Wizard squared

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Crouched on the library floor trying to read book spines, Bibbie sighed. “Melissande, you’re staring.”

Melissande winced. Rats. And there’s me thinking I was being so surreptitious. “Sorry.”

“If you want to know something, ask,” said Bibbie, sitting back on her heels. “I mean, I might say none of your business but that’s not the same as biting your head off.”

“True.” She pressed her finger against the last book checked so she didn’t lose her place. “All right. So here’s the thing. I was wondering if you-that’s to say, I’ve been feeling somewhat-you see, there’s this-”

“Yes, Mel, Monk cares for you,” Bibbie said kindly. “And no, I’m sorry, I’ve no idea why he’s not made a formal declaration. All I can tell you is, well, don’t give up hope. He’s never once looked at anyone the way he looks at you. He’s just slow on the uptake. He is a man, after all.”

Suddenly ashamed, she stared at the old library carpet. “You must think I’m awful,” she murmured. “Worried about my silly feelings while Gerald’s missing and there’s a dead Monk upstairs and-” She bit her lip, shatteringly close to an inappropriate emotional outburst. “It’s just-I can’t bear to think about any of that. About how we might never see Gerald again.”

Bibbie’s blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare, Mel. Of course we’ll see him again.”

“Bibbie…” She cleared her throat. “About Gerald. Do you-”

“Quite a lot, actually,” said Bibbie. Her chin trembled. “But you mustn’t tell him I said so. He’s got this ridiculous notion he can’t be happy because he’s a rogue wizard. And a janitor. That he’s too dangerous for me to love. All nonsense, of course, but there’s no point in me trying to convince him. I just have to wait for him to work it out on his own.”

“Wait for how long?” she said, after a moment.

“Well-as long as it takes, of course,” said Bibbie, surprised. “What a silly question.”

Yes. Of course. Very silly.

“Ah hah! ” said Bibbie, and pulled a book from the shelf. “Here we go. Shadbolts Through The Ages. Technically it’s a restricted text but I’ll say this for Great-Uncle Throgmorton-he didn’t give a toss about silly rules.” She tossed it onto the library’s deep, wingback reading chair. “I’m sure there’s at least one more, so come on, Mel. Keep searching. Sir Alec could come back any tick of the clock and I want to be ready for him. I don’t think I could stand one more of his withering looks.” She pulled a face. “I’m a girl, not an amoeba, but I don’t think he’s noticed.”

She had to smile. “Don’t be so sure. I mean, he’s middle-aged, Bibs. Not blind.”

“Oh, you,” said Bibbie, shifting to the next bookcase. “You’re as bad as Reg, you are.”

“Now, now,” she said, still smiling. “I’m sure there’s no need to get nasty, Emmerabiblia.”

Bibbie pouted. “Spoilsport.”

“Well, you know. I try my best.”

A cheerful fire crackled in the library’s small fireplace, throwing warm light and dancing shadows. Its four walls were lined ceiling to carpet with bookcases, and the bookcases were crammed tight with books. It was her favorite room in Monk’s house. Most of the collection he’d inherited from his rule-breaking great-uncle Throgmorton, a noted thaumaturgical bibliophile. His own books he’d jammed in around the edges, which was making the search for shadbolt texts something of a challenge.

The library door opened as she moved on to the next row, and Monk came in carrying a tray with a teapot, and four mugs. Reg flapped in behind him and landed on the back of the nearest chair.

“Did you remember biscuits?” said Bibbie, turning.

“No,” said Monk, and scowled at Reg. “Why didn’t you remind me?”

The bird rolled her eyes. “Because, sunshine, and I quote: ‘Offer me one more piece of advice about how to make a bloody cup of tea, Reg, and I swear I’ll transmog you into a boot.’ ”

“Never mind,” said Bibbie. “I’ll fetch some.”

“Not without me, you won’t,” said Reg. “You always pick the ones I don’t like.”

She and Bibbie left the library, bickering. Monk held out the tray. “The red mug. Milk and three sugars.”

