The Accidental sorcerer ra-1

by K. E. Mills

  'They're not. Women,' said the princess in a studiously neutral tone of voice, 'are unfit to rule, by virtue of their emotional natures and the woolliness of their wits.'

  'Oh,' he said. 'What an extraordinary thing to say'

  'I thought so. Unfortunately, since those particularly inane words were uttered by Lional the First and tradition being what it is…'

  He grinned. 'Say no more. Still. At least it means New Ottosland and Kallarap have something in common. Perhaps the king and the sultan could build on that?'

  The princess spared him a withering glance. 'I'll be sure to mention it.'

  'So where do you display the Rupert portraits?' he asked as they reached the end of the corridor.

  'We don't. There aren't any,' she said. 'Second and third and fourth etcetera sons, and daughters for that matter, are named whatever takes their parents' fancy and they're not important enough to rate a portrait. Not unless they're bumped up the ladder of succession into the top job, in which case they automatically become the next Lional. Or Melissande. It's all very tidy.'

  'Tidy,' he said. 'Yes. I suppose that's one word for it. I could possibly think of one more.'

  'Just one?' said Princess Melissande. 'Live here as long as I have, Professor, and trust me: you'll expand your vocabulary. Now let's get a move on, shall we? All this talk of tradition gives me hives.'

  The walk to his living quarters was slowed considerably by constant interruptions, as various palace staff members popped out of offices and adjacent corridors to stop the princess with requests for advice and decisions. She seemed to know everyone by name, and dealt with their problems efficiently and with a smile. They in turn were respectful but relaxed, not the least bit intimidated.

  'I'll say this much for her,' Reg muttered. 'She's got the common touch.'

  Gerald nodded, grateful. If she'd been a female version of her kingly brother, life here wouldn't be worth living.

  Eventually, despite all the interruptions, they reached an ornately carved set of double doors. 'Your suite,' the princess announced, stopping. 'I won't bother giving you a key since I expect you'll want to put in place your own wards or passwords or whatever it is you wizards use for locks. Your luggage should have been delivered by now. If it hasn't just pull on any one of the bell ropes and someone will attend you. Likewise if you have any questions, although I have prepared a handy little "Guide to New Ottosland" you'll doubtless find helpful. Now I'll bid you good afternoon. Ordinarily I'd see you inside and give you a tour but I really must go and soothe the Kallarapi before they implode.'

  'Yes, of course, Your Highness. Don't let me hold you up,' he said to her departing rear view. 'Although — ' She turned back.'Yes?'

  'I was just wondering… what time is it, exactly? I don't seem to have worked out the difference yet.'

  'A quarter to two,' she said, after consulting a dented old pocket watch. 'Past lunchtime. Which reminds me. Your predecessors usually ate meals in their suite unless they were summoned to sup with the king. If you don't hear from him just tell the kitchens what you want whenever you're feeling peckish.'

  Oh. It all sounded very… solitary. And haphazard.'What about you, Your Highness?' 'Me?' She looked surprised.'I usually grab a bite at my desk or in my suite unless I've been summoned too. Why?'

  'Well, perhaps you'd care to dine with me tonight. If we're not required to be in His Majesty's presence.'

  Her cheeks tinged pink. 'Oh. I see. That's very kind of you, Professor. Another time, perhaps. I'm rather drowning in paperwork just now.' He bowed.'Of course, Your Highness.'

  'One last thing,' she said, darting a glance up and down the momentarily empty corridor. 'That business we discussed. You know. With the Kallarapi.' 'Yes, Your Highness?'

  'I'd rather that stayed just between us, Professor. Consider it… a matter of state.'

  Who did she think he was going to tell? 'Your Highness, as far as I'm concerned all our conversations are privileged.' She sniffed. 'Does that go for the bird, too?'

  'Do you mind/.' said Reg, before he could answer. 'I'll have you know, madam, that I was conducting matters of state long before your great-great-grandfather was a tickle in his daddy's britches!'

  Another sniff. 'I'll take that as a yes. Now, if there's nothing else?'

  'Ha,' said Reg, fuming, as the princess marched away with Boris.'"Does that go for the bird?" Who does she think she is?'

  Gerald rolled his eyes. 'Call it a wild guess but… the boss?'

  'Her? The boss?' Reg hooted. 'Ha! Bossy, I'll grant you. Definitely that.'

