Wizard squared

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The other Monk’s cries of anguish were unspeakable. Hands pressed to her face, Melissande turned away. “I can’t bear this,” she muttered to Reg on her shoulder, feeling like the worst kind of coward. “I can’t.”

“Come on, ducky,” said Reg. Her claws were close to drawing blood, she was clutching so tight. “It can’t go on much longer.”

No, it couldn’t. Because if their Monk didn’t break the shadbolt in the next few seconds the other Monk would surely die-or else go totally mad.

Hurry up, Monk. Hurry up. Saint Snodgrass, help him.

Still hiding behind her hands, she could hear Bibbie’s harsh, choked breathing. Poor Bibbie. She shouldn’t have stayed. This was too cruel.

And then the two Monks let out a blood-curdling yell. She spun around so hard and so fast that Reg nearly lost her perch. Swearing and flapping, the bird managed to hang on. Bibbie leaped for the sofa, her ivory-pale cheeks drenched with tears.

“Monk! Monk! Are you all right? Monk! ”

Limp as an overcooked Yok Tok noodle, Monk slid all the way to the parlor carpet. His nose was bleeding, thick red splatters on his chin and his shirt. Eyes rolled up in his head he sprawled on the floor, looking entirely too close to dead for comfort. Only the rasping of air in his throat reassured them that he was actually alive.

“Monk, you idiot!” cried Bibbie, and hauled him into her lap. “Please, please, don’t just lie there. Say something!”

Monk made a nasty gargling sound without any words in it. Bibbie choked back a sob and held her wretched brother even tighter, heedless of the blood smearing from him onto her.

Reg chattered her beak. “You’d better check on the other one, ducky. And cross your fingers while you’re at it, because if the bugger’s dead we might never know what the devil’s going on.”

Reg was right. Of course. She was nearly always right. It was quite possibly her most aggravating trait. “Hop off, then,” she said, twitching her shoulder. “I’ll have no hope of giving him the kiss of life with you breathing down my neck giving me points for technique.”

Ordinarily that would’ve provoked a flood of sarcastic commentary, with bonus insults, but even Reg was flattened by this latest turn of events. The bird hopped to the sofa’s arm without so much as an inelegant snort.

Stepping over and around her Monk and Bibbie, Melissande perched on the edge of the sofa beside the other Monk. He looked utterly dreadful, so pale he was gray except for where he was splodged with blood. She couldn’t see him breathing. Trembling with nerves, heart racing, she snatched off her spectacles and held them over his slightly parted lips. Held her breath-held her breath-then let it out in a sickeningly relieved whoosh as his slow exhalation lightly fogged the lenses.

“Saint Snodgrass be praised,” she whispered, and leaned close. “Monk. Monk, can you hear me?”

The other Monk stirred, his stubby eyelashes fluttering. Beneath his closed eyelids his eyes moved from side to side, restless.

She rubbed her spectacles clean on her sleeve and shoved them back onto her face. “Monk. It’s Melissande. Monk, can you hear me?”

“Is he alive?” her Monk croaked from the floor.

“Well, he’s not dead,” said Reg, always helpful. “But I won’t pretend I’ve not seen healthier corpses.”

“Monk,” Melissande said again, and pressed her palm to the other Monk’s cold, clammy cheek. “It’s all right. It’s over now. You’re quite safe.”

Her Monk groaned. “Help me sit up, Bibs. I’ve gone all rubbery.”

“No, no, you shouldn’t move,” said Bibbie, still tearful, clutching him closer. “You should rest a bit longer before-”

“There isn’t time, Bibs!” said Monk. “Please.”

Swearing under her breath, Bibbie helped him sit up.

Melissande gave him another sideways glance. “Bibbie’s right. You should be lying down.”

“Don’t you start!” he snapped, then shook his head. “Damn. Sorry.”

She turned her attention back to the other Monk. “Doesn’t matter.” Leaning close again, she patted his cheek. “Monk. Monk?”

Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Oh for pity’s sake, woman, stop pussyfooting around and slap him, would you?”

“Don’t you dare!” said Bibbie, crowding close. “Shut up, Reg. You’re no bloody help at all!”

“Well, at least I’m not impersonating a watering pot!” Reg retorted. “I mean, if you want to turn a hose on him, ducky, turn a hose on him and be done with it. Splashing him with a few maidenly tears isn’t going to-”

Bibbie turned on her, ferocious. “Oh, you horrible bird, how can you be so callous? After what he’s just gone through? Sometimes, Reg, I wonder-”

“Hey,” said the other Monk, and opened his eyes. “I thought paradise would be a little more peaceful than this.”

Pulling her hands back to the safety of her lap, Melissande managed a wobbly smile. “Not if Reg is there with you, it won’t be.”

“I think you might be right,” said the other Monk. His voice was thready, almost no air behind it. And then his sunken, bloodshot eyes warmed. “Hello, Mel.”

Oh, Saint Snodgrass. “Hello.”

He fumbled for her hand. She let him. His fingers held hers, weakly. “It’s so good to see you. I haven’t seen you for so long.”

Really? Why not? But she couldn’t ask him.

“God…” His voice broke. “Melissande, I’ve missed you.”

No, no, no. She couldn’t begin to have that conversation. “You and your bloody inventions,” she said, seeking refuge in scolding… but didn’t pull her hand free. “You never learn, do you?”

He shook his head. Smiled. Shattered her heart. “Apparently not.”

“Monk,” said her Monk, behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Can you talk now? The shadbolt… it’s gone?”

The other Monk closed his eyes again. Coughed, a horrible rattling sound. “Yes,” he murmured. “Feels… strange.” His eyelids lifted slowly. “Thanks, mate.”

Melissande heard her Monk make a funny little sound in his throat. “Don’t thank me. You know-”

“Yeah. I know,” said the other Monk. “Not your fault. Had to be done.”

“What?” said Bibbie, alarmed. “What’s not his fault?”

The other Monk looked at Bibbie, his eyes washing over with tears. “Oh, Bibs. I wish you’d listened to me. I wish I’d known what to say. How to say it. I’m so sorry. You deserved so much better.”

“Than what?” said Bibbie. “Monk, you’re frightening me. What are you talking about, why are you sorr-”

“It doesn’t matter,” the other Monk whispered. “It’s not the same here. You’ll be all right.”

“No, tell me,” she insisted. “I want to-”

“Bibbie, don’t,” Monk said quietly. “There isn’t much time.”

Bibbie stared at her other brother. “What?”

“Open your eyes, ducky,” said Reg, impatient on the sofa’s arm. “Something went a bit wrong breaking that bloody shadbolt.” She looked at Monk. “Didn’t it, Mr. Clever Clogs Markham?”

Melissande felt her Monk flinch. “I did my best.”

“He did,” said the other Monk, his voice hoarse. “It’s all right. I always knew-”

“Knew what?” Bibbie demanded. “Monk-both of you- either of you-what’s going on?”

Ignoring her, Monk grasped his other self’s forearm. “How long?”

“Soon,” whispered the other Monk.

“Tell us what you can,” said Monk. “Quickly. When did everything go ass over elbows?”

The other Monk groaned. His eyes were starting to cloud. “New Ottosland. Lional and his dragon. Gerald swore to stop them.”

“We know,” said Bibbie. “And he did. He made another dragon and-”

“No,” said the Monk on the sofa, sickly pale and sweating. “That didn’t happen. Not in my world. My Gerald made a different choice. He-”

A surging wave of pain silenced him. And as he fought his way through it “Oh, blimey bloody Charlie,” said Reg, with a violent rattling of tail feathers and a great flapping of wings. “ And his bunions and his piles!”

Monk looked at her. “Reg?”

