by K. E. Mills
He helped Sir Alec wrangle the other Monk’s body until it was lying in reverse on one side of the bed, then gritted his teeth and arranged himself beside it, his head where his feet should go. He kept his gaze pinned to the ceiling and tried to pretend he was somewhere—anywhere—else. Outwardly composed, Sir Alec knelt at the foot of the bed. But underneath his self-contained exterior there was anxiety. Definitely some doubt. And that wasn’t something to fill a wizard with confidence—even if said wizard was rumored to have genius-like qualities.
“Right,” said Sir Alec. “Deep breath, Mr. Markham, and remain as relaxed as you can.”
At first he felt nothing except Sir Alec’s hand on his head, lightly pressing. But then, after a few moments, he felt a stirring in the ether. A low, ominous tremble that raised his thaumaturgic hackles. His skin goosebumped again, unpleasantly. His teeth jittered on edge. He could feel the body, too close beside him, begin its own discomfiting shudder. A tainted tang in the back of his throat promised worse to come.
“Steady, now, steady,” Sir Alec murmured. “Lower those defenses, Mr. Markham. Don’t fight what’s happening. Almost there… almost there…”
Oh, hell. Oh, bloody hell. This is going to hurt.
The skill required to lift the shadbolt off the dead Monk and place it on him was shocking. The pain of its attachment was a hundred times worse. He heard himself scream as its thaumic claws sank into his etheretic aura. Even damaged, the shadbolt knew its job. Frantically scraping at his face he rolled off the bed and hit the floor hard. The temptation to bash his head on the carpeted floorboards overtook him. But it didn’t change anything. The shadbolt wouldn’t let go.
Bibbie—Bibbie—no wonder you screamed.
Cursing, Sir Alec scrambled beside him. “Mr. Markham, stop it. Monk, that’s enough!”
With his hands imprisoned and a knee planted on his chest, he stared up at Sir Alec. “I can’t—this won’t work—I can’t—please, God, get it off!”
“Give it a moment,” said Sir Alec. His eyes were pitiless now. “Give it a moment, Mr. Markham. You can do this. You’re strong enough. If the other one stood it, then so by God can you.”
The other one. The other Monk, who’d borne this for months. The shamed thought helped him steady his breathing. Helped him not to howl again, but instead sit up like a sane man.
“Bloody hell,” he said, shuddering. “It’s like—I’m being watched.”
“And so you are, in a manner of speaking,” said Sir Alec. “But we don’t have time for a shadbolt tutorial. Take a good look at the thing, Mr. Markham. Can you see the gaps? Can you fill them in sufficiently so that our target’s suspicions won’t be aroused?”
Our target. The other Gerald. The man he wants me to kill. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling so sick. “I’ll try.”
He tried and succeeded, more or less, but the effort gave him a nosebleed and stirred his headache to skull-exploding point. The other Monk hadn’t been able to stop himself from examining and identifying the incants used to imprison him. Thaumaturgical curiosity, both Monks’ besetting sin—and praise Saint Snodgrass for it. And he’d managed to retrieve enough of those memories so that now he could cobble together the damaged shadbolt. Mask his hasty thaumaturgy with Gerald’s familiar signature, which he then muddled and muddied to look more like the other Gerald’s.
Bloody hell, this is rough, mate. You’d better be able to help me fix it when I finally track you down.
“That’s it,” he said at last, panting. “That’s the best I can do.”
“Then let’s hope your best is sufficient,” said Sir Alec. “Right. On your feet. It’s nearly time to go.”
He let Sir Alec help him up. Needed the assistance, though he’d never admit it. “Where’s the portal opener? Do you have it?”
Sir Alec nodded. “But first you need to complete your transformation.”
It took him a moment to twig. But when he did—“Oh—no. No, I’ll hex my own clothes to look like his. I am not dressing up in a dead man’s underpants! He’s dead, Sir Alec. Dying—it’s messy.”
“I’ll see to the… details,” said Sir Alec, obdurate. “But there’s a detectable etheretic variation at the thaumic sublevel of his clothing, Mr. Markham. It’s as good as a dimensional fingerprint for anyone who thinks to look. You can’t fake it in your own clothing, so quickly—strip off.”