  'Oh, give it a rest, Reg,' he sighed. 'And let's inspect our accommodation.'

  'CorV said Reg admiringly as he closed the suite's front doors behind them.'Paint me pink and call me a flamingo! Would you get a load of this?'

  'This' was the most luxurious, incredible decor Gerald had ever seen. After his drab shoebox at the Wizards' Club it made his eyes ache. Black marble floors scattered with kaleidoscope rugs. Chandeliers like glittering beehives. A skylight framed in solid gold. An enormous fountain-and-pond arrangement complete with vacuous goldfish. Exotic birds in gilded cages. A carved sideboard groaning beneath crystal bowls of fresh fruit and decanters of mellow amber nectars, two enormous armchairs and a gilded table and chairs. On the table a pink cardboard folder, neatly stencilled 'A Guide to New Ottosland'. Set into the back wall a gilded door inlaid with mirrors. And that was just the foyer.

  Forlorn in the middle of a rug shaded like a rainbow, his luggage looked embarrassingly decrepit.

  Reg took a gliding turn about the room, pausing briefly to insult the real parrots. 'Looks like New Ottosland really has gone up-market!' she declared, settling onto the back of a blue velvet armchair. 'Say what you like, Gerald, this king knows how to treat his wizards. He's really got style!'

  'Is that what you call it?' he retorted. 'I'd have said more money than taste. Look at this place!'

  Reg was grinning. 'Posh, eh? Somebody's tax goldtroons at work with a vengeance.' She flipped a wing at the mirrored door. 'Let's have a gander at the rest of the apartment, shall we?"

  Beyond the foyer was a sumptuously furnished salon complete with dining table and lounge suite. It had three more doors leading elsewhere, one on the left, one in the middle, one on the right. Behind the left-hand door was his bedroom.

  'This is ridiculous,' he said, confronted by a curtained expanse of pillow-laden bed.'I'll need a compass just to reach the other side!' 'Wheee!' said Reg, trampolining merrily.

  The opaline carpet under foot sank a good three inches beneath his weight. It was going to take something hydraulic to lift him out of the armchair by the window. There was a walk-in wardrobe, an ensuite bathroom containing a bathtub big enough to drown a herd of elephants, with gold taps and knobs and soap holders fashioned to look like terminally cheerful dolphins, and too many full length mirrors that reflected back to him the distinctly wild look lurking in his eyes.

  The salon's middle door opened onto a library with bare shelves, and the right-hand door led to a wizarding workshop complete with benches, stools, cupboards, more mirrors, crucibles, mortars, pestles, herb racks, bookshelves, cages of various sizes, a specially designed crystal-ball holder, a globe and a few bits and pieces he'd never seen before.

  He looked around, impressed. 'Reg! Come in here!'

  She flew in from the bedroom and landed on top of a cupboard beside the window.'Very nice. Gerald, we have to talk.This suite might be the bees knees when it comes to prestigous comfort but you can't seriously want to stay in New Ottosland!' He leaned against the nearest bench.'Why not?'

  Boggled, she stared at him. 'I think that trick with the cat must have melted your marbles, my boy. Why don't I start with the most obvious reason: His Majesty King Pillock.'

  Despite the brewing headache, which was threatening to erupt full force behind his eyes, and all his dark unanswered questions, he had to grin. 'Pretty bloody awful, isn't he?'

  'No, actually, he's pretty
bog standard as far as royalty goes,' said Reg. 'But that's no reason to hang about. I don't like him, Gerald, and I certainly don't trust him. You've got to watch out for the smooth blond ones, they're always the worst.'

  'Reg…' He sighed. 'You can't make this personal. The fact that the king is blond and handsome does not mean he's a villain. This is my story, not yours. We're agreed he's a pillock, but that's all. As for why I'm staying, I'd think it was obvious. Not only do I need the money, I have to find out how it is I'm suddenly able to do things like contain Level Nine inversions and turn cats into lions.' 'Simple,' said Reg.'You're a late bloomer.'

  He shook his head. 'No. It's more than that. I'm different, Reg. I can feel it. That massive jolt of raw thaumic energy in Stuttley's has done something to me. And until I've worked out what that is and what it means I'm staying as far as I can get from Ottosland and the Department ofThaumaturgy. All right?'

