Highness. Or should that be Your Majesty?” He smiled. “Being sneaky, were you? Hiding from Lional? I like it.” He glanced down at the stuporous king. “Pity he’ll never know how you deceived him. He’d feel like an idiot, and it’d serve him right.” His crimson gaze shifted to Melissande. “Did you know? Or did Rupes here play you for a fool too?”
“Hey,” Monk protested. “She’s not a fool.”
And that got Gerald staring at him. “You mean I was right? You’ve gone ass over teakettle for Lional’s bossy sister? Oh, Monk.” Another smile, dazzling and dangerous. “That’s so sweet.”
He felt his blood freeze. “Ah—yeah. Thanks.”
“Have you set a date yet?”
What? “No. Not exactly. Look, Gerald—”
Ignoring him, Gerald turned to Rupert. “So, Rupes. Given how you New Ottoslanders feel about Tradition—note I used the capital T—would it help if I vouched for Mr. Markham, here? He’s clean, he’s sober—most of the time—and he’s not a half-bad wizard to boot. And really, you’re all in his debt because he’s the one who pointed out that Lional was shopping for another court wizard. You could call him our matchmaker, really. So it only seems fair that I return the favor, don’t you think?”
Monk felt Melissande’s fingers fumble for his hand. He tightened his grasp. Stay calm. Don’t say anything. We need to get out of here and decide what to do. Her fingers squeezed his, and he felt a rush of relief.
Rupert’s smile was careful. “Yes. Well, Professor, any friend of yours must be a friend of mine, obviously. But I don’t think I dare cast myself in the role of Melly’s matchmaker. You know how independent she is. She’d smack me.”
Gerald laughed and laughed. “You’re right, Rupert. She bloody well would. I mean, you should’ve heard what she said about Lional for trying to fix her up with Sultan Zazoor!”
“Yes,” said Rupert, smile fading. “I can imagine. And look—Gerald—speaking of Lional…”
“Yes?” Gerald spared his bloodied victim an indifferent glance. “What about him?” And then he sighed. “Oh, come on, Rupert. Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him? Don’t tell me he’s just been misunderstood? Did you see all the bodies? He’s killed hundreds of your subjects! I’m sorry, but your precious brother’s a mass murderer, Your Highness.”
A light breeze ruffled Rupert’s lank, dullish brown hair, rousing the faded stench of fire and death. “I promise you, Gerald, there’s no need to remind me of that. In fact, I’ve known for many years, since I was a boy, that Lional wasn’t… right. It grieves me beyond words that I wasn’t able to prevent today’s tragedies.” His faded blue gaze flickered to his tormented brother, then back to Gerald. “And I do understand why you felt the need to—to punish him. He hurt you dreadfully. He’s hurt everyone dreadfully. But if what you say is true, if his magic’s gone—”
Gerald was smiling again, but his eyes were cold. “It’s gone. And it won’t be coming back.”
Rupert nodded. “I see. Then please—in that case—show mercy now. Let Melissande and me take him into the palace. Let us find a physician to treat his wounds. He yet must answer for his crimes—but not to you. Not after this. He must answer to the people of the kingdom he so wantonly betrayed.”
“Ha.” Gerald stared down at bloody, half-butchered Lional. “Mercy? After what he’s done?”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Rupert. “Perhaps he deserves more and worse than this for the misery he’s caused. Probably he does. Probably you could make his suffering last another ten years.”
A glint in Gerald’s blood-red eyes. “Twenty. At least.”
“But it wouldn’t undo what he’s done,” Rupert said gently. “It wouldn’t bring the dead back to life or wipe away your terrible suffering. Nothing can do that. If you go on tormenting him, Gerald, all you’ll do is tarnish your soul.”
Silence, as Gerald brooded on the body of his erstwhile torturer.
“Butterfly Boy’s right, sunshine,” Reg said at last. “You’ve made your point. You’ve made Lional scream. Forget about him. You’ve got bigger things to worry about now.”
“Oh, yes?” said Gerald, cocking an eyebrow. “And what would they be, Reg?”
“Well for starters, my boy, we can talk about how your eyes have—”
A flash of blinding white light. A rumbling, like distant thunder. And then an old man in a ratty robe and sandals appeared out of nowhe
re, leaning his bent weight on a gnarled wooden staff. A jagged piece of crystal glowed between his eyes.
Shugat.
Gerald heaved a great sigh, unimpressed. “Come to save the day after all, Mr. Holy Man? Well, you needn’t have bothered. You’re too late. I’ve saved it—so why don’t you bugger off back home while you still can?”