“The palace roof, sunshine. Remember?” said Reg. Her tail was still rattling and her eyes were wide with horror. “Just before Shugat and his swanky sultan turned up? Gerald was all set to help himself to Lional’s manky grimoires.”

“And you talked him out of it.”

“Yes, I did,” Reg retorted. “But the other me didn’t.” She looked at the Monk on the sofa. “Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?”

Wheezing, the other Monk nodded. “And by the time we got back from Ottosland, it was too late,” he whispered. “My Gerald had… turned.”

Melissande, looking at him, could have wept for his pain. He blamed himself. Gerald was his best friend and in his mind, he’d failed him.

How close did we come to his fate, I wonder? Was it serendipity that saved us, or something else?

“But-how does that work?” said Bibbie, breaking the stunned silence. “Gerald’s Gerald, isn’t he? He can’t decide to do one thing here and another thing-”

“Ha,” said Reg. “’Course he can, ducky. Don’t tell me you’ve never been in two minds about something. I’ve seen you in front of the icebox.”

“So that was the moment when our worlds diverged,” Monk said, frowning. “Our Gerald made his own dragon and defeated Lional in thaumaturgical combat. Whereas his Gerald-”

“Corrupted himself,” said the other Monk. “He was trying to do the right thing, but-what was in those grimoires, combined with his unique potentia — ”

Monk ran a shaking hand over his face. “Bloody hell. No wonder his thaumic signature felt so wrong. Your Gerald, mate, he’s got to be-”

“Stopped,” whispered the other Monk. “I know. Why d’you think I’m here? He’s convinced the world needs saving, and only he can save it. By ruling it. He won’t listen to reason. And the things he’s done-the things he’s doing-what he plans…” Another shuddering, indrawn breath. “Everything’s falling apart so fast. My world’s on the brink of war. Half the member states of the United Magical Nations have banded together and delivered an ultimatum. Ottosland must stand down from its demands or face an all-out punitive response.”

“And oh wait-let me guess,” Reg said darkly. “The other half’s agreed to join your Gerald’s team in return for a share of the international spoils. Politics.”

“Exactly,” said the other Monk. “And he could win. He’s powerful enough, and-and-”

“And you’ve been helping him?” said Monk, his voice tight. “A few new inventions? A nifty little thaumaturgical gadget here and there?”

The other Monk flinched. “I did try to stop him. We were friends.” Another flinch. “I thought we were friends. I thought I could reach him. I never dreamed he’d-and once the shadbolt was on I couldn’t get it off and every time I tried to argue with him-reason with him-” A terrible, ghastly travesty of a smile. “He really doesn’t like it when people say no. This ultimatum, Monk-he’ll never surrender. He really will plunge my whole world into war first.”

Melissande felt herself go cold. I don’t believe it. He can’t be talking about Gerald. Gerald Dunwoody’s the most moral man I know. Glancing at Reg, she saw that the bird was-amazingly-lost for words. Bibbie was trying hard to blink back tears. And Monk- her Monk- Oh, Saint Snodgrass. I never imagined I’d ever see him terrified.

“How long?” he said, staring intently at the other Monk crumpled on the sofa. “Before the UM nations who haven’t gone rogue attack Ottosland?”

“They gave us a week,” said the other Monk. “That was four days ago.”

“ Four days? ” said Reg, feathers bristling. “And what have you been doing since then, sunshine? Lolling about getting manicures?”

“Reg!” Bibbie looked close to violence. “Shut your beak, you horrible bloody bird! You’ve got no right to-”

“I’m sorry,” said the other Monk. “I worked as-” Abruptly his breathing turned to more coughing, and fresh blood-pink froth bubbled on his lips. “I worked as fast as I could,” he said, once he’d caught his breath. “But I had to get my hands on the portable portal and figure out how to tweak it without him noticing and then I had to come up with a plausible reason why I needed to be left strictly undisturbed in the lab and-”

Monk dropped to a crouch beside the other Monk. Took hold of his shoulder and held on tight. “Don’t. It’s all right. Which nations are on your Gerald’s side, d’you remember?”

