by K. E. Mills
“I never thought for a moment she would.”
Standing, the other Gerald laughed. “Liar. Oh—and if you were thinking about making a run for it? I wouldn’t. The house is quite secure, Professor.” The kitchen door closed gently behind him.
Secure? What did that mean? He reached out, cautiously testing the ether, and winced. Oh. Right. He’d been too distracted before to feel it, but a tangle of incants bound the old house in Chatterly Crescent like lights strung on a Solstice tree. How odd, feeling his own potentia in the hexes, knowing he hadn’t created them. They were vicious. If he was idiot enough to try leaving the premises without the right thaumic password he’d be ripped to bloody shreds the moment his fingers touched window or door.
Very slick. Very nasty. Score one for Gerald.
“You’re a fool to push,” said Melissande, running hot water into the sink. “People are like bugs to him now. He squashes them without thinking.”
He fetched a fresh tea towel from the drawer and threaded it through his hands. “He won’t squash me. He needs me for something.”
Melissande started washing the dishes. “What?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He won’t tell me.”
“Well, I can tell you this much… whatever it is, it won’t be good.” She put the first clean plate into the dish rack. “So he’s kidnapped you from an alternative reality, has he?”
Of course she’d worked it out. She was one of the three smartest women he knew. “’Fraid so,” he said, taking the plate and drying it. “I just wish I knew how. You don’t suppose—” He hesitated. “Would Monk have helped him? Your Monk, I mean.”
“I expect so,” said Melissande, watching him return the clean plate to its rightful place. “You know, that’s really quite off-putting. You’ve never set foot in this kitchen, yet you know where the tea towels are and where the plates live. I wonder if life could get any more peculiar?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, seeing the pain in her set face. “What you’ve been through—what you’re going through—” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? None of this is your fault,” she said, trying to sound indifferent. “It’s just the way things turned out. For us, anyway.”
She set two more plates in the rack then handed him a third. Drying it, watching her, he thought she was going to ask him something. But then her lips firmed and she gave a tiny shake of her head, as though she were having a silent conversation with herself.
“What?” he said, holding the dried plate and tea towel. “Go on. Ask. It’s all right.”
The look she gave him was full of fear and sarcasm. “Really? How would you know?”
The imprisoning shadbolt was sunk deep in her etheretic aura. Given her limited potentia it was a far more powerful binding than was necessary. Much crueler. He could feel it waiting for her to trip up, say the wrong thing or wear the wrong expression, so it could tighten its grip on her and make her pay.
Shamed, he turned away. “Sorry. You’re right.” He put the plate in the cupboard. “I don’t know anything.”
She didn’t contradict him. Instead she made short work of the dirty cutlery then reached for the bacon pan. But halfway through scrubbing she stopped, her spectacles foggy. “Your world,” she said, her voice low. “Is it better than this one?”
“Yes,” he said, when he could speak past the lump in his throat. “Much.”
“You and me… after New Ottosland—we stayed in touch?”
He nodded. “We certainly did.”
“And am I happy there? In your world?”
The note of hope in her voice nearly broke him. How can I tell her without making things worse? But then how can I lie? She deserves the truth. “Very. At least, you are when you’re not worrying about the agency or rousing on Monk for being reckless or scolding Reg for—”
“No, don’t mind me,” she said, one hand raised and dripping suds, even as tears rolled down her thin cheeks. “I’m glad for me. Honestly. Your me. I’m glad for you, that things are good in your world.” On a deep breath she got back to scrubbing. “I hope you make it home again, Gerald. I hope—” Another deep breath. “I hope she knows how lucky she is.”
“Melissande…” he said, aching. “If there’s any way I can help you, I will. If I can get that bloody shadbolt off you, I will. I’ll—”
She shoved the scrubbed pan at him. “That’s sweet, really. It’s easy to forget you used to be a kind and decent man.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he took the pan and tea-toweled it dry.
“There’s nothing you can do for me, Gerald,” she said calmly. “I mean, I’m sure you could get rid of this shadbolt but he’d only replace it with something worse. And then he’d make you very sorry that you interfered. Don’t interfere with him, Gerald. Don’t get in his way. Nothing good happens to anyone who gets in his way.”
