Witches incorporated

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

But as he took a deep breath and stepped into the open doorway Errol and Rottlezinder hurled grotesque hexes in a desperate attempt to vanquish each other. Colliding, the hexes ignited in an eye-searing thaumic explosion.

The etheretic wave trembled the factory on its foundations. Tossed him into the corridor’s far wall. His head thwacked the rotting plaster so hard he saw stars. Teeth rattling in their sockets, he dropped to his hands and knees. Dazed, giddy, he looked up-and choked on a shout.

Errol and Rottlezinder lay crumpled on the room’s filthy floor. On a rough workbench near its shuttered window sat a clear crystal container, and inside the container-pulsing malevolently-was Rottlezinder’s next portal hex: activated and close to discharge.

“Oh, no.”

He could feel the hex’s matrixes coalescing… constricting… drawing in a deep thaumic breath before exhaling annihilation.

This wasn’t like Stuttley’s. He wouldn’t survive this explosion. He had to get out. He had to get Errol and Rottlezinder out. But there wasn’t time-there wasn’t time-he could save one man, but not both. So who? Rottlezinder, the saboteur, who could unmask his employer? Or Errol, who wasn’t guilty. Not of this crime, anyway.

Inside its crystal prison the wicked hex began to shudder. The ill-lit room washed with red light, and all around him the ether started to scream.

Gerald threw himself into the room, grabbed hold of Errol’s ankles and dragged him into the corridor. Haythwaite was insensible, blood trickling from his nostrils, his face sweaty and chalk-white. Bending over him, Gerald grabbed Errol’s wrists, hauled him upright then let him topple over his shoulder. Staggering like an inebriate he made for the staircase at the end of the corridor.

Not having to hide any more, he panted out the illuminato incant, his spine buckling under the strain of running with Errol on his back. He could feel the ether torquing, feel Rottlezinder’s hex warping and distorting its delicate fabric.

Down the stairs, three treads at a time, sobbing for air, sobbing for speed, punishing his bones and muscles, knowing he had scant moments… knowing he might die. That Rottlezinder would die. Another death at his door. How many more before he’d not be able to open it?

A scream was building in his chest and throat, terror and pain and despair throttling him. Blinding him. He skidded down the final staircase, almost fell as he hit the floor, blundered across the refusescattered factory entrance towards its partially-boarded front door. He had enough wit and strength left to smash the door with a demolishing incant, then staggered through the rain of splinters into the chill night air. The illuminato floated with him like a tethered balloon.

Five steps closer to the deserted street, Haf Rottlezinder’s portal hex exploded. Gerald felt the unravelling in the ether as the malevolence of the hex reached its destructive peak. He let his knees fold. Let himself and Errol crash to the stony, brick-strewn ground, bright lights of pain bursting behind his closed eyes. Trapped air escaped his lungs in an agonised grunt. He managed to reach for a warding incant, managed to raise it partway…

… and then the shock wave from Rottlezinder’s detonated hex rolled over them. Gerald folded himself across Errol, wrapped his arms round his head and held his breath.

Going to die now. We’re going to die.

Great booming echoes of sound, loud enough to hurt his eardrums. A silent shrieking of thaumic energies, released. The thud and clatter and deadly rainfall of debris, plaster and brickwork and tiles and tin. The retching stink of overheated thaumicles, of scorched ether, of burning wood. The grinding, groaning collapse of the ruined boot factory.

After a little while, Gerald sat up. Everything hurt, but he wasn’t dead. Errol wasn’t dead either, he was twitching and moaning. He had cuts on his face and a swelling bruise on his forehead. His shamelessly expensive black cashmere overcoat was ruined.

Faintly, in the distance, the sound of sirens, wailing.

“Right,” he said, and was surprised to hear that his voice still worked. “Probably it’d be a good idea to make ourselves scarce.”

Groaning, Errol opened his eyes. Blinked into the illuminato ’s faint light. “What the hell? Dunwoody, is that you?”

Bugger. “No, Errol, it’s your fairy godfather. Can you stand? We’ve got to leave before the authorities arrive.”