Taking her tea, Melissande perched on the edge of the wingback chair. “Tell me the truth, Monk. Do you really think we can get Gerald back?”

He put the tray on the library’s low table, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “If he is where we think he is… I think there’s a chance.”

She felt her stomach lurch. “Only a chance?”

“Mel…” Ignoring his own mug of tea, Monk rubbed a hand over his tired face. “If he is where we think he is-” He shook his head. “It’s very bad.”

“I understand that, but-he’ll have me, won’t he? I mean, the other me. And he’ll have the other Bibbie. And Reg. He won’t be alone.”

“Mel, you heard the other Monk as well as I did,” he said, looking at her with eyes full of not-quite-stifled fear. “The other you, the other Bibbie… something’s not right there. We can’t assume he’s got anyone to help him.”

Fingers wrapped tight around the red mug, she took a sip of tea. The heavy porcelain chattered against her teeth. I heard him say he loved me. “Then that’s more reason to help. You are going after him, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

“You don’t-” She leaped up, heedless of the tea splashing her shirt. “Monk, we can’t leave him there!”

“D’you think I want to?” he demanded. “D’you think I can bear thinking we might? But Mel, we’re not even certain that he is in the other Monk’s world. And even if he is, I don’t know if going after him is possible.”

“What? Of course it’s possible. You’ve got the other Monk’s portal opener, haven’t you? You could go to his world right now, if you wanted. So what are you waiting for? Open the door!”

“Mel…” Monk folded his arms as though his chest was hurting him. “I can’t. Sir Alec said-”

“Oh, bugger Sir Alec!” she retorted. “What does he know?”

Monk pulled a face. “A darn sight more than he’s letting on, I’m guessing. Melissande-”

“Don’t you Melissande me, Monk Markham. Gerald’s your best friend and he saved my country. We can’t abandon him, Monk. We can’t.”

“Now, now, ducky,” said Reg, flying into the room ahead of Bibbie, who had biscuits. “Untwist your knickers.” Settling herself on the reading chair’s high back she looked down her beak, so irritatingly condescending. “Nobody’s abandoning anybody. Not while I’m around.”

“Hear, hear,” said Bibbie, dumping the plate of biscuits beside the tea tray. “What are you guffing on about now, Monk?”

Frustrated, Monk turned away and stamped over to the fireplace. “I’m not guffing, Bibbie, I’m-I’m trying to be objective. I’m trying to look at this mess with cold, hard eyes. And like it or not, all of you, this is what I see-just because we want to rescue Gerald doesn’t mean we can. We could do the right thing for the right reason and end up making things worse. And if you think it doesn’t bloody well kill me to-”

Melissande took a breath, ready to challenge him, but Bibbie beat her to it. “Of course it does, but that’s not the point, is it? What you’re saying is balderdash. Since when do you get cold feet, Monk Markham? We are Witches Incorporated and we can do anything we set our minds to.” Eyes glittering, she tilted her chin defiantly. “So drink your tea, eat a biscuit, then do as Sir Alec asked you and brush up on shadbolts. We’re going to be ready for that sarky bugger when he gets back.”

Impressed, Melissande watched Monk’s tense shoulders slump. Sighing heavily, he turned. Even in the warming firelight he looked pale. “Fine. But when he does get back, Bibbie, we’re going to do exactly what he says. Because what we’ve stumbled into-been dragged into-it’s bigger than anything we’ve come up against before. This isn’t only about our Gerald.”

Melissande looked at him. “What-you think the other Gerald has plans to come and visit us?”

She’d surprised him. If she weren’t so sad and tired she’d be a bit insulted.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d thought that far ahead,” he admitted. “I think it’s possible. Don’t you?”

“Yes. What does Sir Alec think?”

“We didn’t discuss it. But I’ll bet he thinks it’s possible too,” said Monk, his own tea forgotten. “Which complicates everything. Because if we charge into this half-cocked, if we make the wrong choices? Not only could we end up getting Gerald killed, we could cause the destruction of that world and this one.”