“But—” He stared at her. “I can’t help him, Melissande. Not if what he wants me to do means people will get hurt.”
She snorted. “Trust me, Gerald, if he shadbolts you then you’ll not have a choice. D’you honestly think Monk wants to help him? He’s shadbolted just like me.”
Oh, lord. Monk. “Where is he, Melissande? And where’s Reg?”
“I don’t know,” she said, scrubbing at the last pan. “I haven’t seen either of them for nearly six months.”
Feeling sick, he took the cleaned egg pan from her. “He said they were alive. Do you think he was lying?”
“About Monk?” She shook her head. “No. He needs Monk for his thaumaturgics. As for Reg, who knows? I mean, she’s Reg. He loves that stupid bird. Or he used to. But the last time I saw her she was still trying to change his mind, and these days Gerald doesn’t like being challenged. He’s got a new motto, you see. Be reasonable and do it my way.”
“Oh.” Heart sinking, he put the egg pan away with the other pots. “Melissande… how bad is it out there?” He nodded at the window, at the unknown world beyond it. “What can I expect to find?”
She pulled the sink’s plug then fetched another tea towel. “Misery,” she said, starting on the cutlery. “Fear. Our Gerald’s got all of Ottosland gripped tight in his fist. And the only way you’ll get him to let go of it is by cutting off his hand.” Her eyes glittered. “Or better yet, his head.”
He swallowed. “You hate him.”
“Of course I do,” she said. “And so would you, if you were me.”
Yes, he probably would.
“I hate Emmerabiblia, too,” she added. “Even if she is Monk’s sister. Sly little trollop.” Her mouth pinched. “In your world, are you and she—”
“No,” he said, and had to clear his throat. “But I like her. In my world she’s—ah—well. She’s different. In my world you like her, too. In fact—”
“Stop,” she said, turning away. “Don’t tell me any more about your world. I can hardly stand my life as it is.”
Oh, lord. “I’m sorry.”
“And stop apologizing,” she snapped. “This isn’t your fault. Like you said, you aren’t him.”
I really bloody hope not. “Look—getting back to him,” he said diffidently. “What about the government? Surely he didn’t just… stroll in and take it over?”
“Actually?” She shrugged. “That’s exactly what he did. Very nicely at first. He only wanted to help. He solved a few sticky problems and everyone was thrilled. Solved a few more, and still everyone was thrilled. And then he started… butting in. So people started having second thoughts, but by then it was too late. And when you’re the only rogue wizard in the world, Gerald, and you’ve got more thaumaturgical firepower at your fingertips than a hundred regular wizards rolled into one, and no conscience at all, well—I’m afraid you can do pretty much what you like.”
He felt as confused now as when he’d first opened his eyes in the bedroom that wasn’t really his bedroom. “But—but—what about the United Magical Nations? Surely someone’s reported
him. I mean, those grimoires Lional stole from Uffitzi, they’re on the proscribed list. They’re illegal. There are sanctions for using them. Surely someone must’ve—”
Sighing, Melissande put down the tea towel and the forks she was drying. “Gerald…” She took her hands in his. “You’re not listening. He’s made himself untouchable.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t believe that. Nobody’s untouchable. Somebody somewhere is fighting him. They have to be. Surely you’ve heard something, a whisper, a—a rumor even, of—”
She let go of him and stepped back, shaking her head. “You really don’t grasp the enormity of what’s happened here, do you? Gerald, I’ve not left this house for seven months. Aside from him and Bibbie, you’re the only person I’ve spoken to since I was shadbolted and prisoned beneath this roof. For all I know there is no more government and Central Ott’s nothing but a smoking ruin.”
“Oh, but—surely there has to be a government,” he protested. “I mean, every country has a government, Melissande. You know. Lords and ministers and bureaucrats and pen-pushers. We’re bloody overrun with them back home. A country can’t function without a government. You know that better than anyone. You used to be a prime minister.”