“Dunwoody, what are you doing here?” said Errol, sounding querulous. “I was-I was-” His confused expression cleared, and he wrenched himself upright on a sharp gasp of pain. “Haf. I came to see Haf-where the hell is he, we were fighting, he-”

Gerald grabbed Errol’s shoulder. “Haf Rottlezinder’s dead, Errol. He went up with the factory. Now come on. We have to go.”

Shrugging free, Errol got his feet under him and managed to stand. Swaying, he looked at the charred and smoking remains of the abandoned boot factory, then turned. “What the hell? Did you do this, Dun-woody? Did you kill Haf?”

Oh lord. Painfully Gerald pushed to his feet. “No. He killed himself. Errol-”

Errol took a step back. “How did you get here? Did you follow me? What’s going on? What are you-”

“I can’t tell you,” he said. The sirens were inconveniently close now. “Errol, listen, there’s no time, we have to-”

Stepping back again, Errol nearly tripped on a twisted section of guttering. “You get the hell away from me, Dunwoody. I don’t know what you’re up to but I’ve had more than enough of you. I’ll see you’re decertified for this. I’ll see you back in your family tailor shop by the end of the week. That’s if I don’t see you in prison first-and if I can, I will. You’re a bloody menace. You always were. You must’ve bribed someone to get your Third Grade credentials, and I promise you this, too-I’ll find out who it was. I’ll see them in a prison cell beside you, I’ll-”

Gerald let Errol’s ravings wash over him. Took a deep breath, feeling his battered flesh and bones protest.

He’ll never be reasonable. He won’t let me explain. And anyway, I can’t. Not without telling him the truth.

“ Errol,” he said quietly.

Errol ignored him, still ranting.

“ Errol!” he said, and snapped his fingers in Errol’s face. Recited a new incant under his breath. One word to trigger it. Just one word. The incant itself was a little more… complicated. A lot more treacherous. In anyone else’s hands, internationally illegal. Gleaned, he’d been told, from an obscure proscribed text. Turned out it was closely related to the hex Lional had used on him to ensure his obedience. But that was all right, apparently. He was a janitor so he could be trusted with it. They only had to worry about bad people using that kind of thaumaturgy.

He hadn’t wanted to learn the incant. Hated knowing it existed. Couldn’t stand the idea of one day having to use it. Not after his first-hand experience with its effects.

“ For emergencies only,” said Sir Alec. “ Most agents never have to resort to the docilianti. I understand your concerns, Mister Dunwoody, but you are going to learn it. After all, isn’t it better to be safe than sorry?”

“Yeah? Well now I’m both,” Gerald muttered to the still-agitated ether. “And for the record, Sir Alec? I think this is wrong. ”

His free will thaumaturgically suspended, hexed from man to compliant puppet, Errol Haythwaite smiled a vacant smile.

Gerald took him by the elbow and tugged. “I’m sorry, Errol. I really am.” Then he sighed. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“More tea, Your Highness?” said Eudora Telford, hopefully brandishing the pot. It was covered in a badly-knitted puce and mustard yellow cosy, with a bobble on top.

Melissande shook her head. One more mouthful of tea and her bladder was going to explode. “No, thank you, Miss Telford.”

Eudora Telford’s face fell. “Oh.” Then she brightened. “Then perhaps another macaroon?”

Saint Snodgrass save her. Another crumb of Eudora Telford’s macaroons and the chair she was sitting on was going to collapse. They were so lumpen they could easily be used to weight sacks full of unwanted kittens, for the drowning thereof. Or scuttle an entire fleet of the Ottosland Navy’s battleships.

If I end up having to send her to visit Rupert he will never, ever, in a million years forgive me. No wonder she’s never been in contention for the Golden Whisk. She wouldn’t be considered for an old tin teaspoon. Not even if it was the consolation prize and she was the only contestant!

Realising that silence was another rejection, Eudora Telford took a step back.

