Wizard squared

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

He’d thought that in the final analysis, dining with Lional would prove to be the worst culinary experience of his life-but apparently he was being far too optimistic.

Breakfasting with himself was a hundred times worse.

Melissande was so frightened, serving them, that she spilled coffee on the table. The other Gerald’s shadbolt punished her, driving her to the floor where she trembled with pain.

“For pity’s sake, Gerald!” he protested. “What’s the matter with you? It’s only coffee. You’re not even splashed! Let her go!”

The other Gerald considered him. “You’re being gallant again, Professor. How bloody tedious!” Then his eyes opened wide. “God, don’t tell me you and your Melissande are canoodling back in your world?”

He stared. “What? No. We’re friends. Good friends. But even if we weren’t I’d never do this to her. I’d never do this to anyone. Now let her go. ”

The other Gerald sighed. “Oh, all right. Just this once. Enough.” Melissande slumped, gasping. Sitting back in his chair, he reached for Bibbie and linked his fingers with hers. “As for thinking you’d not slap a naughty wrist, Professor, well, don’t be so sure. You and I might’ve taken different paths back in New Ottosland but as I’ve already said, we’re still the same man. Whatever I can do, believe me… you can do it too.”

Released from punishment and clambered back to her feet, Melissande set about cleaning up the mess from the dropped coffee pot and the tiny trickle on the table. Gerald watched her closely, his stomach churning. He could still feel her pain, fading tremors in the ether. Then he locked gazes with his counterpart and shook his head.

“You’re wrong, Gerald. I’m not the same as you. I never touched those grimoires. We’re two different men now.”

His counterpart shrugged, unperturbed. “We’ll see. Now hurry up and finish eating. We’ve got things to do and places to go.”

Ignoring his unquiet belly, he ate. Conversation languished. He had questions but he knew this Gerald wouldn’t answer them, so there was no point asking and he lacked the intestinal fortitude for idle, carefree chitchat. Besides, the other Gerald and his Bibbie were so busy canoodling he doubted they’d have heard him even if he tried. And talking to Melissande was out of the question. At least it was in front of them.

The dreadful meal ended, eventually. As Melissande started to clear the table of plates and cutlery, the other Gerald gave Bibbie one last, lascivious look then stood. “Right. Run along upstairs, my dove, and make yourself beautiful. You know it’s important to dazzle the locals.”

Bibbie blew him a kiss and sauntered out of the kitchen.

“And as for you, Professor-”

“I’m going to help Melissande with the dishes,” he said. “You can come and fetch me when it’s time to go wherever it is we’re going.”

The other Gerald looked at him in stony silence, then abruptly smiled. “Fine. Suit yourself. Have a cozy chat. But she’s not going to tell you anything that could possibly hurt me.”

“I never thought for a moment she would.”

Standing, the other Gerald laughed. “Liar. Oh-and if you were thinking about making a run for it? I wouldn’t. The house is quite secure, Professor.” The kitchen door closed gently behind him.

Secure? What did that mean? He reached out, cautiously testing the ether, and winced. Oh. Right. He’d been too distracted before to feel it, but a tangle of incants bound the old house in Chatterly Crescent like lights strung on a Solstice tree. How odd, feeling his own potentia in the hexes, knowing he hadn’t created them. They were vicious. If he was idiot enough to try leaving the premises without the right thaumic password he’d be ripped to bloody shreds the moment his fingers touched window or door.

Very slick. Very nasty. Score one for Gerald.

“You’re a fool to push,” said Melissande, running hot water into the sink. “People are like bugs to him now. He squashes them without thinking.”

He fetched a fresh tea towel from the drawer and threaded it through his hands. “He won’t squash me. He needs me for something.”

Melissande started washing the dishes. “What?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. He won’t tell me.”

“Well, I can tell you this much… whatever it is, it won’t be good.” She put the first clean plate into the dish rack. “So he’s kidnapped you from an alternative reality, has he?”

Of course she’d worked it out. She was one of the three smartest women he knew. “’Fraid so,” he said, taking the plate and drying it. “I just wish I knew how. You don’t suppose-” He hesitated. “Would Monk have helped him? Your Monk, I mean.”

“I expect so,” said Melissande, watching him return the clean plate to its rightful place. “You know, that’s really quite off-putting. You’ve never set foot in this kitchen, yet you know where the tea towels are and where the plates live. I wonder if life could get any more peculiar?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, seeing the pain in her set face. “What you’ve been through-what you’re going through-” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? None of this is your fault,” she said, trying to sound indifferent. “It’s just the way things turned out. For us, anyway.”

