by K. E. Mills
Another armed airship ghosted by, its shadow blotting out the fitful sun.
How long has it been since New Ottosland, and Lional? Just over a year? How could so much go so wrong in a year? Are we truly so fragile? Do peace and safety really dangle by such a brittle thread?
Apparently, they did.
Behind him he heard Bibbie utter a deep, petulant sigh. “Gerald, I’m hungry,” she complained. “It’s past lunch time, you know. Government House has a dining room, doesn’t it? Why can’t they feed us? They really should feed us.”
“Bibbie, don’t be a nuisance,” said the other Gerald, impatient. “Weren’t you listening? I’m expecting a call from President Damooj!”
Another sigh. “Yes, Gerald, I know you are. Only have you forgotten it’s practically midnight in Babishkia? President Damooj will be fast asleep.”
The ether trembled with the other Gerald’s displeasure. “He’s got no bloody business sleeping. Not when I’m here waiting for his oath of fealty.”
His what? Gerald turned around. “You’re expecting Babishkia to cede its sovereignty to you?”
The other Gerald smiled. “Actually, I’m expecting a lot of things, Professor. But yes, that would be one of them.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Well, let’s hope for their sake that they don’t,” said the other Gerald. Then he looked at Bibbie. “You’re really hungry, Bibs?”
Bibbie pouted. “Famished. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“Oh dear,” said the other Gerald, grinning. “We can’t have that, can we? All right. We’ll go to the dining room and they can feed us an extravagant lunch. You, me and the Professor. But if after that President Damooj still hasn’t called?” Another ominous tremble in the ether. “Well. All I can say is I’ll be glad that I don’t live in Babishkia.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, Professor. We’re going to eat.”
The thought of food was revolting, but there was no question of refusal. Silent and nauseous, not looking at Ottosland’s shadbolted government, Gerald followed them out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Because they didn’t know what else to do with him, they’d put the other Monk in Gerald’s bedroom, on his bed, covered him head to toe with a respectful sheet and closed the door. Then they’d gone back downstairs to the kitchen, where Melissande made tea and buttered toast and they sat around not drinking or eating and waited for Sir Alec to tell them what to do next.
Brooding over his cold, greasy bread, Monk made himself not stare at the kitchen ceiling.
I’m dead. I’m dead up there. That’s not right. He didn’t come all this way just to die. He came so I could save him. But I didn’t. I think I killed him.
“Oy,” said Reg, slumpingly perched on the back of the chair beside him. “Don’t you dare start with that nonsense, sunshine.”
He blinked at her. “How could you possibly know what—”
“Don’t make me laugh,” the wretched bird retorted. “I can read your face with my eyes closed, can’t I?”
“She’s right,” said Bibbie, quiet and composed with tears running and running and running down her face. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Yes, it was,” said Melissande, beside her. “It was the other Gerald’s fault.”
Oh, God. Gerald. Midnight was hours behind them. It would be dawn in a while. The sun was going to rise on a world without Gerald Dunwoody in it.
Reg hiccuped, hunched and feather-fluffed. “My poor boy. I always said he never should’ve got himself mixed up with that government stooge. Didn’t I always say it? Didn’t I say nothing good would come of him gallivanting around the world sticking his nose into other people’s nefarious business?”
“Yes, Reg, and you keep on saying it, but that’s not what happened, is it?” said Bibbie. Did she know she was crying? It didn’t seem that she did. “At least, we don’t know for sure. I mean, it’s not like you’ve any proof this is Sir Alec’s fault.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Oh. Right. Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve decided to go sweet on him, have you, ducky? The dashing and mysterious older man mistake.” She sniffed. “And here’s me thinking you were smarter than that.”
“What?” said Bibbie, outraged, and threw a discarded teaspoon across the table at her. “Sweet on Sir Alec? Are you out of your mind?”
“Oh, don’t even start!” snapped Melissande. “Put a sock in it, the pair of you! It’s bad enough we don’t know what’s happened to Gerald. But if you two are going to carry on like children you can bloody well go to your rooms!”