Nobody spoke for a while. Even the flames in the fireplace sounded subdued.

Melissande looked at Bibbie. “I hate to say it, Bibs, but he’s right. Not about not rescuing Gerald-but we do need to take this one step at a time.” She picked up Shadbolts Through The Ages from the seat of the reading chair and held it out to him. “Come on. You can start with this.”

“Good idea,” said Reg, and rattled her tail feathers. “Plop your ass down here, Mr. Markham. I’ll read over your shoulder and explain all the big thaumaturgical words.”

Despite the tension, everyone laughed. Well, everyone except Reg. “Thanks, Your Majesty,” said Monk, crossing to the chair. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Trust me, sunshine,” said Reg, sniffing. “Neither do I.”

Melissande felt herself shiver as Monk’s fingers brushed hers, taking the book. He gave her a small smile, resigned and affectionate. Smiling back, she hoped he couldn’t tell how hard and fast her heart was beating.

He will end up going. I can feel it in my bones. Oh, lord. Oh, Saint Snodgrass. Please, please… bring them back.

He kept the object in a hexed and lead-lined box in a secret storage pit at the bottom of his East Ott garden. Seventeen years ago, when he’d found the appalling thing, this had been his father’s garden. This had been his father’s house. But that hadn’t mattered. Prompted by an odd premonition, he’d built the hidey-hole two years before that, and never once did his father suspect it was there. His father had been a useful wizard, but no match for the obfuscation incants he’d learned from the Department. In the long years since his finding and hiding of the object, Father remained blissfully ignorant of the object’s existence.

How bitterly did he wish he’d been granted the same respite.

Being an only child, in due course the property had come to him. As well as sorrow, he’d felt relief. Unlike his father he lived a solitary life. With no regular parade of visitors the hidey-hole was almost certainly safe from discovery.

Because he was a janitor, traveling the world’s less savory places, over the years, from time to time, other things had been stored at the bottom of the garden… but none approached the malevolence of the object in the box. To this day-especially on this day-he did not regret his failure to report what he’d found, nor his decision not to surrender it to the man who, in that time, had headed his Department. Harfield Gravesend had been a good man, a trustworthy man, and competent enough in his unimaginative way. But Gravesend had been too quick to trust his political superiors. Too bullishly convinced that the government was and would ever be an instrument of good. Whereas Alec Oldman was born a cynical child, and subsequent experience had only honed his wry suspicions.

Besides. Some things were so tempting they should never see the light of day.

The obfuscation hexes around the old hidey-hole melted like mist at his command. Kneeling on the damp grass, his fingers chilled by the rising dew, he unhexed the hole’s lid and eased it open. Immediately he felt the tingle of incants binding the lead-lined box within. And even though they shrouded the thaumic signature of the object, still in his imagination he could feel its sinister touch. Twice, he’d used it, and had nightmares for days after. Remembering those dreams, which returned now and then, usually after a particularly vexing case, a prickle of sweat broke out on his skin. If he did indeed ask Monk Markham to use the object he’d be condemning the young wizard to a lifetime of dismay.

Which hardly seemed fair. Ralph’s nephew wasn’t one of his agents. And this time he’d not willingly become involved in grim affairs. This time his only crime was being friends with Gerald Dunwoody.

Which only goes to prove the old saw right: there is no good deed that finds itself unpunished.

With a tiny shiver of distaste he reached into the hidey-hole and withdrew the heavily hexed and lead-lined box housing the object. Thrust it into the thick felt bag he’d fetched from indoors, re-sealed the otherwise empty hidey-hole and returned to the car with his burden. Threatened by dawn, the world’s rim was growing light. Soon now there’d be traffic, and an expectation that he could be found behind his desk in his office at Nettleworth. Knowing that expectations were about to be confounded-and that more problems would arise because of it-he drove with unwise speed back to the Markham madhouse, where Ralph’s nephew and niece and two unlikely royal women were waiting. Where a dead man who should not exist lay stiffening with rigor on the bed of a man who also, some believed, should not exist.

