by K. E. Mills
'Yes, Your Majesty,' he said.'You do. And if you'll give me a moment to prepare, I'll show you why'
CHAPTER SEVEN
'Gerald?' Reg whispered. 'I don't trust that look. Just say goodbye to the nice king and back out of the chamber, slowly. You don't need this job, there are other jobs. Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it. At once.'
He ignored her. Ignored too the pleading look he could feel from Princess Melissande. All his attention was focused on King Lional's cat.
Can I do it? On the strength of one anomalous, out of character First Grade achievement, do I even dare try? Vm a Third Grade wizard, with the certificate to prove it. I nust he deranged to be considering a Level Twelve transmogrification.
More than deranged. To be thinking of this he was certifiably bonkers. Rowing up shit creek without any oars. Off his tiny rocker. Stark staring doolally. Desperate. A Level Twelve transmogrification was the most complex and convoluted incantation of its kind. Moreover it was a highly guarded government secret; how Reg had got hold of it was a mystery she had steadfastly refused to solve. And performing it was illegal without an Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy Special Licence.
Wlien you 're in Ottosland. But I'm not in Ottosland any more.
No, he was far far out in unknown territory and he didn't have anything approaching a map. He was utterly mapless. Making things up as he went along. If this doesn't work…
He wouldn't have to worry about being unemployed because he'd most likely be dead. Wizards who mucked around with a Level Twelve transmog and got it wrong weren't noted for their longevity, they were noted for the footnotes that got written about them in textbooks and medical journals.
But if this does work then I'm set for life. I'll be able to unite my own ticket. I'll never be in danger of polka-dots again.
He had to try. Had to. Because the alternative wasn't anything he wanted to contemplate. Not sober. Not sane. Time to find out what he was really made of.
Let's hope it's not lots of squishy red stuff and a few mysterious tubes…
Heart pounding, Gerald plucked Reg from his shoulder and thrust her at the princess.'Here, Your Highness. Just in case.'
Princess Melissande stared at dangling Reg. 'Just in case what? Professor — '
'It's simply a precaution. You're not in any danger, I assure you.' As the princess hesitated he added,'Don't worry. She doesn't peck.'
The gleam in Reg's eye belied that assertion but the princess took her anyway Gingerly perching Reg on her shoulder she said crossly, 'If I'd known you were going to be this much trouble, Professor…' He spared her a swift smile.'Sorry'
On his dais, the king heaved a theatrical sigh. 'You will be, I promise, if you don't do something magical right now!
Blimey, the man was such a pillock. Do I really want to work for him? The answer was swift and certain. No, but 1 want the job.
He nodded at Lional the Forty-third, handsome and spoilt and the answer to his prayers. 'Yes, Your Majesty. Sorry, Your Majesty'
The king's horrible cat was now washing its face. Gerald pulled his Stuttley s-scarred cherrywood staff from its pocket inside his coat. It was nowhere near strong enough to contain the energies of a Level Twelve transmog but with luck it'd get him started, at least. After that… Saint Snodgrass, patron of wizards, deliver me.
Raising the staff above his head he took a deep breath. Let the air out slowly and summoned the words of the transmog incantation to his tongue, adjusting them to the specifics at hand.
'Innocuasi cumhadalarum. Amina desporato animali contradicta rexoriV
Deep within him something powerful stirred from slumber. No pyrotechnics this time, no twisting and tearing. Just a flash like a firefly in the darkness of his mind. A tease, a hint, a whispered promise…
'Yes?' said King Lional, arms tightly folded. 'And? Well? Was that it?'
Gerald shivered. His skin was crawling, the firefly flash stronger now, sustained and growing. As though the first words of the incant were some kind of trigger, punching a tiny hole into a reservoir of raw power hiding somewhere inside him. 'No,' he said. 'Wait.'
'Wait?' echoed the king, impatient and offended. 'I have been waiting, Professor, and as yet nothing has — '
'Don't interrupt, Lional, you might make something go wrong,' said Princess Melissande. 'Get on with it, Professor, quickly!'
Barely aware of her presence, of the king's temper, of Reg gurgling in alarm on the princess's shoulder, he bowed his head. The tiny hole was widening, he could feel the power pouring out of that hidden reservoir and into his blood, bolder and faster and increasing in urgency with every staccato heartbeat.