She set two more plates in the rack then handed him a third. Drying it, watching her, he thought she was going to ask him something. But then her lips firmed and she gave a tiny shake of her head, as though she were having a silent conversation with herself.

“What?” he said, holding the dried plate and tea towel. “Go on. Ask. It’s all right.”

The look she gave him was full of fear and sarcasm. “Really? How would you know?”

The imprisoning shadbolt was sunk deep in her etheretic aura. Given her limited potentia it was a far more powerful binding than was necessary. Much crueler. He could feel it waiting for her to trip up, say the wrong thing or wear the wrong expression, so it could tighten its grip on her and make her pay.

Shamed, he turned away. “Sorry. You’re right.” He put the plate in the cupboard. “I don’t know anything.”

She didn’t contradict him. Instead she made short work of the dirty cutlery then reached for the bacon pan. But halfway through scrubbing she stopped, her spectacles foggy. “Your world,” she said, her voice low. “Is it better than this one?”

“Yes,” he said, when he could speak past the lump in his throat. “Much.”

“You and me… after New Ottosland-we stayed in touch?”

He nodded. “We certainly did.”

“And am I happy there? In your world?”

The note of hope in her voice nearly broke him. How can I tell her without making things worse? But then how can I lie? She deserves the truth. “Very. At least, you are when you’re not worrying about the agency or rousing on Monk for being reckless or scolding Reg for-”

“No, don’t mind me,” she said, one hand raised and dripping suds, even as tears rolled down her thin cheeks. “I’m glad for me. Honestly. Your me. I’m glad for you, that things are good in your world.” On a deep breath she got back to scrubbing. “I hope you make it home again, Gerald. I hope-” Another deep breath. “I hope she knows how lucky she is.”

“Melissande…” he said, aching. “If there’s any way I can help you, I will. If I can get that bloody shadbolt off you, I will. I’ll-”

She shoved the scrubbed pan at him. “That’s sweet, really. It’s easy to forget you used to be a kind and decent man.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he took the pan and tea-toweled it dry.

“There’s nothing you can do for me, Gerald,” she said calmly. “I mean, I’m sure you could get rid of this shadbolt but he’d only replace it with something worse. And then he’d make you very sorry that you interfered. Don’t interfere with him, Gerald. Don’t get in his way. Nothing good happens to anyone who gets in his way.”

“But-” He stared at her. “I can’t help him, Melissande. Not if what he wants me to do means people will get hurt.”

She snorted. “Trust me, Gerald, if he shadbolts you then you’ll not have a choice. D’you honestly think Monk wants to help him? He’s shadbolted just like me.”

Oh, lord. Monk. “Where is he, Melissande? And where’s Reg?”

“I don’t know,” she said, scrubbing at the last pan. “I haven’t seen either of them for nearly six months.”

Feeling sick, he took the cleaned egg pan from her. “He said they were alive. Do you think he was lying?”

“About Monk?” She shook her head. “No. He needs Monk for his thaumaturgics. As for Reg, who knows? I mean, she’s Reg. He loves that stupid bird. Or he used to. But the last time I saw her she was still trying to change his mind, and these days Gerald doesn’t like being challenged. He’s got a new motto, you see. Be reasonable and do it my way. ”

“Oh.” Heart sinking, he put the egg pan away with the other pots. “Melissande… how bad is it out there?” He nodded at the window, at the unknown world beyond it. “What can I expect to find?”

She pulled the sink’s plug then fetched another tea towel. “Misery,” she said, starting on the cutlery. “Fear. Our Gerald’s got all of Ottosland gripped tight in his fist. And the only way you’ll get him to let go of it is by cutting off his hand.” Her eyes glittered. “Or better yet, his head.”

He swallowed. “You hate him.”

“Of course I do,” she said. “And so would you, if you were me.”

Yes, he probably would.

“I hate Emmerabiblia, too,” she added. “Even if she is Monk’s sister. Sly little trollop.” Her mouth pinched. “In your world, are you and she-”

“No,” he said, and had to clear his throat. “But I like her. In my world she’s-ah-well. She’s different. In my world you like her, too. In fact-”

“Stop,” she said, turning away. “Don’t tell me any more about your world. I can hardly stand my life as it is.”

Oh, lord. “I’m sorry.”