“I’d love another macaroon, Miss Telford,” said Bibbie, as the end of the wretched woman’s nose turned an emotional pink. “I can eat anything.”

“And never gain an ounce,” Melissande added quickly. “Alas, if I could only say the same.”

“Oh,” said Miss Telford, marginally cheered. “Yes. Well.” She put down the teapot and offered the plate of macaroons to Bibbie. “Have as many as you like, Miss Markham. It’s a great honour for my little cakes to win the acclaim of Antigone Markham’s great-niece.”

As Bibbie got in some practice on her skills at deception, praising Eudora Telford’s dreadful macaroons, Melissande stared out of the horribly knick-knacked parlour window. Still no sign of Reg. Where was the dratted bird? More than an hour they’d been stuck here with Eudora, listening to her prattle on and on and on, and all she had to show for it was indigestion, a full bladder, and the sinking feeling there was no way she could extricate Rupert from a life-threatening encounter with the silly woman’s horrendous cooking.

Oh dear. Nature could not be ignored a moment longer. She leapt up. “I’m so sorry, Miss Telford. Might you excuse me to the-the powder room?”

Eudora Telford’s plump cheeks coloured. “Why certainly, Your Highness. Let me show you-”

“No, no, just point me in the right direction,” she said. “I don’t want to put you to trouble. Besides, now that we’ve heard all about your exciting life in the Guild, I’m sure there are some stirring tales of Antigone Markham my colleague’s just dying to share with you.”

“Oh!” said Eudora Telford, hands clasped to her bosom. “Oh, Miss Markham, would you? I didn’t like to ask… I didn’t want to-to thrust myself forward-but I must confess to you, Antigone Markham has been a lifelong heroine of mine. Any story you could share- any snippet of information to shed light on her illustrious career…”

Melissande winced as Bibbie shot her a look that would’ve scalded a burned cake tin clean. But the smile she gave Eudora was as sweet as plum pie. “Well, I think I can oblige you, Miss Telford. Only you must promise never to breathe a word to another soul. Antigone never liked to boast, you know.”

Eudora Telford dropped to the edge of the sofa, which was antimacassared to within an inch of its upholstery. “Not a word… not a syllable… I swear it, Miss Markham.” Then, remembering, she looked up. “Through the parlour door, Your Highness, turn right, up the little staircase, second door on your left.”

Melissande smiled. “Thank you, Miss Telford.”

Coming back downstairs again afterwards, half-an-ear tuned to Bibbie’s enthusiastic retelling of some notorious Pastry Guild scandal of the past, she caught sight of Eudora Telford’s reticule on the hall stand… and stopped. The most appalling thought had occurred.

Upon their return to Miss Telford’s bungalow, the sad little woman had begged them to come indoors to partake of tea and cakes and perhaps a little conversation. Of course she and Bibbie agreed. Not only did they need to find out what Eudora had been up to in South Ott, there was also the danger she might think better of abandoning her errand for Permelia Wycliffe and call another cab to go back there… where all she could do was get herself in terrible trouble.

So they’d accompanied Eudora Telford into her little home, and paid for their dedication with ghastly tea and worse cakes. Upon entering her residence, Eudora placed her reticule on the hall stand… and clearly hadn’t gone back to it since.

Like Boris at a mouse hole, Melissande stared at the fussily beaded purse.

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. It would be dreadfully uncivil. A brute violation of the laws of decent society, common courtesy and the debt one owes one’s hostess.

On the other hand, she was one third of Witches Inc. An investigator of the unusual and the odd. And after Lional she had sworn a solemn, private oath never to shirk a difficult duty again.

Bugger it.

She snatched up Eudora Telford’s reticule, loosened its drawstrings and stuck her hand inside. Her fingers closed around a soft pouch, which felt heavy and full of suspiciously small, hard items.

She glanced over her shoulder at the almost-closed parlour door. Bibbie was still regaling Eudora with saucy Guild stories. Keeping her spellbound. Good girl, Bibs. Don’t run out of inspiration now, whatever you do. Holding her breath she pulled the pouch out of Eudora’s reticule, loosened its drawstrings and looked inside.