As Bibbie opened her mouth to argue, Monk raised a challenging eyebrow at her. Pulling a face she gave up, and slumped a little deeper into her chair.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m thinking it can’t be a coincidence that the other me turned up here around the same time Gerald disappeared on the way to Grande Splotze. Especially since everything points to him not being in our world any more.”
“So what are you saying?” said Bibbie. “That their Monk crossed over here—and our Gerald crossed over there?”
“I think it’s absolutely possible, yes.”
“But how?” said Melissande. “The other you jiggered his portable portal opener to get here. Exactly how many ways are there to open a door between dimensions?”
He shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Well, could you travel between worlds using a regular portal?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “It’d be bloody tricky trying it with one of those big commercial portals but the basic thaumaturgics are the same.”
“And what about trying it with a small, unregistered portal?”
Like one of Sir Alec’s? “Sure,” he said, nodding. “You could jigger one of those if you had some serious thaumaturgic juice.”
Melissande looked at him, her green eyes somber. “Serious as in rogue wizard? Monk, are you saying Gerald isn’t missing at all? That he left?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Of course not. But we’ve got more than one rogue wizard in play, haven’t we? And we all heard what the other me said about him. I’ll bet you anything you like he’s the one behind our Gerald’s disappearance.”
“Ha! I don’t give a fat rat’s ass what that other Markham boy blathered!” said truculent Reg. “I’m telling you, sunshine, I know my Gerald. And I don’t care which version we’re talking about, he would never stoop to kidnap or—”
“Or shadbolts?” he said, frowning into his cooling mug of tea. “Enough, Reg. Face facts. Somewhere out there is a wizard wearing Gerald’s face, possessing his rogue thaumaturgic abilities but none of his conscience or decency. A wizard who’s souped himself up on so much dark magic there’s a pretty good chance he’s not strictly human any more.”
“Don’t you say that!” Reg shrieked, all her feathers sleeking and her tail ferociously rattling. “Say that again, Monk Markham, and I swear I will poke out your eyeballs and—”
“Hey!” He shoved his mug away so hard that it tipped over, flooding the old, scarred kitchen table in a tidal wave of tea. “You think I want to say it, Reg? Or even think it? But I was inside that other Monk’s head. I felt what his Gerald did to him. Only someone who’s completely lost their humanity could do that. And if you think I want to think that about my best friend you’re mad!”
Melissande, who’d leapt up from the table and fetched a cloth to stem the tide of tea, paused in her mopping. “Don’t, Monk. She’s upset.”
“And I’m not?” Glaring, he sat back and folded his arms. “Melissande—”
“Oh, shut up, Monk,” said Bibbie. “Reg is upset, you’re upset—we’re all of us upset. This isn’t about who can boo-hoo the hardest, it’s about getting our Gerald back from wherever he’s been snatched to.”
“And finding out what’s going on,” Melissande added, carrying the tea-sopping c
loth over to the sink. “I mean, don’t you think this is all a bit odd? If this other Gerald’s so amazingly powerful, what does he want with ours?”
“I don’t know, do I?” he said, dangerously close to snapping. At Mel. “How am I supposed to know? The other Monk didn’t say and I’m not a bloody mind reader. The only thing we can bet on is that it won’t be anything good.”
“Exactly!” said Reg. “Which means for once in her frivolous life your scatterbrained sister is talking sense. Enough of this sitting around on our asses. We’ve got to nip over to the world-next-door and drag our Gerald back here by the scruff of his neck!”
“And how are we supposed to do that?” said Melissande over her shoulder as she wrung out the cloth. “Wish on a star and hope for the best?”
“What d’you mean how?” Reg demanded, staring. “The answer’s right under your silly freckled nose, ducky. We’ve got that other Monk’s jiggered-up portal opener, haven’t we? That’s as good as a battering ram, that is.”