The other Monk pressed his knuckles to his forehead, grimacing. Another cough. More blood on his lips. “Sorry-it hurts-”

Melissande leaned close. “Try, Monk. Please. I know it’s hard, I know you’re in pain, but if you want us to help you then you have to help us.”

“I know,” he grunted, nodding. “Believe me, Mel, I know. Jandria. They were first to join him.”

She exchanged a jaundiced look with her Monk. Well, yes, of course bloody Jandria. Never a crisis brewing that they’re not interested in heating up.

“Fine,” she said, trying to sound encouraging despite the churning nausea. “Who else?”

“Oh ducky, forget the laundry list,” said Reg. With another flapping of wings she launched herself off the arm of the sofa, landed on the other Monk’s knees and stabbed him with her steeliest glare. “Let’s just leap ahead to the punch line, shall we? To cut a depressing and abbreviated story even shorter-you came here to fetch our- my — Gerald to your world so he can snap his fingers and janitor away your troubles, didn’t you?”

The other Monk frowned, muzzily. “Janitor? What? I don’t-”

“Never you mind playing the dimwit!” Reg snapped. “Do you expect my Gerald to clean up your mess or don’t you?”

Face screwed up with pain, the other Monk nodded. “I had to come. He’s our only hope. Gerald’s the only wizard I know who can stop Gerald. The only rogue thaumaturgist in either of our worlds.”

“And that’s another thing,” said Reg, unyielding. “Why pick this world? Why pick my Gerald?”

“Sorry,” said the other Monk, close to wheezing. “This world was the only one I could find.”

“Then all I can say is you didn’t look hard enough!” Reg retorted. “Perhaps if you had then-”

“Reg,” Melissande said softly. “Please. Can’t you see he’s-”

“Of course I can bloody see!” said Reg, eyes blazing. “I can see he’s got no more common sense than your Monk, madam! Because how, exactly, does he think my Gerald’s going to help him? My Gerald’s not corrupted himself with any of that manky grimoire magic and I’ll tell you right now, ducky, he’s not going to either.” She glared down at the other Monk. “So your world’s going to have to sort itself out, Mr. Markham from Next Door. Everybody knows charity begins at home. So you can just pop yourself back there and clean up your own mess.”

Shocked, Melissande stared at her. “Reg-how can you say that? Gerald’s in trouble, he-”

“ His Gerald. Not mine,” Reg snapped. “ My Gerald would never soil himself with that muck. My Gerald didn’t. And believe me, madam, whoever that is in his world wearing my Gerald’s face? He stopped being Gerald months ago.”

Monk cleared his throat. “She’s right about that much. The Gerald who made that shadbolt-I don’t know him. That Gerald Dunwoody’s not my friend.”

“Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t,” said Melissande. “But for all we know that Gerald is-is trapped inside those awful magics, just like this other Monk was trapped inside that shadbolt. And if that’s true we have to help him!”

“Mel’s right,” said Bibbie. “He’s still Gerald, just like this is still Monk.”

“I know,” Monk said reluctantly. “And as much as I hate to agree with myself, knowing what I know of our Gerald’s abilities? If he really did decide to get creative the only wizard I know who could stop him is him. And that means-”

“Aren’t you noddyheads listening?” Reg screeched. “I said no and I meant no! You are not getting my Gerald mixed up in this!”

Monk dragged his fingers through his hair. “Look, Reg, when you think about it he’s already mixed up-”

“One more word out of you, Mr. Clever Clogs, and I’ll do more than bloody poke you in your insignificant unmentionables!” said Reg. Her dark eyes were alight with a fury none of them had ever seen before. “I’ll fly to your Uncle Ralph’s poncy establishment and tell him what you’ve been up to lately. All of it, sunshine. Chapter and verse. By the time this little canary’s finished singing you won’t be able to show your face past your front door for ten years! That’s if Uncle Ralph doesn’t throw you in a dark cell-and trust me when I say I’d bloody cheer if he did!”