“If there’s an imprint in the clothing, doesn’t that mean there’s an imprint in him, too?”
“Yes,” said Sir Alec. “But if the clothing is genuine, then—”
“Then that might be enough to discourage a deeper look,” he said, and sighed.
Wonderful. Bloody brilliant. For all our sakes you’d better be right.
Hating Sir Alec, he did as he was told as Sir Alec, without ceremony, divested the corpse of its clothes. Cleaned them with casual competence then handed them over.
When he was dressed again, his flesh shrinking and crawling, he held out his hand. “The portal opener?”
Sir Alec pulled the small, innocent-looking stone from a pocket. “You’re clear on how this works?”
“Yes.”
“And you remember where he was when he operated it? Where it will return you to, and what you’re supposed to be doing there?”
“Yes. I remember. You’re sure it’ll be the same time there as it is here?”
“As sure as I can be.” Sir Alec hesitated, then handed him the portal. “So. Mr. Markham. The moment of truth. Are you confident you can do this? The enemy wears your friend’s face.”
I don’t know… I don’t know… “Yes. I can do it.”
“Good. Then go.”
He made himself look at the dead, naked man on the bed, who’d given his life to save two worlds.
“I don’t—I can’t—” He took a deep, steadying breath. “The girls. I can’t—will you tell them I’ll see them soon? Please?”
Sir Alec nodded, very proper, very formal. No unseemly emotions on display. “Of course. Good luck.”
He activated the portal opener. Watched in wonder as a patch of air in the bedroom began to shimmer, sparkling with blue and red lights. Shivering, he felt the ether twist in answer. The patch widened—widened—nearly big enough—almost—
Oh, God. Oh, Gerald. I’m not ready for this.
The portal opened in a silent flash of cobalt and crimson. Sweating, trembling, he started towards it. He could feel the wild thaumic currents churning in his blood. But as he took his first step towards the unknown a feathered whirlwind hurtled into the bedroom through the forgotten open window, shrieking.
“Are you out of your mind, sunshine? You aren’t going anywhere without me!”
Reg.
Oh, bloody hell.
But before he could grab her… the portal swallowed them both alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Abandoned in Government House’s swanky Cabinet dining room, Gerald stared at the ornate clock on the wall. Just over five hours had passed since he’d first opened his eyes in this place. Five of the worst hours of his life—which was an alarming commentary on the state of his life, these days.
I really should’ve been a tailor. If I’d just followed in my father’s footsteps instead of chasing a dream…
Lunch sat in his belly like a lump of ice. Not because the food hadn’t been spectacular. This was Government House, of course it was spectacular. But digestion, it seemed, was beyond him at the moment. Breathing evenly and not screaming—that was about all he could manage right now.
Of course, I could run. I wonder how far I’d get before he found me? For God’s sake, he found me in a portal in an entirely different world. And then he pulled me out of it, with about as much effort as hooking a fish from a lake. What can’t he do, I wonder? What won’t he do in his mad pursuit of power?
Someone must be looking for him by now, surely. Sir Alec had to know he’d never reached Grande Splotze. A bugger, that. Perhaps their only solid lead on
the black market wizard who’d sold one killing hex to Permelia Wycliffe and another to someone who wanted the tycoon Manizetto dead—and maybe it was lost. So yes. With so much at stake Sir Alec would be keeping a close eye on his janitor. He’d have to know by now that Dunwoody had vanished.
But has he told anyone? He’d have to tell Monk, surely. Like it or not, he’d have to know his best chance of finding me lies with Monk.
Only… how was Monk going to figure this out? Sure, he and Sir Alec would suspect a kidnapping. Kidnap was an occupational hazard for janitors. But kidnap to an alternate reality? Not even Monk was likely to dream up that scenario.
So I have to face it. I am stuck. On my own. Unless…
But he was starting to think he’d never turn this world’s Bibbie. For one thing he was never going to get her alone. Not with Gerald jealously hovering. And anyway, she was in love with him. She was in love with the power. Even afraid, she was still in love.