Monk cleared his throat. “Except we haven’t got it any more.”
“What?” Reg rattled her tail feathers. “D’you mean to tell me you let that manky Sir Alec get his sticky fingers on it? Monk Markham, how could you be so stupid?”
“Sorry,” he said, shrugging. “Maybe I should’ve asked you to swallow it, Reg.”
“You’ll be swallowing your own eyeballs if you’re not bloody careful!” she snapped. “Our one advantage and you let that sneaky government stooge run off with it? What were you thinking? Were you trying to save your own hide at the expense of—”
“No, Reg, he wasn’t!” said Melissande, whipping around. “How can you even suggest it? Of course he gave the other Monk’s portal opener to Sir Alec. He didn’t have a choice. And anyway, since we’re the ones who got Sir Alec involved in the first place it’d be pretty stupid of us to hide crucial evidence from him, don’t you think?”
She and Reg glared at each other, then Reg looked away. “I’m telling you, ducky, the man’s not to be trusted. He’ll use that other Monk’s portal opener as a paperweight, you mark my words.”
Rolling her eyes, Bibbie crunched a piece of her cold toast. “Yes, yes, Reg, I’m sure that’s terribly likely. What about your jigged-up portal opener, Monk? Will that get the job done?”
“No,” he said, and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Because Sir Alec’s confiscated it too and anyway, I have no idea how to double-jig it to open a door into a parallel world. Any parallel world, let alone the right one.”
“You don’t know now,” said Bibbie. “But if you had some time I’ll bet you could work it out. And what do you mean, Sir Alec’s confiscated your portable portal opener too?”
Feeling like a little boy again, he scowled at the toast crumbs she was scattering on the table. “While you and Mel were—were making the other Monk tidy,” he muttered. “He asked for it, so I gave it to him.”
Now Melissande was staring. “Just like that? Monk—I’m starting to think Reg has a point. It’s one thing to hand over the opener the other Monk used to get here, but why would you give up the only advantage we have?”
“Well, I could hardly say no, could I?” he retorted, not liking the way they were all looking at him. As though he were the village idiot’s even dimmer cousin. “Not after I told him about it. Not after he came rushing out here to help because I contacted him using the super secret password I’m not even meant to know exists.”
Bibbie tossed her half-eaten piece of toast back on its plate, her eyes lit up with a dangerous gleam. “And is he going to give it back? Because Monk, that’s your invention. It’s your intellectual property. He’s got no right—”
“And you think that’s going to stop him, ducky?” said Reg, rousing out of her funk. “That superior secret government stooge? That stuck-up, autocratic, officious pen-pusher? That—”
“Reg,” Melissande said gently, and perched on the table-edge beside her. “Don’t. You’re not angry with Sir Alec. You’re angry with Gerald for disappearing without a trace. You’re angry with that other Monk for putting the cat among the pigeons. And you’re furious because he died in such a horrible way.”
Silence. Reg sank her head into her shoulders and grieved. Bibbie, the tears still sluicing her cheeks, dabbed up her toast crumbs with the tip of one unsteady finger. Monk, looking at Melissande as she gazed out of the window, thought he’d never loved her more. Say it. Say it. But he couldn’t. This wasn’t the time. On the wall beside the window the kitchen clock quietly ticked. It felt like the ageing night was holding its breath.
“What are we going to do with him?” Bibbie whispered at last. “I’ll want to bury him, won’t I? I mean, his sister will. Even if she’s—” her breath caught, “—different? She’ll want to say goodbye.”
Leaning forward, he touched his fingers to her wrist. “We’ll work something out, Bibs. We’ll get Sir Alec to help us.”
She looked at the closed kitchen door. “What’s he doing, do you think? Is he even still here?”
“Of course he’s still here,” said Melissande, wearily. “He wouldn’t leave without telling us.” She bit her lip. “Would he, Monk?”