“And stop apologizing,” she snapped. “This isn’t your fault. Like you said, you aren’t him.”

I really bloody hope not. “Look-getting back to him,” he said diffidently. “What about the government? Surely he didn’t just… stroll in and take it over?”

“Actually?” She shrugged. “That’s exactly what he did. Very nicely at first. He only wanted to help. He solved a few sticky problems and everyone was thrilled. Solved a few more, and still everyone was thrilled. And then he started… butting in. So people started having second thoughts, but by then it was too late. And when you’re the only rogue wizard in the world, Gerald, and you’ve got more thaumaturgical firepower at your fingertips than a hundred regular wizards rolled into one, and no conscience at all, well-I’m afraid you can do pretty much what you like.”

He felt as confused now as when he’d first opened his eyes in the bedroom that wasn’t really his bedroom. “But-but-what about the United Magical Nations? Surely someone’s reported him. I mean, those grimoires Lional stole from Uffitzi, they’re on the proscribed list. They’re illegal. There are sanctions for using them. Surely someone must’ve-”

Sighing, Melissande put down the tea towel and the forks she was drying. “Gerald…” She took her hands in his. “You’re not listening. He’s made himself untouchable.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t believe that. Nobody’s untouchable. Somebody somewhere is fighting him. They have to be. Surely you’ve heard something, a whisper, a-a rumor even, of-”

She let go of him and stepped back, shaking her head. “You really don’t grasp the enormity of what’s happened here, do you? Gerald, I’ve not left this house for seven months. Aside from him and Bibbie, you’re the only person I’ve spoken to since I was shadbolted and prisoned beneath this roof. For all I know there is no more government and Central Ott’s nothing but a smoking ruin.”

“Oh, but-surely there has to be a government,” he protested. “I mean, every country has a government, Melissande. You know. Lords and ministers and bureaucrats and pen-pushers. We’re bloody overrun with them back home. A country can’t function without a government. You know that better than anyone. You used to be a prime minister.”

“For a brother who got rid of his government, remember?” she retorted. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Gerald’s not taken a page out of Lional’s instruction manual and done the same thing.” Frowning, she reached for the dried cutlery and began putting it away. “Gerald… about Lional… your Lional, I mean…”

Oh, lord. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But he died.”

She nodded, closed the cutlery drawer then picked up the tea towel. “Here, too. Gerald killed him.” She looked at him. “Did you…?”

“I’m sorry. I tried not to. I did. But…”

“I know,” she said, shrugging. “I don’t blame you. He’d gone quite mad.”

It was her dull resignation that broke his heart. “Look, Melissande-I can’t believe there’s no hope of fixing things here. What about Kallarap? I know Shugat’s not big on getting involved in anything not Kallarapi but under the circusmtances you’d think-”

“Rupert asked,” she said, grimacing. “More than once. It was no use. And I made him promise that no matter what happened he wouldn’t try helping me on his own. There’s nothing he can do, anyway. He’s not a wizard and New Ottosland’s weak. Gerald…” Stepping closer, she rested her hand on his arm. “It’s awful you’ve been dragged here, into our mess. And if there’s the slightest chance of you escaping back to your own world, you should take it. Reg was right. The magic in those grimoires ruined you. In a way it killed you. So don’t be a hero. You can’t save us. Nobody can. But it would make living this nightmare more bearable if I knew you were home safe. If I knew that somewhere I had a life worth living.”

“Oh, Mel,” he whispered, and pulled her to him in a desperate hug. “How can I do that? I can’t leave you here alone with-”

The kitchen door crashed open. “Oh, stop groping that silly cow, Professor, and come on!” snarled the other Gerald. “Thanks to Bibbie, who insists on doing her makeup by hand, God alone knows why, we’re running late. And I’m expecting a very important call this morning. I swear, if I miss it because she can’t make up her mind about bloody lipstick…”

Still holding on to Melissande, he kissed her cheek. “Don’t give up hope just yet,” he said softly. “I know things look bleak but… please, don’t give up.”

“Professor,” said the other Gerald. He sounded dangerous now.

He let her go and turned. “Yes. All right. I’m coming.”

“You’d be wise not to try me, you know,” said the other Gerald, slamming the kitchen door shut behind them and stalking off along the corridor. “My plans have reached a critical phase and waiting puts me in a very bad mood. So don’t make me testy. Because while it might not suit me to hurt you I can always hurt her. Cross me and I will. My word as a wizard.” A scathing backwards glance. “Do you believe me, Professor? Say you believe me.”