Gemstones flashed in the hall’s mellow lamplight: diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Enough jewels for a king’s ransom, surely.

Good grief. Where did Permelia Wycliffe get her hands on these?

She fished in the reticule again, and this time came up with a folded scrap of paper. Heart racing, she unfolded it.

Haf Rottlezinder. The old boot factory, Laceup Lane, South Ott. After dark. Enter from Button Street. Approach only on foot.

The last instruction was heavily underlined. The entire note was written in Permelia Wycliffe’s unembellished hand.

Melissande stared at it, horrified. So Permelia was mixed up with the portal saboteur. But how? Why? She couldn’t be the one behind the attacks, could she? It had to be her horrible brother Ambrose, didn’t it?

Or am I letting Lional get in the way? Am I making the fatal mistake of assuming that because Ambrose is horrible it also follows that he’s evil?

Surely, as an intelligent woman, an investigator, a staunch advocate of women’s suffrage, she had to accept the possibility that Permelia Wycliffe was the mastermind behind the portal sabotage? That somehow she’d suborned Errol Haythwaite to her cause and used him as a conduit between herself and Haf Rottlezinder? After all, she did love-excessively-the company her father had built. And no-one could deny that Permelia was ambitious, and ruthless.

Or it could be both of them, Permelia and Ambrose. They might not care for each other the way she and Rupert cared, but that didn’t mean they’d not join forces to save the family business from bankruptcy and ruin. If politics made strange bed-fellows, money had the power to join enemies at the hip.

Rats. I really don’t want Permelia to be guilty. I want it to be Ambrose, because he’s such an old frog. But I have to face facts: the note. The gemstones. Eudora Telford. One way or another, Permelia’s involved.

With another glance at the not-quite-closed parlour door, heart pounding harder than ever, Melissande stuffed the note and the gemstones back inside Eudora Telford’s reticule and replaced it on the hall stand exactly as she’d found it.

Then she took a deep breath, poked a stray hairpin into her bun and sailed back into the parlour as though nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary had just occurred.

“-and that,” Bibbie was saying, “is the true story of what happened at the Coconut Cookoff of 1884. But I warn you, Miss Telford, you did not hear it from me.”

Eudora Telford clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, Miss Markham, I shall never breathe a word, I promise. Not even to Permelia, and she is my dearest bosom friend, you know.”

Melissande cleared her throat. “Miss Telford, it’s been truly delightful having this wonderful opportunity to get to know you better. His Majesty is going to be so excited when I tell him about this charming interlude. I’m sure he won’t know what to do with himself until you and he meet in person.” She flicked a glance at Bibbie. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you now. It’s getting rather late, and there’s something we have to tidy up back at the agency.”

“Oh,” said Eudora Telford, woeful again. “Yes, of course, Your Highness. You’ve been too gracious. Too kind.”

“And speaking of Miss Wycliffe,” she added, “we’ve not forgotten the errand you were to perform on her behalf this evening.”

Eudora Telford blushed. “You know?”

“We guessed, Eudora,” she said gently. “I can’t imagine there’s anyone else for whom you’d have braved the streets of South Ott.”

“Please, Your Highness,” Eudora whispered. “You mustn’t tell a soul. I promised Permelia I’d take her secret to my grave.” She sobbed. “Just as I promised I’d help her, but I haven’t. I’ve let her down.”

“No, you haven’t,” said Melissande. “Miss Markham and I shall return tomorrow morning, promptly at ten, and escort you back to South Ott, so you can keep your word to Permelia.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t impose, Your Highness,” gasped Eudora. “I couldn’t possibly — ”

“Oh, but we insist, Miss Telford,” said Bibbie, smoothly taking her cue. “It’s the least we can do. Besides, I have so many more stories about Antigone to tell you.”