He had to keep going or the incant would collapse and with it any chance of his staying in New Ottosland as King Lional's court wizard.
'Incantata magicata spellorantum infinatuml Enlargiosa lionara expellecta domesticiaV In a single slashing move he pointed his staff directly at the king's hissing cat. Incandescent power poured out of him like a river in full flood, transfixing the animal where it crouched on the dais. He felt as though he were being emptied, as though all his insides had melted and were streaming through his outstretched arm, into the staff and out again. The copper-banded cherrywood began to glow, hotter and brighter with each passing second. Surely his hand should be burning, but no. It was cool. Whole. Dimly he was aware of Reg's hysterical squawking, Princess Melissande's attempts to calm her, the king's shouted questions. He couldn't respond to any of them, could only stand there and let the incredible power do what it willed and hope it didn't kill him before it was done.
Overcome at last, the cherrywood staff crumbled into cinders and drops of melted copper. Gerald watched its charred remains fall piecemeal to the carpet, vaguely aware of sorrow, regret. The staff had been a present from his mother.
Its destruction didn't stop the power pouring from his body. On and on, lighting him up from the inside out like a firework. At last, though, it ran dry. As his knees buckled and his body swayed like a drunken sailor's, the air around the fat orange cat began to thicken like fog. Then it started to shimmer, suffusing with green and purple light. There came a sense of relentless pressure, as though an invisible fist was tightening itself around the room, squeezing, squeezing. Then the pressure released in a blinding flash and an eardrum-popping soundless explosion.
When the coloured fog cleared moments later, King Lional's fat orange cat was gone and in its place sat an enormous tawny lion wearing an expression of extreme apprehension.
'Saint Snodgrass preserve me,' said the princess, breaking the stunned silence. 'Professor Dunwoody, what have you done?'
'Kept my job,' he said, dazed. It worked, it worked, I can't believe it, it worked. 'I hope. Your Highness.'
With an hysterical flapping of wings Reg launched herself from the princess's shoulder to fly dizzy circles round his head. 'A lion? A lion? You're mad, sunshine! Stark staring crazy bonkers! Off your bloody trolley with bells on! That was a Level Twelve tmnstnogV
He snatched her out of the air and shoved her under his arm. 'Sorry, Your Majesty,' he said to the king.'Terrible vocabulary her previous owner taught her. I've done my best but I can't seem to fix her.'
King Lional ignored him. His gaze was trained on the lion, and in his eyes a bold bright burning. 'Tavistock?'
The lion mewled, hauled itself to its feet and butted its head against him.
With an effort, Gerald stood to attention. When he'd recovered from the shock he was going to do some serious celebrating. It wasn't a fluke, Stuttley's wasn't a fluke. I am a First Grader, no matter what my certificate says. How it was possible he didn't know, didn't care. It was a pettifogging detail, he'd worry about it later. There's a First Grade staff out there with my name on it! Pity it won't be a Stuttley's…
'Your cat is quite unharmed, Your Majesty. And he's still Tavistock on the inside. Of course I can reverse the transmogrification if you — '
King Lional lowered his sharply raised hand. Shiftin
g his burning gaze he said, softly, 'Why a lion, Professor?'
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned. 'Well… I suppose because Tavistock is a cat. And your name, well, it's very suggestive. And — if you'll forgive the familiarity — a lion is a far more regal creature, isn't it? Not that cats aren't perfectly pleasant,' he added hastily. 'But. Well. They're not lions, are they?'
'No,' the king said, his voice still soft. 'Cats aren't lions at all. Professor, I am impressed. Not one of your predecessors, experts all, exhibited such power. And you say you're a mere Third Grade practitioner?'
'Well, Your Majesty, it is possible that in the matter of my grading there was a slight… clerical error.'
King Lional threw back his head and laughed in abandoned delight. 'A clerical error? Oh, Professor. You are exceedingly droll.'
He bowed.'Thank you, Your Majesty. But if I may be so bold — am I also your next royal court wizard?'
Still chuckling, one hand now tangled in Tavistock's lavish mane, the king revealed all his teeth in a wide, wide smile. 'Actually, Gerald, you're better than that. You are, officially, my last royal court wizard.'