She’s not going to listen to me. Which leaves me with this world’s Monk and Reg…
Except Reg wasn’t a witch any more and this world’s Monk was wearing a shadbolt.
Oh, God. Is he going to shadbolt me? He has to sooner or later, surely. He can’t honestly think that when push comes to shove I’ll stand by and let him slaughter tens of thousands, even to keep my two dearest friends safe.
Although… maybe he did. Maybe this Gerald was by now so lost to himself that he really had forgotten his lesson in the cave.
So yes, it seemed likely there was a shadbolt in his future. He wasn’t immune. The docilianti incant Lional had used on him in New Ottosland was a shadbolt’s kissing cousin, and it had worked just fine. Unless… could it be a question of thaumaturgics? Perhaps whatever this world’s Gerald wanted him to do had to be done without a shadbolt’s interference.
Bloody hell, I wish he’d tell me what it is. I wish he’d get this over with. I wish I had the first idea what to do.
But when the other Gerald finally did reveal his plan… what then? Chances were good it was going to be monstrous. Unspeakable. A violation of every wizarding oath.
And I know, I just know, he’s dreamed up a way to make me go along with it. Lord, if only I could throw myself out of the nearest window. That’d put a spoke in the mad bastard’s wheel.
But he couldn’t. He wasn’t sitting alone here with the trifle and cream. The Cabinet dining room was hexed tight with a dozen binding incants and though he’d tried until his nose bled, he couldn’t break them.
All he could do was sit at the table… and wait.
Tired of being stared at, sick of their miserable, pathetic faces, he banished everyone but Attaby back to their desks. Attaby he sent to sit in a side room, so that he and Bibbie had the Cabinet room to themselves. He took her on the Cabinet conference table, knowing Attaby could hear them, glorying in her wantonness and the flouting of society’s rules. Sometimes he wondered if she’d do it without the wild magics he’d found for her. But every time the thought crossed his mind he crushed it. What did why matter? She did it. She was his.
The Cabinet room’s crystal ball remained stubbornly silent. If Damooj didn’t call soon…
Finished making herself ladylike again, Bibbie perched on the edge of the table and considered him. “Gerald…”
“What?” he said, arms folded in front of him, chin propped on his wrists. The afterglow was fading fast, chased away by impatience and doubt.
“The other Gerald.When you look at him… what do you see?”
He flicked her a look. “Opportunity. Why?”
“No reason,” she said, shrugging. “I was just wondering. It’s odd. You’re the same age… but he looks younger than you. Even with his horrible poached eye.”
“That’s because in every way that counts, he’s a child.”
“I suppose…” She slid off the edge of the table and wandered to the nearest window. The clouds had lowered and thickened. Any minute now they’d start vomiting rain. “Gerald… it is going to work, isn’t it? Your grand plan?”
“Of course it’s going to work,” he said, stung. “Are you doubting me, Bibbie?”
“No, no, no! Of course not!” she said quickly. “Only—well, we’re cutting things awfully close, aren’t we? The UMN’s deadline is almost on us and the machine’s not finished yet and—” She traced a fingertip down the windowpane. “When are you going to tell Gerry about the machine?”
He pulled a face. “Later. Once I’ve dealt with that pond scum Damooj.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, glancing over her silk-clad shoulder. “He’ll toe the line. He doesn’t have a choice.”
“I know that!” he snapped. “I’m not an idiot!”
“Of course you’re not” she said, fingers clenching. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—sorry.”
He flung himself back in his chair and scowled at her. “I should think so.”
The first splats of rain struck the window. Turning her back on them, Bibbie sat on its sill. “What are you going to do about Gonegal?”
He felt his belly tighten. Gonegal. That arrogant pillock. Him and the other nations of the UMN who were too stupid to read the writing on the wall.
Threaten me, would you? You’ve no idea what you’ve done. When I’m through with you, Viceroy, you and your little friends, you’ll look at Sir Alec and think he got off easy.
“What do you think I’m going to do, Bibs?”