Bibbie leaped to her feet. “Oh, really? Is that so? Just who d’you think you’re messing with, you washed-up old has-been? We’re the Markhams, we are, ducky, and you don’t want to mess with us! I’m warning you, Reg-you try hurting my brother and I’ll have a go at lifting your hex and then I’ll be the one cheering while you — ”

“ Bibbie,” said Melissande, reaching out a hand. “Don’t. Can’t you see she’s terrified?”

“Good!” Bibbie retorted. “And so she should be. I’m not a witch to be trifled with and-”

“Bibbie, shut up! ” she said. “She’s not scared of you. She’s scared that if his Gerald could risk using those grimoires then so could our Gerald, which means-”

“He would not!” Bibbie said hotly. “How can you even suggest it? Our Gerald’s too smart for that. He proved he’s too smart for that by not using them the first time. His Gerald must’ve had a screw loose or something. Or maybe the other Reg drove him bonkers with all her nagging. But whatever the reason, I won’t-”

“Bibbie,” said Monk, quietly. “Melissande’s right. Now do us all a favor and hush up. Reg-”

“Monk Markham, you’re Gerald’s best friend,” said Reg, hopping from the other Monk’s knees to the sofa-back as Bibbie turned away, flushed pink with affronted misery. “You know what he’s like. Show him a lame dog and he won’t care what it costs him to save it. Look how he was with that pillock Errol Haythwaite. Bent over backwards to see him proved innocent after every mean and nasty thing the plonker said and did to him. And now you want to-”

“No, Reg, I don’t want to,” said Monk. “Believe me, I don’t. But it’s not up to me. And it’s not up to you, either. This is Gerald’s decision. We don’t have the right to make it for him.”

Melissande looked at her. “We don’t, Reg. You know we don’t.”

“Where is he?” said the other Monk, stirring. “Your Gerald? I need to see him. I need to-”

“He’s not here,” she said. “Sir Alec sent him on assignment. Do you know your world’s Sir Alec?”

The other Monk shuddered. “Not well. And not for long. Melissande-” His beseeching eyes, cloudier now, fixed their gaze on her face. “Please. Get Gerald. Quickly. Time’s running out. If we don’t stop him-” He sat bolt upright, shuddering harder than ever. “Monk-”

“I’m here,” Monk said, his voice rough. “It’s all right, mate. I’m here.”

Leaning forward, the other Monk grabbed his arm pulled him close, eyes alight with an almost fanatical glitter. “You felt him. In the shadbolt. You felt what he is now. He’s not your friend. He’ll kill everyone. He won’t stop until the world’s drowning in blood. Stop him. You and your Gerald, Monk. Promise me that. Promise.”

“I don’t know if I can,” said Monk, sounding helpless. “I mean-you’re me and you couldn’t stop him. How am I supposed to stop him if you couldn’t?”

Melissande felt her throat close hard. She’d never heard Monk so desperate. So despairing. She’d never seen such a look of distress on his face. And the other Monk’s face-his face “Reg!” she said alarmed. “Something’s wrong-something’s happeningMonk — ”

The other Monk’s eyes were flickering back and forth, madly, and he was shuddering so hard his teeth were chattering. No, this wasn’t shuddering. He was having some kind of seizure. Monk was holding on tight, trying to steady him, but it wasn’t doing any good. The other Monk shook and shook, teeth chattering, hair flopping, blood pouring from his nose like water from a tap left on full.

Bibbie went to pieces. “Monk, stop it! Monk, do something! Help him, call for an ambulance, Monk-”

“Shut up, you silly bint!” Reg shrieked, flapping into her face. “Pull yourself together! Is this any way for a witch to behave?”