Flustered and flattered, Eudora Telford surrendered. “Well, as long as you don’t consider it a dreadful inconvenience. Only, the thing is-if you’d not mind-” Her blush deepened. “You must promise not to mention it,” she said beseechingly. “Permelia would be so displeased with me if she were to discover-”

“Miss Telford,” said Melissande, “we shan’t breathe a word. The last thing we want is for Permelia Wycliffe to know that we know anything about your errand to South Ott.”

“Oh thank you,” said Eudora Telford, and showed them out with a fervent promise to be ready for them again in the morning.

“ Gemstones?” said Bibbie in shocked disbelief, once she’d heard what was hidden in Eudora Telford’s reticule. She fired up the jalopy’s engine. “Are you sure?”

“Trust me,” said Melissande. “If there’s one thing I know about it’s jewels. I had to sell off most of ours to pay the palace gardeners towards the end.”

Bibbie whistled. “Gemstones and Haf Rottlezinder. Gosh. Things aren’t looking too good for Permelia, are they?”

“No,” she said shortly. “But let’s not jump to conclusions, Bibbie. We need to meet with Gerald and see what he found out. Let’s get back to the office, shall we? Fingers crossed Reg is waiting there for us, and she can fill in at least some of the blanks.”

It nearly killed him, but Gerald finally got Errol safely back to Wycliffe’s.

He came up with his plan of action during the mildly precarious journey to Errol’s parked car. Precarious not because the docilianti compulsion was in danger of wearing off, but because scant minutes after they left the ruined boot factory various civilian and government folk began descending on the area. Having paused to retrieve his staff from the vacant lot, he’d been forced to drag Errol further into the smelly shadows to avoid them being noticed. He’d stared anxiously at each passing vehicle but hadn’t-praise Saint Snodgrass-caught sight of Sir Alec. He did see Dalby, though, and thought his heart would stop altogether. But Dalby couldn’t see him this time… which meant he could start breathing again.

Once it was safe to get moving, he hauled Errol into an awkward dog-trot and hustled him as fast as he dared back to the wizard’s silver Orion. The old boot factory’s destruction had enticed quite a few people out of their homes, which was helpful. He and Errol lost themselves in the general excitement and reached the car without incident. It was still there, of course, its don’t-steal-me hex glowing a bold red warning on the windscreen.

“Unhex it, Errol. We have to get out of here.”

Dreamily, Errol did as he was told then let himself be bundled into the driver’s seat.

“Right,” he said, stowing his staff in the back and clambering into the passenger seat. “To Wycliffe’s, Errol. Slowly. Don’t draw any attention to us, whatever you do.”

Still trammelled in the docilianti, all the mean, superior sharpness in his face smoothed away, leaving it peculiarly pleasant, Errol obeyed. And as they glided through the advancing night in a car that cost more money than Gerald knew he could hope to earn in ten years, he ran through his plan again, looking for any holes that Sir Alec might poke in it. And then, when he couldn’t find any, hunched in the passenger seat and worked very hard at not thinking about anything

… most especially what had just happened back there at the factory.

Wycliffe’s front gates were locked, but he took care of that with a touch of his staff. Still beautifully obedient, Errol drove them round to the R amp;D block. Gerald had to admit it: while he didn’t at all care for the docilianti, or having to use it, he couldn’t deny it was coming in handy.

As he and Errol got out of the car a winged shadow swooped down from one of the nearby tall and spindly balibob trees.

“Reg?” he said, then shook his head. Surprise, surprise. Nothing changes. “ What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like, sunshine?” she said, landing on his outstretched arm. “I’m waiting for you.”

“But-but how did you know-”

“I didn’t,” she said, shrugging. “Not for sure. But it seemed like a safe bet. When I saw you and Mister Puppet, here, weren’t blown to smithereens along with that boot factory, I-”

“ Reg! You were there? But I told you to-”

“Yes, well,” she said, insufferably complacent, her eyes gleaming sardonically in the meagre light from his newly-kindled illuminato. “I don’t take orders from you, Gerald. I might, every now and then, adopt a politely worded suggestion, but-”

“So you saw what happened?”