Oh, lord. “Yes, Gerald. I believe you.”

“Good,” said the other Gerald, and picked up his pace.

Bibbie was waiting at the old house’s front door, changed out of her scanty scarlet dress into an exotically shimmering neck-to-ankle garment made entirely of multi-colored Fandawandi silk. To complete her decorous deception she’d added a hat that seemed to be adorned with enough bits of parrot to render an entire flock extinct.

“There you are,” she said, seeing them, her shiny pink lips pouting. “All that shouting and waving your arms about and now here I am twiddling my thumbs while you-”

“Put a sock in it, Bibs,” growled the other Gerald. “Before I put a sock in it for you.”

Bibbie wilted. “Sorry, Gerald,” she murmured, and meekly followed him outside.

Gerald, his heart painfully thumping, fell into step behind the appalling pair. Parked outside the front gate was an enormous gleaming silver car, the most luxurious and expensive-looking model he’d ever seen. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was a Kingsmark. Remembering Monk’s dilapidated and unreliable jalopy, and despite his current predicament, he couldn’t help a soft whistle of admiration.

The other Gerald flicked him a disdainful look. “What, you were expecting a clunker? Hardly. You can ride in the back.”

He nodded. “Of course, Gerald. Whatever you say.”

And that would have to be his mantra for the next little while. Until he knew what his other self wanted from him… and he’d worked out a way to make sure the mad bastard never got it.

As well as being a stunning example of automotive design, the other Gerald’s expensive car-like the house-was hexed, smothered bumper to bumper in powerful incants designed to deflect both physical and thaumaturgical attack. Interesting. It surely suggested that even with his fist gripping tight, he still had powerful enemies. Or was afraid he might have powerful enemies. Something certainly worth bearing in mind.

If I can find out who he’s scared of-make contact with them-maybe we could work together. I’ll work with anyone to see him brought down, even Errol Haythwaite. Because the enemy of my enemy is absolutely my new best friend.

The Kingsmark’s engine turned over smoothly, purring like Tavistock. Behind the wheel the other Gerald pulled away from the pavement, Bibbie pretty and poisonous at his side.

Gerald let his head fall back against the seat.

Bloody hell, Reg. Wish me luck, ducky, wherever you are.

“All right, Professor,” said the other Gerald, after they’d been driving for about twenty minutes. “The time has come for you to close your eyes.”

Now there was an idea. If he closed his eyes maybe when he opened them again he’d find himself back in his real bed, in Monk’s real house, at home in real Ottosland. That would be nice.

Oh, give it a rest, Dunnywood. This really is happening. You’re never going to wish it away.

Looking out of the passenger window had proven pointless-every piece of glass save the windshield was hexed to keep the world beyond it a mystery. It was like traveling inside a luxurious shoebox. He’d done his best to peer between the front seats and out of the more lightly-hexed windshield, but the other Gerald had sworn at him and told him to bloody well sit back and stop wriggling or else. Still. He’d seen enough to know that they were definitely heading down to the city center. And what was there? Government House. Various ministry buildings, including the Department of Thaumaturgy’s stately home. The Botanical Gardens. The Old Parade Ground. The Mint. The National Art Gallery. The Opera “Eyes closed, Gerry,” said Bibbie, squirmed around in the front passenger seat and frowning at him. “Aren’t you paying attention?”

Dear lord, she was appalling. How could she possibly be related-thaumaturgically or otherwise-to his own sweet Emmerabiblia?

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Eyes closing now.”

But slowly, so he could try to snatch one last glimpse of the world outside their car. As his eyelids drifted shut he caught sight of the city’s world famous Botanical Gardens, and with them a corner hint of the Department of Thaumaturgy building. Above and beyond them a tiny snatch of airship floated in the cloudy sky, he thought above the Grand Ott Portal Station. Ha. Maybe it’s one of Ambrose Wycliffe’s, if he’s still alive here. And then, because he couldn’t stall any longer, he let his eyes close completely and the world beyond the windshield disappeared.

He felt the car take a right-hand turn, away from the Gardens and his old stamping ground, the DoT. And that meant-that meant-what was in this specific direction? Oh yes. They must be heading for Ott’s big ceremonial parade ground, smack bang in the middle of the sprawling metropolis. Not that it was used for ceremonial parades anymore. At least, not often. Not in his world anyway. Back home the empty space was used for open-air theatrical productions and Keys to the City ceremonies and War Remembrance services. Jolly civic get-togethers like that. What it was used for in this Ott, he couldn’t imagine… although nothing jolly seemed a pretty safe bet. Whatever the truth was, he was starting to think it would turn out to be something else he really didn’t want to know.