'So, Professor,' said Princess Melissande, considering Gerald sideways as they left the royal audience chamber in their wake. 'That was different. Quite the audition piece.'
Clutching his carpet-bag, he managed a tired shrug. 'I just wanted to make a good impression, Your Highness.'
She gave him another considering look. 'I think it's safe to say you succeeded.' With a glance at the black cat padding at her side she added, 'I hope you're not getting any ideas about Boris, now.' 'No! No, of course not. Not unless you — '
'Because I like Boris just the way he is.' The princess rubbed her nose. 'You know, Professor, I'm no expert but it seems to me that little stunt you just pulled was — how shall I put it — insanely dangerous?'
'You can say that again,' said Reg, rousing from her sulks. 'I'd rather not,' said the princess.
Gerald twitched his shoulder hard and hoped Reg would take the hint.'I admit,' he said carefully, 'transmogrification's one of the trickier feats in the wizarding lexicon.'
She snorted. 'That's quite a talent for understatement you've got there. Clearly, Professor, you're something out of the ordinary. Not at all like any other wizard the king has employed. Of course, whether or not that's a good thing remains to be seen.' She surged ahead down the dimly lit corridor, heels thumping the musty carpet, Boris leaping in her wake.
'Well done,' muttered Reg. 'Get the boss's sister offside. That's always a good plan. Almost as good as doing a Level Twelve transmogrification without so much as consulting me first! You idiotl You blockhead! Don't you know you could have been killed?' 'Yes, but I wasn't, so stop fussing.'
'Well excuse me for giving a tinker's cuss what happens to you!' Reg snapped. 'You just about scared the feathers off me, sunshine! I haven't felt that much power rolling off you since — since — Gerald, I've never felt that much power rolling off you! What's going on?'
With that first giddy flush of triumph well and truly faded he was starting to feel apprehensive. Unsettled. Ever so slightly spooked. A nasty headache was brewing behind his eyes. 'I don't know,' he muttered. 'And I don't want to talk about it now. I need some time to think, to — '
Reg chattered her beak. 'You need to get a move on, that's what you need. Madam's getting away from us, in case you haven't noticed.' She took a big breath. 'Oy, you! Princess Tearaway! What's the bleeding rush?'
The corridor was so dimly lit and the princess stopped so fast that Gerald ran straight up the back of her, skittling her like an indoor bowling champion. The princess cursed, inventively and at length, Boris yowled and Reg shrieked as she fell off Gerald's shoulder. He groaned, and sagged against the nearest wall.
With a couple of well-placed pokes of her beak Reg had Boris totally preoccupied with matters reproductive, so she relocated and turned her attention to the princess.
'Language, woman!' she snapped from her strategic position on top of Gerald's head. 'Pull yourself together. You're royalty, you've got no business rushing about like a lackey. Where's your pomp and circumstance, madam? Royalty doesn't bustle, it glides] Slowly, gracefully, as though it has got all the time in the world and more servants than a blind man can poke a stick at! Thirty hours, a staircase and a good thick book on your head, that's what you need, my girl.'
Still on the floor and rigid with offence, the princess opened her mouth to respond but Reg rolled on, regardless. 'And another thing. Why are all these corridors so damned dark? D'you want people flying into the walls and spraining their beaks?'
'I've got better things to spend my budget on than candles!' the princess retorted.
'You certainly have! Decent clothes, for a start, but you've been skimping there, too. It's a disgrace. Since when do royal highnesses tromp about in trousers, shirts and sensible shoes? Silk, satin, chiffon, floaty bits of gauze and the right amount of decolletage, that's the Princess Dress Code. Not to mention a nice set of diamond-studded high heels, peekaboo toe optional. And who, exactly, is the hairdresser responsible for that jackdaw nest I'm sure you're pleased to call a hair-do? I've met combine harvesters that could do a better job!'
Throughout this pithy homily on princessly personal grooming, Her Highness's expression faded from furious outrage to mild anger and came to rest at disbelief. Tearing her wide-eyed gaze away from Reg she turned to Gerald.
'I'm sorry.This is not a parrot. I'm not even sure it's a real bird. I don't suppose you'd care to explain, would you, Professor?' He winced. 'No. Not really'
'Do you mind?' Reg demanded, as the princess glared. 'I'd rather you didn't discuss me as though I wasn't here. Contrary to popular opinion having feathers doesn't mean I don't have feelings.'