“For a brother who got rid of his government, remember?” she retorted. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Gerald’s not taken a page out of Lional’s instruction manual and done the same thing.” Frowning, she reached for the dried cutlery and began putting it away. “Gerald… about Lional… your Lional, I mean…”
Oh, lord. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But he died.”
She nodded, closed the cutlery drawer then picked up the tea towel. “Here, too. Gerald killed him.” She looked at him. “Did you…?”
“I’m sorry. I tried not to. I did. But…”
“I know,” she said, shrugging. “I don’t blame you. He’d gone quite mad.”
It was her dull resignation that broke his heart. “Look, Melissande—I can’t believe there’s no hope of fixing things here. What about Kallarap? I know Shugat’s not big on getting involved in anything not Kallarapi but under the circusmtances you’d think—”
“Rupert asked,” she said, grimacing. “More than once. It was no use. And I made him promise that no matter what happened he wouldn’t try helping me on his own. There’s nothing he can do, anyway. He’s not a wizard and New Ottosland’s weak. Gerald…” Stepping closer, she rested her hand on his arm. “It’s awful you’ve been dragged here, into our mess. And if there’s the slightest chance of you escaping back to your own world, you should take it. Reg was right. The magic in those grimoires ruined you. In a way it killed you. So don’t be a hero. You can’t save us. Nobody can. But it would make living this nightmare more bearable if I knew you were home safe. If I knew that somewhere I had a life worth living.”
“Oh, Mel,” he whispered, and pulled her to him in a desperate hug. “How can I do that? I can’t leave you here alone with—”
The kitchen door crashed open. “Oh, stop groping that silly cow, Professor, and come on!” snarled the other Gerald. “Thanks to Bibbie, who insists on doing her makeup by hand, God alone knows why, we’re running late. And I’m expecting a very important call this morning. I swear, if I miss it because she can’t make up her mind about bloody lipstick…”
Still holding on to Melissande, he kissed her cheek. “Don’t give up hope just yet,” he said softly. “I know things look bleak but… please, don’t give up.”
“Professor,” said the other Gerald. He sounded dangerous now.
He let her go and turned. “Yes. All right. I’m coming.”
“You’d be wise not to try me, you know,” said the other Gerald, slamming the kitchen door shut behind them and stalking off along the corridor. “My plans have reached a critical phase and waiting puts me in a very bad mood. So don’t make me testy. Because while it might not suit me to hurt you I can always hurt her. Cross me and I will. My word as a wizard.” A scathing backwards glance. “Do you believe me, Professor? Say you believe me.”
Oh, lord. “Yes, Gerald. I believe you.”
“Good,” said the other Gerald, and picked up his pace.
Bibbie was waiting at the old house’s front door, changed out of her scanty scarlet dress into an exotically shimmering neck-to-ankle garment made entirely of multi-colored Fandawandi silk. To complete her decorous deception she’d added a hat that seemed to be adorned with enough bits of parrot to render an entire flock extinct.
“There you are,” she said, seeing them, her shiny pink lips pouting. “All that shouting and waving your arms about and now here I am twiddling my thumbs while you—”
“Put a sock in it, Bibs,” growled the other Gerald. “Before I put a sock in it for you.”
Bibbie wilted. “Sorry, Gerald,” she murmured, and meekly followed him outside.
Gerald, his heart painfully thumping, fell into step behind the appalling pair. Parked outside the front gate was an enormous gleaming silver car, the most luxurious and expensive-looking model he’d ever seen. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was a Kingsmark. Remembering Monk’s dilapidated and unreliable jalopy, and despite his current predicament, he couldn’t help a soft whistle of admiration.
The other Gerald flicked him a disdainful look. “What, you were expecting a clunker? Hardly. You can ride in the back.”
He nodded. “Of course, Gerald. Whatever you say.”
And that would have to be his mantra for the next little while. Until he knew what his other self wanted from him… and he’d worked out a way to make sure the mad bastard never got it.