She sniffed. “I saw you save Errol, here. I saw the factory blow itself to matchsticks-you’re making a bit of a habit of that, aren’t you? — and then when I saw all the bigwigs rolling in, I scarpered. So what happened?”

Briefly, he told her.

“Well, well,” she said when he was done. “You’re turning lucky escapes into an art form, aren’t you?” Considering him closely, she tipped her head to one side. “Gerald…”

He roused himself from unpleasant memory. “What?”

“It’s not your fault if that Rottlezinder’s dead.”

“ If he’s dead? Come on, Reg. That explosion spread him across half of South Ott.”

“Half?” She snorted. “You do exaggerate, Gerald. I’d say a quarter, if you’re lucky.”

“ Reg!”

“Oh, don’t start,” she snapped. “If you could’ve saved Rottlezinder too, you would have. But you had to choose, and you chose pillocking Errol Haythwaite. Though why-”

“Because he’s innocent.”

“ Innocent?” Incredulous, Reg stared at him. “ Errol Haythwaite?”

“Yes. He went to see Rottlezinder to make him stop the portal sabotage. And he tipped off the authorities about today’s attack.”

“Blimey!” she said. “I don’t mind admitting I never saw that coming.” Feathers ruffled with surprise, she hopped from his arm onto Errol’s head. Obligingly docile, Errol said nothing. He barely flinched. Seemed hardly aware he was wearing a bird for a hat. Reg’s gaze sharpened. “All right, Gerald. What have you done to him?”

He turned back to the car and fished out his staff. “Nothing permanent,” he muttered. “Just encouraged his co-operation.”

“Oh, yes? Using one of Sir Alec’s dirty tricks, I take it?”

“Please, Reg,” he sighed. “Not now.”

Relenting, she chattered her beak thoughtfully. “I’ll say this much. Dirty trick or not, the incant works a treat.” Suddenly her eyes gleamed with wicked mischief. “What d’you think? I mean, this chance won’t come again, Gerald. I could pretend I’m a pigeon and Errol’s a statue.”

Despite everything, he grinned. “I think I don’t have time for this,” he said, trying to sound severe. “I have to get him inside and make it look like there’s been a laboratory accident.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Well, as cover stories go I suppose I’ve heard worse. Are you sure it’ll hold?”

“It’ll have to. At least long enough for me to do what needs to be done.” He pulled a face. “After that he can be Sir Alec’s problem. I’ve had enough of Errol Haythwaite to last me a lifetime.”

“And you’re quite sure he’s innocent?” said Reg, wistful.

He frowned, remembering the cryptic comments he’d overheard about sealed records and youthful indiscretions. “Of the portal sabotage? Yes.”

“Bugger.” She rattled her tail feathers. “And there was me looking forward to him being publicly disgraced.”

He pushed Errol’s car door closed again. “Reg, that’s not very nice.”

“Yes, well, neither is Errol,” she retorted. “All right then, so if he’s in the clear then who hired that bounder Rottlezinder?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Not yet. Now please, Reg, you need to leave. Again. And I mean really leave this time. The girls must be going spare, wondering what’s happened to you.”

“No they’re not, Gerald. They know I’d never leave you in the lurch.” She sleeked her feathers, getting ready to fly off. “You know, sunshine,” she added, abruptly serious. “That was some pretty fancy thaumaturgy you managed tonight. I’m talking about getting past Rottlezinder’s warding hexes. If I were you, I might be a bit… careful… about what I said in my report to that Sir Alec. After all, he’s a very busy man. Probably he doesn’t need to know every little pettifogging detail. Broad brush-strokes. Big picture. That’s what you should be focusing on.”

In silence they looked at each other. Then he nodded. “Thanks for everything, Reg. Tell the girls I’ll be in touch. I still need to know what part Eudora Telford played in this-if any.”

As she flapped away, he took hold of Errol’s sleeve. “All right, you. Come along. Let’s make this look good, shall we?”