“ You shut up, Reg!” shouted Bibbie, and batted her aside. “That’s my brother, you gobby old crow!”

And even though she was wrong, even though that wasn’t her Monktheir Monk-in the most horrible and confusing way, yes. It was.

“Come on, mate-come on, mate-” her Monk was crooning. “We can fix this. Hang on, hang onto me. We’ll get you some help. We’ll-we can-”

Melissande, one hand pressed to her mouth, watched through hot tears as her Monk did his best. But his best wasn’t enough. There was too much blood. Too much wrong. The other Monk shuddered again, one last huge convulsion, then sagged into stillness. Slowly, disbelievingly, her Monk lowered him to the sofa’s cushions.

The other Monk’s eyes opened, slowly, in his dreadful, dead-white and blood-daubed face. He saw her. Breathed out, softly. His bloodied lips curved in a smile.

“Melissande. I love you.”

A moment later, he died.

Reg flapped from the drinks trolley back to the sofa. Looking down at the other Monk, she tipped her head to one side. “Bugger,” she said heavily. “That’s all we need.”

Ignoring the wretched bird, Melissande dropped to her knees beside Monk. He was staring into the dead man’s face as though caught in some hideous dream. “Monk… Monk?”

“It’s my fault,” he whispered. “The shadbolt-there wasn’t time to be careful. I had to-and there was a trick in it-I did my best-but it was a bastard, Mel. I’ve never seen anything like it. I thought I could do it. I thought I could free him and save him but-” His voice broke. “I did my best.”

She slid her arm around his shoulder, her eyes burning. “I know you did. And so did he. He knew it was a risk and he wanted to take it. Monk…”

Horribly he laughed, then shrugged her arm free. Shoved to his feet and stared down at the dead man. “So here’s the thing, girls. Here’s the big question. What just happened-was it murder… or suicide? Can any of you tell me? ’Cause I’m jiggered if I know.”

Melissande. I love you. Aching, she risked a hand on her Monk’s arm. “It was neither. Monk, you can’t blame yourself.” She gulped. “This was his Gerald’s fault. There’s no use dwelling. The question that needs answering now is what are we going to do about this?”

Sighing, he scrubbed his hands over his face then got up to perch on the edge of the sofa. The other Monk-the dead Monk-stared at the ceiling with blank, cloudy eyes. In the fireplace, flames danced and crackled.

Monk looked up. Met her stony gaze briefly, then turned to Bibbie. His sister stood still and slender and silent, fresh tears drying on her cheeks.

“We’re going to call Sir Alec,” he said grimly. “We’re going to get Gerald back here. And then we’re going to take care of the madman who’s responsible for this.”

Sir Alec took a deep breath and furiously throttled the fear. Tried to throttle it-but the fear fought back. The last time he’d been this frightened was during his final janitorial field assignment. The one that had taken him out of the field permanently and thrust him with mixed emotions behind a desk. Since then, fear had become something of a memory… but, by God, he was bloody frightened now. Oh, yes. That heart he tried so hard to pretend he didn’t have was knock, knock, knocking against his broken-more-than-once ribs.

Bloody hell, Dunwoody. Where did you go?

Thanks to the bane of Ralph’s life, his irrepressible and annoyingly irreplaceable nephew Monk Markham, Nettleworth’s top secret tracking equipment was the best in the world. Barring certain atmospheric hiccups and the occasional idiosyncratic etheretic fluctuation, with the flip of a switch he could pinpoint the location-via thaumic signature-of every agent in his charge. Thanks to Monk Markham he knew where they all were tonight, every last one of them-save Gerald Dunwoody. Who wasn’t in Grande Splotze. Who-if that cryptic message was to be trusted-had never so much as set foot in Grande Splotze.

Which means he never made it all the way through the portal. I watched him walk in-but he never walked out.