  She fluffed up all her feathers, brooding. 'All right,' she said at last, reluctantly.'On one condition. Whatever else happens you are not to go falling in love with that sartorial disaster of a princess, is that clear? Because I won't have it, Gerald. If she was an orphaned only child I could possibly bear it. But she's a package deal with that pillock brother of hers so my foot is down. No falling in love!

  Blimey, that was the last thing on his mind. 'Me fall in love, Reg? Now whose marbles are melted? I'm going to unpack.'

  The first thing he did was unearth his medicine tin and swallow three painkillers to eliminate the headache. Then he tackled the meagre belongings in his tatty luggage. It didn't take long. The walk-in wardrobe still looked tragically empty by the time he'd finished, and the workshop's shelves were barely half-full of texts. The last item he unwrapped was his crystal ball. Surprisingly, it was pulsing a frantic red. Incoming? Already? It could only be Markham, surely. But why? I've only been gone a few hours. Unless…

  He went cold. Snatched up the crystal ball, rushed into his workshop and slammed it into the specially crafted receptacle on the bench.

  'What's the matter now?' Reg demanded, startled out of a doze. She hopped off the ram skull, which he'd put on top of the cupboard by the window for her, and onto the workbench. 'Are the Kallarapi invading?' 'Who knows? Who cares?' he muttered.

  As anticipated, the first message was from Markham. 'Gerald, call me as soon as you get tin's.' That was it. No explanation or mention of a parental touring catastrophe. Monk's slightly wavering face, distorted due to the cheapness of the ball's crystal, looked strained but not distraught. That had to be a good sign.

  He triggered the next message. Monk again. Now his friend did look a little perturbed, and his voice was clipped. 'Gerald, I really need to speak to you. Call me'. The third and final message was Monk, too. This time he was shouting. 'For the love of metaphysics, Dunwoody, stop playing with your bloody princess and call me! Do you have any idea what — look. Just bloody call me, would youV

  'Oh dear,' said Reg. 'His knickers really are in a knot, aren't they? You'd better call him, Gerald, before something unfortunate happens to his wedding tackle.'

  He spared her an exasperated look and made the call. After a few moments Monk's face bloomed in the depths of the crystal ball. 'Gerald! It's about bloody time!'

  'What's wrong?' he demanded. 'It's not my parents, is it?'

  'Your parents?' said Monk blankly. 'No. It's you You've gone and triggered the international thaumograph, you stupid bastard! I've nearly killed myself avoiding a Code Red investigation! How could you do this to me? You've only been there five minutes and I've already had three heart attacks!'

  Damn. King Lional's bloody cat. He sat on the nearest stool. 'Monk, I'm sorry. I totally forgot about the DoT's monitoring station.' i know!' 'Look, I can explain — '

  'Explain? You can explain an unauthorised Level Twelve transmog? How the hell can you explain that? How the hell did you do it? There are currently only Jive certified Ottosland wizards rated for that incant, three of them are in my family and none of them are in New Ottosland! According to the current status bulletin you are the only wizard in New Ottosland right now, Gerald, and you — '

  He raised his hands placatingly.'I'm sorry, Monk. I never meant to cause a panic, it's just the situation got away from me a bit and — '

  'You think soV Monk took a deep breath and let it out. 'You're damned lucky nobody else has the monitoring capabilities we've got or you'd be up to your eyeballs in an international incident! What did you transmogrify, anyway?' 'A cat into a lion.'

  Monk gave a gurgling cry and clutched at his chest, glaring. 'That was heart attack number four, in case you were wondering! Gerald, for the love of serendipity, why"

  He scrubbed a hand across his face. 'It's a long story. Look, who else there knows what happened?'

  Monk glowered at him out of the crystal ball. 'Nobody. I had a funny feeling I should keep an eye on you, so I gave young Harris an early mark and finished off his monitoring shift. If I hadn't shut off the alarms a split second before they sounded, mate, you wouldn't be talking to me, you'd be talking to a Department board of enquiry. And trust me when I say they have no sense of humour.'

  Appalled, Gerald swallowed. 'Thanks, Monk. I owe you.'

  'Damn right you owe me! Look, Gerald, you're not yanking my chain over this, are you? I mean, this isn't just some malfunction in our equipment? You really pulled off a Level Twelve transmog?' Deep within, a flicker of pride.'Yes. I really did.'