The laboratory complex was dark and deserted, just the way they’d left it. Still passively compliant, Errol deactivated the warding hexes on the side door and they slipped inside. It didn’t take long to set up the latest Ambrose Mark VI prototype for destruction. A fiddle here… a tweak there… a clumsy adjustment or three to the thaumic regulation chamber…

When he was done, Gerald looked at Errol. In the bright laboratory lights all his scrapes, bumps and bruises from the factory explosion were starkly revealed. The damage to his expensive coat was equally impressive.

“Haythwaite,” he said, and put one hand on Errol’s shoulder. Snapped the fingers of his other hand in front of Errol’s face, reinvigorating the docilianti. Priming Errol for what was to come. Thrusting aside any nasty, niggling qualms.

I’m one of the good guys. That means I’m doing good.

“You need to listen to me now, Errol. Are you listening? Can you hear me?”

“Oh, yes,” said Errol. His altered face was quite blank. Waiting for someone to write his thoughts upon it.

Slowly, carefully, Gerald reconstructed the evening’s events. “We’ve been working here all night, Errol. Just you and me. Working on the Mark VI prototype. We haven’t set so much as a toe outside of the lab complex. You made me stay behind and work with you to make up for the time I took to go into town. You were very angry about that, Errol. You thought I had no business leaving the laboratory. Do you understand me?”

Errol nodded. “Yes.”

“How did you feel about me leaving the laboratory, Errol?”

Slowly, Errol’s face contorted. “Bloody Dunnywood,” he said, contemptuous. “Have to twist his arm practically out of its socket to get a decent day’s work from him. Well, I won’t have it, you mingy little turd. I’m in charge of this facility and you’ll bloody well work all the hours I say. You’ll work till you drop, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mister Haythwaite,” he said, letting his voice cringe. “I’m sorry, Mister Haythwaite. Of course I’ll work back with you, as long as it takes, Mister Haythwaite.”

“Yes indeed, you will,” said Errol. “Or I’ll see that Ambrose sacks you first thing in the morning.”

“Good, Errol,” said Gerald, and patted his shoulder. “That’s what you remember. That’s all you remember. And Haf Rottlezinder is nothing to you but a vague memory from your youth. You didn’t know he was in the country. You had no idea what he was up to. Do you understand me, Errol?”

Errol nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

Gerald let out a long, unsteady breath. Lord, this is despicable. Even in a good cause. “ Excellent. Oh! Yes!” He’d nearly forgotten. “One last thing, Errol. If anyone asks, what happened tonight wasn’t my fault. In fact, I did everything I could to help you prevent this horrible accident. Ah… yes… which wasn’t much, because I am a thoroughly useless lump of a Third Grade wizard… but still. I tried. Right? You got that?”

“Right,” said Errol. “Got it.”

He nodded. “Good. So I think that’s everything. Now, Errol, you mustn’t worry. You’re perfectly safe.”

Using his staff this time, he washed a filtering protective wall around them, leaving it just porous enough for authenticity. Then, on a deep breath, he destabilised the hovering Ambrose Mark VI airship prototype… and watched it explode. Felt the rolling wave of thaumic discharge tumble through the carefully calibrated protective shield and leave the appropriate amount of thaumic residue all over himself and Errol. Not enough to hurt them-though he did feel his eyebrows frizzle-but a sufficient quantity to completely obscure what still remained of the residue from the old boot factory’s destruction.

Ears ringing, exposed skin smarting ever so slightly, he satisfied himself that Errol was unharmed then looked at the totally ruined prototype airship. Another one. How many did that make now? Four? No. Five. Fresh scorch marks seared the laboratory walls. Smoke swirled beneath its buckled ceiling.

After deactivating the protective barrier he turned back to Errol. Snapped his fingers again, severing the docilianti ’s hold. Errol’s eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped where he stood, his head rapping too hard on the laboratory’s unforgiving concrete floor. He’d have a nasty goose-egg for sure. Ah well, Just another touch of authenticity.

Feeling bleak, Gerald stared down at him.

Reg is right. I’m far too good at this. Nobody can know just how good at this I am.

And then he went to make his panicked phone call to the authorities. On the whole, it wasn’t going to take much acting.