As well as being a stunning example of automotive design, the other Gerald’s expensive car—like the house—was hexed, smothered bumper to bumper in powerful incants designed to deflect both physical and thaumaturgical attack. Interesting. It surely suggested that even with his fist gripping tight, he still had powerful enemies. Or was afraid he might have powerful enemies. Something certainly worth bearing in mind.
If I can find out who he’s scared of—make contact with them—maybe we could work together. I’ll work with anyone to see him brought down, even Errol Haythwaite. Because the enemy of my enemy is absolutely my new best friend.
The Kingsmark’s engine turned over smoothly, purring like Tavistock. Behind the wheel the other Gerald pulled away from the pavement, Bibbie pretty and poisonous at his side.
Gerald let his head fall back against the seat.
Bloody hell, Reg. Wish me luck, ducky, wherever you are.
“All right, Professor,” said the other Gerald, after they’d been driving for about twenty minutes. “The time has come for you to close your eyes.”
Now there was an idea. If he closed his eyes maybe when he opened them again he’d find himself back in his real bed, in Monk’s real house, at home in real Ottosland. That would be nice.
Oh, give it a rest, Dunnywood. This really is happening. You’re never going to wish it away.
Looking out of the passenger window had proven pointless—every piece of glass save the windshield was hexed to keep the world beyond it a mystery. It was like traveling inside a luxurious shoebox. He’d done his best to peer between the front seats and out of the more lightly-hexed windshield, but the other Gerald had sworn at him and told him to bloody well sit back and stop wriggling or else. Still. He’d seen enough to know that they were definitely heading down to the city center. And what was there? Government House. Various ministry buildings, including the Department of Thaumaturgy’s stately home. The Botanical Gardens. The Old Parade Ground. The Mint. The National Art Gallery. The Opera—
“Eyes closed, Gerry,” said Bibbie, squirmed around in the front passenger seat and frowning at him. “Aren’t you paying attention?”
Dear lord, she was appalling. How could she possibly be related—thaumaturgically or otherwise—to his own sweet Emmerabiblia?
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Eyes closing now.”
But slo
wly, so he could try to snatch one last glimpse of the world outside their car. As his eyelids drifted shut he caught sight of the city’s world famous Botanical Gardens, and with them a corner hint of the Department of Thaumaturgy building. Above and beyond them a tiny snatch of airship floated in the cloudy sky, he thought above the Grand Ott Portal Station. Ha. Maybe it’s one of Ambrose Wycliffe’s, if he’s still alive here. And then, because he couldn’t stall any longer, he let his eyes close completely and the world beyond the windshield disappeared.
He felt the car take a right-hand turn, away from the Gardens and his old stamping ground, the DoT. And that meant—that meant—what was in this specific direction? Oh yes. They must be heading for Ott’s big ceremonial parade ground, smack bang in the middle of the sprawling metropolis. Not that it was used for ceremonial parades anymore. At least, not often. Not in his world anyway. Back home the empty space was used for open-air theatrical productions and Keys to the City ceremonies and War Remembrance services. Jolly civic get-togethers like that. What it was used for in this Ott, he couldn’t imagine… although nothing jolly seemed a pretty safe bet. Whatever the truth was, he was starting to think it would turn out to be something else he really didn’t want to know.
And what I do want to know, this Gerald won’t tell me.
While he sat silently in the back seat, feeling stupid with his eyes closed, Bibbie prattled on about some upcoming grand society reception. A glittering event, all the important people coming. She started to name names but her Gerald shut her up. After a moment’s frightened silence she started prattling again, her voice brittle beneath the gaiety. This time she was careful to talk only of clothes and jewels and who was yet to be invited and what she wanted on the menu. Then she and her Gerald started arguing about the merits of smoked salmon and caviar.
With his captors momentarily distracted, he grabbed his chance with both hands and took a closer look at Bibbie’s aura. He had to know what she’d done to herself. She was nowhere near as rotten as this Gerald, but she’d warped her sweetness somehow. If he could work out what incants she’d absorbed then maybe, just maybe, he could undo the damage. If he could restore her to the Bibbie he knew and—and cared for—perhaps he’d have found his first ally.