Not being a portal mechanic he hadn’t driven back to the farm. It would have been a criminal waste of his time. But he’d sent his Department expert out there, was waiting even now to hear his report. But surely, surely, if there’d been some kind of catastrophic portal malfunction some alarm somewhere would have been triggered. If nothing else positive had emerged from the Wycliffe affair, Ottosland now boasted the best portal diagnostic and warning systems known to thaumaturgics.

It was the height of folly, but he couldn’t help it. Abandoning his office with its cheerfully crackling fire and small round crystal that remained stubbornly silent, Sir Alec made his way back down to the monitoring station and went in search of Gerald, again. Passing through the main office he noted that Dalby was still here, in the cubbyhole considered his by virtue of him being-well, Frank Dalby. Mr. Dalby. Scourge of the new recruits. Aloofly distant Sir Alec’s trusted right-hand man. But Frank, thank God, was nobody’s fool. One look at his superior’s face and he kept his nose well out of the way. If he was wanted he’d be called for, and that was good enough for him.

Baffled-and when the hell was the last time he’d been baffled — he stared at his Department’s exclusively upgraded thaumic monitor. Twenty-six steadily burning little blue lights. Twenty-six living, breathing agents, scattered all around the globe. Look, there was Frank, upstairs with his mug of ghastly stewed tea and an asphyxiating cigarette. And look. There’s me. But nowhere, nowhere, could he see Gerald Dunwoody. He wanted to swear. To stamp. To pound his fist in someone’s face. All his uncivilized impulses, roaring to be set free.

When Felix Saltman’s signal was lost the alarm had triggered seconds after his heart stopped beating. But no alarm had sounded for Agent Dunwoody. So either the monitor was malfunctioning-unlikely-or Gerald wasn’t dead, he just wasn’t registering on the etheretic plane.

But that would mean he’s no longer in this world. And that simply isn’t possible. Not even a wizard as powerful as Gerald Dunwoody can step between dimensions as though walking into another room.

Thwarted, he scowled his way back upstairs to his office. The phone started ringing just as he slammed the door.

“What?”

“Tokely, Sir Alec. Portal checks out. No malfunction.”

He stared at the phone’s receiver, disbelieving. “That can’t be right. Check it again.”

“Checked it three times, sir.”

To argue further would be ridiculous. When it came to portal thaumaturgics, Tokely was the expert’s expert. But-“Are you saying you found nothing unusual?”

“Didn’t say that, sir. There is a slight blip. And of course we’ve got one incomplete journey. Can’t say I’ve ever seen that happen before. Not without finding-well, you know. Remains.”

“You’re saying my agent simply vanished halfway to his destination?”

“Sorry, Sir Alec.” Now Tokely sounded defensive. “I know how it looks, but that’s my finding. You want a second opinion, call one in. You’ll get the same answer.”

“No, a second opinion’s not necessary. Written report to me soonest, Tokely. My eyes only. This one’s off the books, yes?”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

He replaced the receiver, heart knocking hard again. So Gerald really had disappeared on his way to Grande Splotze, with no alarms triggered here or at the DoT. How was that possible? Who could begin to No, surely not. Not even Ralph’s nephew is stupid enough to try something like this. Is he? By God, if Monk Markham’s behind this I’ll On the corner of his desk his crystal marble buzzed. Swamped sickeningly with relief, he snatched it up and hexed open a channel.

“Dunwoody? Dunwoody, where the hell are-”

“Um, actually, no, this isn’t Gerald,” said a thin, nervous voice. “This is Monk, Sir Alec. Monk Markham. I need to see you urgently. At home. Can you come?”

“Markham?” he said, incredulous. “How the devil did you get this-” And then he ground his teeth together. “Never mind. I’m on my way.”

He was too angry to bid Frank a very late goodnight. Barely nodded at Chawtok, the agent on front desk duty. Swathed in coat and scarf and gloves and hat, he slammed out of the building and into his car and drove at reckless speed through the dark night streets, out to South-West Ott and Chatterly Crescent.