And what I do want to know, this Gerald won’t tell me.

While he sat silently in the back seat, feeling stupid with his eyes closed, Bibbie prattled on about some upcoming grand society reception. A glittering event, all the important people coming. She started to name names but her Gerald shut her up. After a moment’s frightened silence she started prattling again, her voice brittle beneath the gaiety. This time she was careful to talk only of clothes and jewels and who was yet to be invited and what she wanted on the menu. Then she and her Gerald started arguing about the merits of smoked salmon and caviar.

With his captors momentarily distracted, he grabbed his chance with both hands and took a closer look at Bibbie’s aura. He had to know what she’d done to herself. She was nowhere near as rotten as this Gerald, but she’d warped her sweetness somehow. If he could work out what incants she’d absorbed then maybe, just maybe, he could undo the damage. If he could restore her to the Bibbie he knew and-and cared for-perhaps he’d have found his first ally.

God knows I need all the help I can get.

And the thought of leaving her like this, twisted and distorted, was more than he could stomach. But before he’d managed to identify the first dark incant tainting her etheretic aura the other Gerald shushed Monk’s sister with a sharp word and started to slow the car.

“All right, Professor,” he said, so abominably cheerful. “We’re here. And we’ve just enough time to spare to have ourselves a nice little stroll around.”

“Stroll around?” he said, lifting his eyelids. Ha, I was right. This is the parade ground. “In public? Don’t you want to keep me under wraps? I mean, aren’t I going to be a bit difficult to explain?”

Looking over his shoulder, the other Gerald smiled the blood-chilling smile that rendered him a perfect stranger. “That won’t be a problem. I’ve had the area closed. Come along!”

So Melissande really hadn’t been exaggerating. This Gerald had the power to arrange the city’s workings to suit himself. Even incomplete, the picture was getting worse and worse. Beneath his plain cotton shirt and his drab brown suit his skin was sticky with sweat. He had to wait for his counterpart to unhex his door and open it.

“Just one more thing, Professor,” the other Gerald said, out of the car now and leaning down, his hand on the rear passenger door’s handle, his body blocking escape. Deep in his eyes, the crimson flames flickered. “You’ll notice that as a courtesy I’ve not restrained you. No shadbolt. No booby-traps. Not even a little docilianti to keep you at my heels. I’m going to assume you appreciate that gesture. I’m going to assume you’ll not disrespect my hospitality or betray my trust by trying anything stupid-say, like running away.”

Keep him sweet, keep him sweet… “Of course not, Gerald.”

“Good,” said his counterpart. “Because I wasn’t joking. I will make Melissande pay for your mistakes. And if those mistakes are big enough, well, I’ll kick your ass too. And you might as well know now, Professor, so there aren’t any misunderstandings. Compared to me? Lional of New Ottosland was a slobbering sentimentalist.”

A bolt of the darkest, purest fear he’d ever felt shafted through him. “This is crazy,” he whispered. “Gerald, what happened to you? What went wrong? We weren’t brought up to be cruel, or-or despotic. Our parents are-were-lovely people. And we were-we were good. I can’t believe that even Grummen’s Lexicon and those other grimoires could’ve changed you this much.”

The other Gerald laughed. “Don’t be an idiot. You think I stopped there? Uffitzi’s paltry library was only the beginning.”

“Oh,” he said blankly. “Well. That probably explains it.” He swallowed. “So… we’re talking the entire Internationally Proscribed Index?”

“And one or two collections that slipped through the cracks,” said his counterpart. “Let’s just say I’m the most well-rounded wizard you’re ever likely to meet. And that I can deal with you as easily as swatting a fly.”

He nodded, bacon and fried egg churning in his guts. “It’s all right. I believe you.” Except-if that’s the case, then why do you need me? Whatever you’re planning, Gerald, why don’t you just get on with it? “And like I said, I won’t try anything. I promise.”

“ Excellent, ” said the other Gerald, and stepped back from the car. “But you know-just in case you’re trying to pull a swifty? If you’re thinking you might, I don’t know, bide your time and try something foolish when my guard’s down? There are one or two things I really need you to see.”