  'Bloody hell,' said Monk, awed. 'Gerald, d'you realise what this means? It means you're a genuine card-carrying geniusl'

  Coming from Monk Markham, enfant terrible of the Research and Development community, it was a compliment past price. 'Really? A genius?'

  'Yes. And a raving bloody menace! Now you promise me, mate, right here and right now, you won't try anything so crackbrained again!' Monk demanded. 'Because I might not be around to save your roasting chestnuts next time, understand? Your paperwork says you're a Third Grade wizard, Gerald, so a Third Grade wizard's what you'll be until the boffins in Aptitude Testing say otherwise. So. How soon can you get back here? A few days? A week?'

  Oh, no. He had no intention of surrendering himself to the Scunthorpes of the DoT. 'I don't know, Monk,' he said evasively. 'Not that soon. It's complicated. I'm under contract and there's a situation… here I've promised to help sort out.'

  'Let someone else sort it out,' Monk retorted. 'There's something bloody funny going on with you, Gerald, and we have to get to the bottom of it before whatever it is blows up in our faces.'

  Reg rattled her tail feathers. 'He's right, sunshine. Since the cat's out of the bag now there's no point hanging about this dismal backwater.'

  Ignoring her, he shook his head. 'Nothing's going to blow up, Monk. I've promised no more funny business and you know I'm a man of my word. I'll just potter along, same as I always do, and when the time is right I'll ask the king to let me portal back for a day.'

  Monk pulled a hideous face. 'I suppose that'll have to do.' 'Yes. It will.'

  'Fine. But in the meantime, mate, you just keep your nose clean.'

  'I will. My word as a wizard. And — thanks, Monk. For everything.'

  Monk rolled his eyes. 'Level Twelve bloody transmogs. What'll the idiot think of next,' he muttered, and severed their connection.

  'That's a very good question,' said Reg. 'What are you going to think of next, Gerald?'

  'Nothing,' he said, and slid off the stool. 'Next I'm going to have a bath. Alone! he added, as she opened her beak.

  She shut it again with a snap. He patted her on the head and headed for the bathroom.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Prince Nerim, only surviving brother to the Sultan of Kallarap, woke from his fitful sleep with a cry, momentarily confused as to where he was.

  And then he remembered… and hung his head.

  How shameful, to fall asleep during the day beneath the roof of — well, he supposed he couldn't call the King of New Ottosland an enemy. Kallar
ap and New Ottosland were not at war. Not yet, at least. Not until the gods decreed it. If they did decree it. It was hard to see how they could decree anything else, though, given the barbaric behaviour of New Ottosland's king.

  Sitting up on his uncomfortably soft bed in the guest quarters provided by the oathbreaking infidel Lional — he could call him that, anyway, since that's what he was — Nerim hugged his knees unhappily. He wanted to go home.

  New Ottosland was so green. There was grass everywhere, and trees, and flowers, and all kinds of hairy animals. The air was so full of smells it was heavy, sitting on his skin like a dirty blanket, and no amount of washing in New Ottosland's profligate waters could cleanse him. It was true: New Ottosland was an unclean, godless land. Not like Kallarap, with its burning deserts and sharp, unscented air and the living presence of the gods all around, their tears, shed for love of the Kallarapi people. Oh, he wanted to go home.

  But he couldn't, not until Shugat said. Not until they'd had their audience with New Ottosland's king and spoken the words of his brother the sultan, may he live forever. And when that audience would happen was anybody's guess. The appalling king was keeping them waiting and waiting and waiting… the insult was calculated. Unforgiveable. His brother should force the infidel Lional to his knees for that alone. Shugat should beseech the gods to smite him and all his kind from the face of the world…

  Imagining the gods' wrath Nerim shivered, even though there was a fire burning in the room. That was another thing wrong with New Ottosland. It was too cold during the day and too hot at night. How could these New Ottoslanders live here? What were the gods thinking, to have given them -

  Horrified, scrambling, he prostrated his body on the carpeted floor. What was he doing? He was questioning the gods! Oh, great Grimthak and Lalchak and Vorsluk forgive him! This New Ottosland was a disease, rotting his brain! Paralysed with penitence, he began to pray

  A voice above him enquired, dryly, 'What are you doing, Nerim?'

  For one terrible moment he thought it was the flaming voice of Grimthak himself.'I–I — '