Monk Markham, the incorrigible reprobate, was waiting for him on his charming establishment’s front doorstep. “I’m sorry, Sir Alec. I didn’t know who else to call.”

There was blood on Markham’s face. Dried, but recent. His usually cheerful, slightly anarchic demeanor was absent. He was tense, his face pale, and there was something approaching dread in his wide eyes.

Raging temper receded, slightly “This had better be good, Mr. Markham.”

Ralph’s nephew swallowed. “Actually, sir, it’s pretty bad. Please-come in. You won’t believe me until you see it for yourself.”

So he followed Ralph’s nephew inside the old, comfortable house, through to the parlor where he found-surprise, surprise-not only the young troublemaker’s precocious sister Emmerabiblia but Melissande Cadwallader and the bird.

And another Monk Markham, dead and stiffening on a couch.

“I’m sorry?” he said, looking at them one by one. “Is this some kind of ridiculous joke?”

“Do we look like we’re laughing, sunshine?” said the bird. “Would you say this is my hysterically amused face?”

Ralph’s appalling nephew wiped his hands down his front. “It’s all right. I can explain,” he muttered. Then he sighed. “Um-well, actually, I can’t. Not really. But I can tell you what’s happened, Sir Alec. And then-I hope-you can tell us what to do about it.”

He listened to their story, growing colder by the minute. Some small, rational part of his mind was screaming, very rationally, This is not possible. There are laws of thaumaturgics. They can’t be bent like this. And then he remembered with whom he was dealing and he felt like screaming again, not rationally at all.

“So you see, sir,” said Ralph’s regrettable nephew, when his insane tale was finished, “I really think we need to get Gerald back here. You know, from wherever you sent him. Because if ever there was a case for your best janitor to work on, I think this is it.”

He was so angry he felt perfectly calm. “You constructed an interdimensional portal opener? By accident? And you failed to declare it?”

“He only used it the once,” said Ralph’s equally regrettable niece, firing up. “It’s been in his sock drawer ever since. And it was the other Monk-” she pointed without looking, “-that one, who got his opener to work between worlds. And he only did that because his Gerald’s gone insane and has to be stopped. So really it’s lucky our Monk made his, isn’t it, or he’d probably not understand how this other one works, would he? And then Gerald would have no way of getting through to the other world and stopping his mad self before he kills everyone. So-so you might remember that before you start being mean.”

“Really?” he said. “That’s your informed, experienced opinion is it, Miss Markham?”

As he’d intended, Miss Markham wilted.

“Sir Alec,” said Miss Cadwallader, her chin lifted, her green eyes grim. “I appreciate you’re upset but you need to focus on what’s relevant. This might be a mess but for once Monk didn’t make it. Not our Monk. He didn’t bring this poor man here and he’s not responsible for what’s gone wrong in the other world. But now that we know what’s happening there, I believe we are responsible for stopping it.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Are we?”

“Legally? No, of course not,” she retorted. “But morally? Ethically? Now that we know people are suffering and dying? Absolutely. So please, recall Gerald so we can sit down and work out how to fix this before it’s too late.”

She was an eminently reasonable, sensible and decent young woman. They were all of them, at heart, decent young people-well, except for the bird-and while they might frequently drive him to raving distraction they weren’t actively evil. Well, with the possible exception of the bird. But none of them seemed to have grasped the true import of these remarkable events. The shock of the other Monk Markham’s death, no doubt. Not that the reason mattered. What mattered was that if one man could breach the boundary between worlds then who was to say there wasn’t another coming close on his heels?

And if the next man turns out to be their Gerald Dunwoody… twisted by grimoire magic, his mind overturned by a lust for power…

“Given the circumstances,” he said, knowing it would be a long time before he slept easily again, “I would agree that our only viable course of action is to recall Mr. Dunwoody from his current mission and apprise him of these startling events. Unfortunately-” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Dunwoody has disappeared. And at this particular moment I have no idea where he is.”