She smoothed her outrageously short hair. He’d been so cross at first, when she’d cut it. Now he rather liked the look. “Oh, I think you’re going to make him pay. Provided…”
“What?” he said, sitting up. “Provided what, Bibbie?”
For once she didn’t back down when he bit. “It’s just—well, everything’s riding on the machine, isn’t it? On Monk being able to build it properly in the first place and then you being able to convince Gerry to help you work it. I mean, what if Monk can’t finish it? And what if Gerry won’t cooperate?”
He smiled, then smiled wider when she flinched. “Of course Monk can finish it, Bibbie. He knows what’ll happen if he fails. Besides—since when did Monk Markham not finish what he started? People don’t call him a genius just to see him blush.”
“And Gerry?”
“The Professor?” He snorted. “The only thing that Gerald Dunwoody and I have in common is our rogue potentia. Otherwise he’s so weak I could snap him like a twig. Did you see him nearly burst into tears over Melissande? He’ll do exactly what I want, when I want it and how I want it. To the letter. Because he knows I’ll make other people sorry if he won’t.”
She slid off the window sill and walked to him, every footstep a promise. “And when you say other people…”
You mean me. She didn’t say the words aloud but he could read them in her eyes. She adored him and feared him. It was the perfect combination. Reaching for her, he pulled her roughly into his lap. “I mean other people, Bibs,” he murmured against her cautious lips. “Why? What did you think I meant?”
Before she could answer, the Cabinet room’s crystal ball chimed. He pushed Monk’s sister onto the floor. “Attaby! Get in here!”
Shadbolted Attaby, so delightfully obedient, appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”
He nodded at the chiming crystal. “Answer it. If it’s Damooj, you know what to say. And you know what I want to hear.”
“Sir,” said Attaby, wooden as a pine tree.
With Bibbie standing beside him, tossing him reproachful glances, he sprawled in his chair and watched Attaby answer the call. The chiming stopped, the green flashing stopped, and the image of a familiar face formed deep in the clear crystal. It looked wonderfully frightened.
“Prime Minister Attaby. I’ve called to give you my country’s response to your… request.”
Attaby nodded. “President Damooj. We were beginning to think silence was your answer.”
Damooj’s pale skin flushed an unbecoming dull red. Since his last communication his yellow
hair had been cropped close to his skull. It gave him the look of a man suffering from a rampaging fever.
“No, no, not at all, Prime Minister,” he said. His voice was cracked and close to breaking. “But these matters—they must be discussed—debated—mulled over—put to a vote. You understand, sir. They cannot be rushed.”
Attaby closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, President Damooj. I remember.”
“I’m sorry?” said Damooj, frowning. “I don’t—”
He rapped his knuckles on the conference table, making Attaby jump. And when the shadbolted fool looked at him, he raised a warning finger. It was all he needed; Attaby shuddered, nearly swaying with fright.
“President Damooj, I am a busy man,” he said huskily. “Give me your answer.”
“You already know my answer,” said Damooj, through gritted teeth. “We capitulate. Babishkia’s wizards and witches are being rounded up as we speak.”
“To be held under thaumaturgical lock and key?” said Attaby. “In a secure and secret location?”
A bead of sweat rolled down Damooj’s cheek. Or was it a tear? It was hard to tell the difference through the crystal. “Yes. As directed.”
Attaby nodded. “That is satisfactory. Continue the good work. A—a—representative of my government will be contacting you in due course. Well done, President Damooj. You’ve made the right decision.”
Damooj didn’t answer that. He just disconnected the call.
“Oh, Gerald!” squealed Bibbie, and kissed him. “It’s happening. It’s really happening. Everything is falling into place, just like you said.”
Delighted, he leaped up from his chair and romped her around the Cabinet room in a fast waltz. Ending the impromptu dance with a dip and a kiss, he then turned to Attaby.
“We have our military on alert? And the portals locked on to Babishkia?”
Attaby nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“What about their portals?”
“Disabled, sir, as you ordered.”
“Excellent. Then as soon as Damooj confirms their arrests are complete give the order, Prime Minister.”
Attaby nodded. “Yes, sir.”