There wasn’t much point asking him. Sir Alec was mostly Gerald’s problem. The few times he’d crossed paths with Uncle Ralph’s mysterious colleague everything had been strictly business. Whatever Gerald’s boss was or wasn’t likely to do he didn’t know him well enough to hazard a guess.
But the girls were waiting for an answer, touchingly certain he had one. At least, Mel and Bibbie seemed touchingly certain. The glint in Reg’s eyes suggested she was happily waiting for him to fall on his face. Or better yet his ass.
“I don’t think so,” he said at last. “I expect he’s around here somewhere.”
“Yes, all right, but what is he doing?” Bibbie persisted. “Why isn’t he in here with us, making plans?”
He managed a tired smile. “Because Sir Alec put the secret into secret agent, Bibs.” Muscles complaining, he pushed to his feet. “I’ll go and see what he’s up to. You three stay put. And don’t try anything thaumaturgical, all right? We’ve got enough trouble to contend with as it is.”
The fact that not one of them had a go at him for saying something so blatantly provocative was a depressing reminder of how much trouble they were in.
Bloody hell, Gerald. Where are you?
When he couldn’t find Sir Alec anywhere in the house, he looked outside. Finally ran the man to ground out the back, in the old stable yard, where he was sitting on the rim of a large ornamental flower pot smoking a cigarette. Its tip glowed a bright and oddly comforting orange in the moonless night’s star-pricked darkness. The scent of burning tobacco tinted the cold air.
“Here’s some unsolicited advice, Mr. Markham,” said Sir Alec, not turning. Lamplight from the open mud-room door brushed him with warm soft strokes, like an antique oil painting. In profile his face was remote and severely economical. “Never start smoking. The damned things are too tempting when the world’s gone and turned itself ass over elbows.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, halting a few paces distant. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Sir Alec inhaled, then blew out another thin stream of smoke. “So. Have you given any thought as to Mr. Dunwoody’s whereabouts?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “We reckon the other Gerald’s kidnapped him.”
“Do you?” Sir Alec slid him a sideways look. “Interesting.”
“You don’t?”
“Did I say that?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then.”
Bemused, he watched intensely enigmatic Sir Alec smoke a little more of his cigarette. “Ah—Sir Alec—”
“Yes, Mr. Markham?”
“Did you know?”
Sighing, Sir Alec stubbed out the cigarette on the side of the flower pot and carefully placed it on its weed-choked dirt. “About the existence of parallel worlds?”
“Yes. Did you know?”
“The notion is hardly groundbreaking, Mr. Markham. I’d be surprised if you’d not bandied it about yourself.” Sir Alec snorted. “I’d be surprised to find one thaumaturgical undergraduate who hasn’t. It’s a popular theme in certain types of literature, I believe.”
Oh, this bloody man. He stamped his feet a little against the creeping cold. “Sure, yeah, but—that’s just theory. That’s just mucking about, you know, playing what if. What I want to know is whether anyone in the government knew for sure there are—other realities mirroring ours. I want to know whether anyone knows that they’re dangerous.”
That earned him a wry look. “You’re under the impression thaumaturgics are safe? My, my, Mr. Markham. It seems I’ve overestimated you.”
In his pockets his fingers clenched to fists. “Just answer me, would you? Does anyone know?”
“I think,” said Sir Alec, after a long silence, “that what you’re really asking me, Mr. Markham, is whether anyone in the government is working on ways to access these parallel worlds.”
Somewhere in the neighborhood a cat yowled and a dog barked. The waning night was so still and quiet the squabbling animals sounded quite close, even though they were probably streets and streets away.
“Well?” he said, his heart erratically thumping. “Are they?”
“Mr. Markham…” Sir Alec turned up his coat collar, his only concession to the cold. “At the risk of inflating your already highly-evolved sense of worth, I’ll say this: if the Ott government was working on such a project you would know all about it because you would be heading it. When it comes to experimental thaumaturgics there is Monk Debinger Aloysius Markham… and then there’s everyone else, eating his dust.”