The old man thumped his staff into the soft grass. “What you have done, wizard, is an offense against all men!”
“And what you did was hide behind your gods’ skirts and then run away!” Gerald retorted, his etheretic aura flaring. “So don’t think you can poke your nose in now, with your flash and dazzle parlor tricks and your silly bit of stone. I asked you, Shugat—no, I begged you—to help me. You wouldn’t. So I helped myself.”
“Foolish boy, you have destroyed yourself,” Shugat declared hotly. Another thump of his staff echoed the cooling air with more thunderous rumbles. “In a moment of weakness you have changed your destiny. You have changed the world—and not for the better.”
“So you say,” said Gerald, scathing. “But why should I care for what you say, Shugat? Go home. And if they’re still hanging around here somewhere like a bad smell, make sure you take Zazoor and your silly camel army with you.”
“Now wait just a minute, Gerald,” said Melissande, her cheeks flushed pink with crossness. “I’m sure we’re all very grateful that you stopped Lional. And I suppose you are still New Ottosland’s Royal Court Wizard. For the moment, anyway. But that doesn’t mean you get to—”
Gerald turned on her. She stepped back, quickly, paling again. “Shut up, Melissande,” he hissed. “Without me you’d be wading armpit-deep in blood by now. Your precious little kingdom would be reduced to smoking cinders. So like I said, I think it’s about time you showed me a little genuine gratitude. A little respect.”
“Or what?” asked Sir Alec, breaking his watchful silence. “We’ll end up like King Lional? Pinioned, spread-eagled and tortured nearly to death?”
Gerald’s eyes shone like wet blood. “If you’re asking whether I’m prepared to defend myself, Sir Alec, the answer is yes. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know why you were sent here? You’re not a paper-pusher, you’re a spy for the Department. A shill. A stooge. Well, let’s get one thing straight, shall we? I care as much for the vaunted Department of Thaumaturgy as I do for Holy Shugat and his stupid gods! Where was the Department when I saved the day at Stuttley’s? I’ll tell you where it was, Sir Alec. It was standing behind me kicking me in the ass. Washing its hands of me. And what—now you think I’m going to bow and scrape and hope I’m forgiven for doing what needed to be done here? For saving thousands of lives? Think again. Because the days of kicking Gerald Dunwoody’s ass are over.”
Shocked, Monk stepped forward. “Gerald—mate—”
“Don’t you bloody start, Monk!” Gerald said viciously. “What would you know about it? The Department’s golden-haired R&D boy. Its resident genius. Born into the right family, with the right connections. You were never not going to be asked to join the Worshipful Company, were you?”
What? “Now hang on a minute,” he said, feeling his own temper stir. “Since when did I ever rub your nose in any of that? It’s not my fault who my family is, Gerald. I never asked to be born a Markham, did I?”
“Maybe not,” said Gerald, his crimson eyes hateful. “But you never stopped to ask yourself what you were getting out of it, either. All the little lurks and perks of being in the right clan.”
He could feel the others holding their breaths, willing him to back down, to go along, to let it be. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand here and let the man wearing his best friend’s face spout this kind of claptrap and get away with it. Not without being challenged, at least.
And who knows? I might get through to him. Gerald’s still in there somewhere. I know he is. And if I can just get him to hear me…
He shook his head. “That’s not true, mate. I’ve always known I’ve had advantages other wizards never got. The best tutors. The best equipment. A ride to the top in the fast lane. I’ve always known it, and I’ve never been comfortable with it.”
“Oh, Monk, I don’t think you’re that uncomfortable,” said Gerald. “You never looked that uncomfortable from where I was sitting. But I’ll grant you—yes, sometimes I think you felt a tiny twinge of guilt.” He shrugged. “But hey, that’s easily fixed, isn’t it? All you have to do is make friends with the pathetic Third Grader. That way you can pat yourself on the back for not being a bigoted plonker like Errol bloody Haythwaite.”
He heard Reg sigh, brokenly. “Oh, sunshine…”
“And that’s your theory on why we’re friends, is it?” he said, keeping his voice steady with enormous effort. “That’s how much—how little—you really think of me?”
Gerald’s expression twisted. “Yes, it bloody well is! You don’t understand, Monk. You’ll never understand. You can do what you like and get away with all of it. Because you’re a Markham. Because you’re special. Well it turns out I’m special too, mate. So watch yourself. I’m not going to be patronized by anyone ever again. Not even you. Especially not you.”