'Maybe not,' said the princess, 'but I'm reasonably sure it does mean your conversations shouldn't be polysyllabic'
Hell. So much for keeping Reg under wraps. I should have known. 'I'm sorry, Your Highness. It's just that — it's a long story.'
'And an interesting one,' added Reg. 'Full of magic and mystery, not to mention beautiful queens, dastardly sorcerers and — '
'Fascinating,' said the princess, ignoring Gerald's outstretched hand and picking herself up off the floor. 'But I'm far too busy for fairy tales. I have to get you settled, Professor, then I have to deal with the Kallarapi and — ' She swallowed the rest of the sentence as though the words hurt her throat. 'But I digress. Shall we continue?' Bending over, she scooped the still-shaken Boris into her arms, flung him backwards over her shoulder and continued her brisk way along the corridor. The cat flopped bonelessly down her back, pulling hideous faces.
'You could at least try to glide!' Reg screeched after her. 'You look like the goal keeper on an all-girl hockey team!'
Gerald snatched her from atop his head and shoved her under his arm. 'Do you mind? What are you trying to do, get me arrested?'
'Of course not,' said Reg, in a squashed voice. 'But someone's got to tell her, she's obviously got no mother to do it and she's letting the side down.'
He heaved a long-suffering sigh, picked up his carpet-bag and started after the princess. 'Reg, how many times do I have to say this? Like it or not, you are a bird now. The rest of it — well, it's all gone. I know you don't want to accept that but honestly, don't you think it's time you did?'
'No, I don't,' retorted Reg. 'I'll never accept it, not if I live to be a thousand, which isn't going to happen if you keep on shoving me into your armpit! Phew!'
'Oh! Sorry' He stuck her back on his shoulder. 'Look, you suit yourself. But please Reg, would you for once think before you speak? The last thing I need is to get fired from this job, at least not before I've figured out what's going on with me and my sudden upgrade.'
'Well, I can't promise anything,' said Reg grudgingly. 'But I'll try. Now get a move on, would you? I want to get all the bureaucratic claptrap out of the way and put my feet up. I don't know about you but after all this exci
tement I could kill for a cup of tea and a nice fat mouse.'
Several corridors and a couple of staircases later, the princess led them into a small room crowded ceiling to floor with overburdened bookcases and crammed wall to wall with a desk, filing cabinet, two chairs and several wilting pot plants. The only painting in sight was of a terminally pathetic kitten sitting on a dustbin, with its billiard-ball eyes cast mournfully to the heavens. It bore a faded resemblance to Boris. 'Oh, please,' Reg muttered. 'Spare me.'
'My office,' said Princess Melissande, and waved at the battered visitor's chair. 'Have a seat, Professor. There's just some paperwork to sort out, then I'll show you to your suite.' She deposited Boris on top of the nearest bookcase and slid in behind the desk, which was covered with files, papers, pens, inkpots, an antiquated telephone and some heavy leather-bound books. The crystal ball was there, too, doing double duty as a paperweight.
'Urn… Your Highness… can I beg a favour?' he said as he sat in the proffered chair and settled Reg on its right-hand arm.
'By all means you can beg! she said, discouragingly.
'It's about Reg. I realise it's pointless trying to go on pretending that she's just a trained parrot…'
'Certainly it's pointless trying to pretend that she's trained. But?'
'But,' he continued, willing Reg to silence, 'if you don't mind I'd rather it didn't get about that she's… unusual. There might be unfortunate consequences.'
The princess smiled thinly. 'Trust me, Professor, I'm quite happy for your bird to remain silent. Whether your bird will be happy is another matter entirely'
'She will be,' he said, and closed a hasty thumb and forefinger around Reg's beak.
'If you say so. Now, to get down to business — ' The phone rang, and with an apologetically impatient glance at him she answered it. 'Yes?'
As he waited, Gerald sat back and considered his surroundings more closely. They were positively… shabby. Which didn't seem right, seeing as how the princess was not only a princess but a prime minister to boot. Granted, New Ottosland wasn't a very big country, nor an important one, but even so. The second most important person in any country should warrant an office larger and more attractively decorated than a broom closet.