Which means I really don’t want to see them, doesn’t it?

But he had no choice. All he could do was play along until he had a chance to come up with some kind of plan.

Because there’s still the Monk in this world. I have to believe that Melissande’s right and he’s not let himself be corrupted too. And my Monk, he’s a bloody genius. He’ll work out what’s happened and he’ll find a way to get me home. Bibbie-my Bibbie-she’ll help him. And Sir Alec. The whole Department. All the janitors-even Mr. Dalby. I’m not alone. It just feels that way.

Steeling himself, he clambered out of the posh car-and nearly fell on his ass.

“Bloody hell!”

What had been an open air civic gathering place was now a forbiddingly-walled enclosure, the red brick barriers standing some fifteen feet high. Enormous wrought-iron gates guarded a locked entrance, and frozen over the gates in a nightmare greeting-or warning His counterpart sighed. “Magnificent, isn’t she? Quite the souvenir if I do say so myself.”

She was the dragon he-they-had made for Lional. Even in the glum, cloud-filtered light the creature’s crimson and emerald scales flashed brilliant. Suspended in mid-air, wings spread wide, lower jaw unhinged to display its full array of fearsome, poison-slicked teeth, tail poised to lash, taloned feet outstretched, the dragon reared above the wrought-iron gates so lifelike, so terrifying “God,” he said, turning. “It’s dead, isn’t it? Tell me it’s dead!”

Bibbie giggled. “You big baby. Of course it’s dead.”

“Dead and thaumaturgically preserved,” added the other Gerald. “For posterity. Because she really is bloody beautiful, isn’t she?”

The last thing he wanted to do was agree, but he had no choice. Indeed the dragon was-had always been-beautiful. He nodded. “Yes.”

The other Gerald sighed. “Such a shame I had to replace two of the teeth with thaumaturgical fakes.”

“They got broken?”

“Sort of.”

Oh. Well. All moral considerations aside it was a shame, really. Like a magnet the dragon drew his horrified, fascinated gaze. Cautiously he stretched out his potentia. The strength of the incants surrounding the creature did knock him back a step, but he managed to keep his balance and stay on his feet.

Beneath the complex network of preservation and immobilization hexes he could feel decaying remnants of the Tantigliani sympathetico… and mingled with that, a lingering memory of Lional.

He felt his belly turn over as bile flooded his mouth.

The other Gerald laughed. “You know what they say, Professor. Look, but don’t touch.”

He pulled back his potentia, shaking, and waited for the churning nausea to subside. “It’s very impressive.”

“Isn’t it?” said his counterpart, smugly pleased. “What did you do with your dragon, Professor? No-wait-don’t tell me. You buried her. Right?”

He nodded, his gaze still riveted to the horribly magnificent beast overhead. “Of course. Thanks to the sympathetico, Lional and that thing were inextricably bound. To bury him without the dragon would’ve been like burying him without an arm, or a leg.”

“Or a head,” said the other Gerald. “But then, since my Lional’s not buried either it isn’t something I need to worry about.”

“Not that you needed to worry at all,” added Bibbie. “I mean, he was a rotter and he deserved what he got.”

Gerald felt a cold shiver skitter over his skin. “And what did he get? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“All in good time, Professor,” said the other Gerald briskly. “Let’s get cracking, shall we? I’ve a lot planned for today.”

With a snap of his fingers he unhexed the lethally hexed wrought-iron gates, which silently swung open to admit them. Gerald hung back, letting his counterpart and Bibbie lead the way. Once they were just comfortably far enough ahead he followed and, trying not to appear eagerly curious, looked around the enclosed parade ground. It seemed they were alone. He couldn’t see anyone else. But there was a scattered collection of large, opaque domes. They looked like enormous upended, smoked-glass soup bowls. Most peculiar. But he didn’t dare poke at them to learn exactly what they were. Everything in here was hexed, he could feel the incants skittering against his skin. Poke too hard, or at the wrong thing, and he might set off a thaumaturgical booby-trap.

The wrought-iron gates clanged shut behind them, their hexes reigniting as metal kissed metal. He felt that, too, a deep shudder in his potentia. The air reeked of coercive magics, a sour tang aftertaste with every breath he took. So unlike his own city of Ott was it that he found it hard to believe they’d ever been the same place.

Like me and this Gerald. We have no common ground.

So how he was supposed to reach him, get him to turn back from his dark, destructive path, he had no idea.

But I have to try.