The words were like punches from a clenched fist. Swallowing the pain, closing his eyes to the raw antagonism in Gerald’s face, which was worse than the crimson eyes, he took a deep, steadying breath. He could feel Melissande beside him, horrified, and Reg’s dumbstruck distress. Even Sir Alec was taken aback. Even the old man Shugat who’d appeared out of nowhere.
Another deep breath, and he looked at his friend. “I’m sorry, Gerald,” he said, very quietly. “If I made you feel—inadequate—I’m sorry. I never meant to. And I’m not your friend so I can feel superior to a tosser like Errol. I’m your friend because I like you. Because you’re a good, decent man.”
“He was a good, decent man,” said Reg, still slumped on Melissande’s shoulder. Her voice trembled. “Before he mucked about with those grimoires. But now he’s—he’s—”
“Don’t,” he said, turning, and touched a fingertip to her wing. “You’ll only make things worse, Reg. He can’t hear us. What’s happened to him—it’s too new. Too overwhelming. Just—don’t take any of it to heart. He’s not himself. He’s not thinking straight. He doesn’t mean any of it.”
“You fool,” said the old man Shugat, and bowed his bald head. “He means every word. Woe to the wizard who has lost his way.”
“Lost it?” said Gerald, incredulous. “You’re the fool, old fool. I’ve found my way. After bumbling in the dark for years I finally know who I am. What I am.”
Sir Alec cleared his throat. “And what would that be, Mr. Dunwoody?”
“The best damn wizard you’re ever likely to meet!” said Gerald, and laughed.
“No,” said Shugat heavily. “Not the best. The worst. Boy, you have become an abomination. The bird warned you. Woe to the world that you did not heed its advice.”
Gerald spat on the grass. “If I’d heeded her advice, Shugat, you’d most likely be inside that dragon’s belly right now. You and Zazoor and your silly camel army. Are they still here, by the way? Hiding? That’s wise, if they are. Trust me, if they know what’s good for them they’ll bloody well stay hidden. And if you know which side your bread’s buttered on—”
Shugat stabbed the ground with his staff, and the ether trembled. “Think not to threaten a man who talks to the gods!”
“I’m not,” said Gerald, chin lifted, eyes glittering. “I think Lional was right about you, Shugat. You’re a man who claims to talk to the gods. You’re a man who claims the gods exist. But I don’t see them anywhere. If I’m so bad, so dangerous, an abomination, why haven’t they stopped me? Why didn’t they stop Lional?” Another laugh, sneering and contemptuous. “I’ll tell you why. Because they don’t exist. It’s all a flim-flam, Shugat. And you’re a holy flim-flam man.”
The rough crystal in Shugat’s forehead flared once. Monk winced, feeling the power roil through him.
“A sad day, this is,” said the old man. “A day to make the gods weep. Turn back, young wizard. Turn back if you can. For if you do not you will live to see your name a curse.”
Melissande leaped forward as the old man raised his staff. “No—wait—you’re not leaving? Shugat, please, you can’t leave. We need you. We need Kallarap’s help. Stay.”
Shugat shook his head. “Kallarap is Kallarap, Highness. We dwell in our desert and the world wanders its own way.”
“But—”
Another blinding flash of light and she was talking to herself. Shugat had vanished.
“Silly old fart,” said Gerald, still sneering. “If he and Zazoor think they’re getting those back-tariffs now they’re sorely mistaken. And if they try anything funny you refer them to me, Rupert. I’ll sort them out for you.”
“Thank you, Gerald,” said Rupert faintly. “I’m sure that’s very kind.”
Gerald smoothed his sleeve. “Well, it is, actually. But that’s the whole point, which I rather think you’re all missing. I am kind. And I’m generous—at least to my friends.” He looked around at all their faces. “You are my friends, aren’t you? I’m not mistaken in that?”
Monk swallowed the bile that rose into his throat. God help us. “Of course we are, mate.”
Gerald nodded, pleased. “Good. Because you know, you really don’t want to be my enemy. Just ask Lional.” Then he sighed. “And since we’re back speaking of Lional again—and of friendship—” He snapped his fingers once and the long, daggerish teeth piercing Lional’s palms, keeping the unconscious former king pinned to the ground, pulled free and tumbled to the grass. Lional moaned but didn’t open his eyes. “He’s all yours, Rupert. And while I just know you’re going to have a physician look at him, I’ll tell you this for nothing. You’ll be wasting your time. The bastard’s too far gone. Me taking back those stolen potentias didn’t agree with him at all.”
Rupert, his face ashen, turned to Melissande. “Stay with him, Melly. I’ll go and fetch a handcart or a wheelbarrow or something.”
“All right,” she said, almost tearful. “But hurry.”