Was he doing the right thing? He had no idea. But, like his hiding of the object, he was doing the only thing he could live with. And for better or worse, that was the best he could do.

Monk and the ladies greeted his return with wary courtesy. Cautious, untrusting, belligerent and afraid. They showed him into the old house’s library where a fire burned with inappropriate cheer, and a scattering of books about shadbolts suggested that at last Ralph’s intractable nephew was learning to do as he was told.

The other Monk’s portal opener sat on a low table, outwardly innocent, wholly repellent. He withdrew the object in its lead-lined box from the thick felt bag and put it on the same low table. Then he unhexed the box and flipped back the lid, revealing the object’s existence for the first time in years.

“Blimey,” said Monk Markham, peering down at it. “That thing’s got a kick to it.”

He nodded. “It has.”

Stepping back, Markham’s sister shivered. “I don’t like it, Sir Alec.”

He flicked a glance at her. “Nor should you, Miss Markham. This is a thaumaturgical abomination. Created by a man afflicted by… interesting ideas.”

As Monk Markham winced, the appalling bird tipped her head to one side. “Oh yes? In that case, sunshine, what’s it doing in our library?”

He’d often wondered just how much Mr. Dunwoody and his friends knew about the former Queen of Lalapinda. He had to believe-very little. For if they’d known what he knew they would hardly be so relaxed in her company. If he weren’t convinced she’d been hexed into comparative harmlessness he’d not be relaxed either.

Miss Cadwallader, as she so quaintly insisted she now be called, stood stiffly behind the wingback chair on which the bird perched. “I appreciate that in your profession, Sir Alec, a certain amount of circumspection is required. But really, given our current dilemma, I hardly think it’s appropriate.”

“In other words, ducky, get on with it,” said the bird. “In case you haven’t noticed, the sun’s about to rise.”

And that was true. With nowhere to sit he dropped to one knee beside the low table, and the box. “This device,” he said, tapping its lead-lined container, “is the only one of its kind. At least, as far as I know. I’ve never come across another and it’s my devout hope I never will.” He swept his gaze around their faces, slowly, and let them see what that meant. “Until this moment I was the only one who knew of its existence. The wizard who created it is long dead and while he lived he kept it a secret. In revealing it to you four now I imperil not only my own career and quite possibly my life, but yours as well.”

“Without asking?” said Miss Markham, frowning. “Thanks for nothing, Sir Alec.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

“So this long dead wizard you nicked it from,” said the bird. “Killed him, did you?”

“Is that relevant?”

Her disconcertingly human eyes gleamed. “No. But it’s interesting.”

“It’s ancient history,” he said flatly, and looked again at Ralph’s inconveniently brilliant nephew. “Mr. Markham. There is a short time after death during which echoes of the deceased’s experiences remain imprinted on his or her etheretic aura. This device will allow you to read them.”

“Bloody hell!” said the bird. “No wonder you kept that thing under wraps. In the wrong hands it could do a bit of mischief.”

He gave her a thin smile. “Precisely.”

Monk Markham and his sister were staring at the object with oddly-alike expressions: shock mixed with a cautious and regrettable admiring excitement. The term “cut from the same cloth” might have been coined just for them.

Ralph, Ralph. Does your brother know about his children?

Miss Cadwallader folded her arms. “You want to read our visitor, don’t you?”

“Not… exactly,” he said. “I want Mr. Markham to read him.”

“Me? Why me?” said Ralph’s nephew, startled.

He shrugged. “Because much of the information gained through this device is, for want of a better word, intuitive. And given that you and he are the same man in many respects, it seems likely you’ve a better chance of connecting with his memories. Especially since he’s been dead for some time.”

“Fine,” said Miss Cadwallader. “Say our Monk connects. What do you intend to do with the information?”

“Whatever I must in order to avert disaster,” he replied, with another thin smile. “That is, after all, my job.”

Melissande Cadwallader was a perspicacious young woman, with a spirit forged in fires the heat of which thankfully few would ever know. She stared at him in silence, her green gaze measured and cold. One by one the others, even the bird, turned to look at her.

“Mel?” said Ralph’s nephew, a young man in love. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Sir Alec… nobody official knows you’re here, do they?”

Ah. Very neatly, very deliberately, he clasped his hands on his bent knee. “No.”

“Do they know Gerald’s missing?”

“No.”

“Do they know about the other Monk?”

“No.”

“In other words, whatever you’re planning to do isn’t sanctioned.”

He nodded. “Correct.”

“And are you going to tell them? Your political masters?”

Political masters. Oh, how he disliked that term. “In my opinion this situation is too complicated for a politician to grasp. If we’re going to act we must act quickly, decisively, with a minumum of interference.”

“So, in other other words,” she said, still so cool and watchful, “you want to go on keeping your secrets.” She nodded at the lead-lined box and its contents. “Like that thing.”

“Yes. That is, if you’ve no objection, Miss Cadwallader.”

Her lips tightened. “Have you heard of the saying, Who watches the watchers?”

“We watch each other, Miss Cadwallader.”

“Ha!” scoffed the bird. “Then why weren’t you watching my Gerald?”

“Are you suggesting I should’ve anticipated the manner of Mr. Dunwoody’s disappearance?”

“He didn’t disappear, sunshine, he was kidnapped!” said the bird. “Right from under your sleeping nose!”

“Reg,” said Miss Cadwallader, and nudged the chair with her knee. “Be fair.”

The bird subsided. Interesting.

“Miss Cadwallader,” he said, “is there a point you’re trying to make? If so, please make it. Every minute we delay makes Mr. Markham’s task more difficult.”

“My point, Sir Alec,” she retorted, “is that you should stop treating us like children and instead spell out exactly what you’ve got in mind.”

“You tell him, ducky,” the bird snapped, and chattered her beak. “Bloody government stooges. They’re all alike and they never change.”

Mr. Markham cleared his throat uncomfortably, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Look. Sir Alec. I know when it comes to your dealings with us the road so far’s been a bit bumpy. I know that one way or another we haven’t always followed the rules. At least, not as they’re written. But that doesn’t make us the enemy. We might be unorthodox but I promise, you can trust us.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “Mr. Markham, if I didn’t know that already then instead of remaining here in your comfortable house you and your sister and your unorthodox friends would be under lock and key in an undisclosed location.”

“Oh,” said Ralph’s nephew, blinking. “Right.”

The bird cackled. “So now that you’ve put us all at ease, Sir Watc h-Me-Throw-My-Weight-Around-Because-Intimidating-Civilians-Is-So-MuchFun, why don’t you cut to the chase and lay your dog-eared cards on this nice antique table?”

He looked at the bird and the bird looked back. Bright eyes, dull feathers, and deeds long behind her that would make these children weep.

Does she weep, I wonder, in the dark of night, with her memories?

“My cards,” he said, and looked again at Ralph’s frustrating, well-intentioned, oblivious nephew, “are indeed dog-eared. And my plan, such as it is, might well be regarded by some as insane.”

“Yes, but will it get us Gerald back?” said the bird. “Because that’s the only thing any of us give a rat’s ass about, sunshine.”

“I don’t know,” he said, after a long, considering pause. “All I can tell you is that I believe it’s his only hope. Our only hope. And that if we don’t do something-even something insane-every instinct informs me we will most certainly live to regret it.”

Nearly half an hour later, with Sir Alec’s insane plan explained and them all shifted from the library up to Gerald’s bedroom, Melissande took Monk’s arm and drew him aside. “Look,” she said, her voice strategically low. “I realize I’m probably wasting my breath saying this but-you do understand there’s no way he can force you into using that infernal device?”

With an effort he dragged his gaze away from the sheet-covered body on Gerald’s bed. Tried to pretend that Sir Alec and Bibbie and Reg weren’t standing a small stone’s throw away. “I know. But how else can we find out what’s happening in this world next door? Short of just barging through the portal, of course, and for once I’d prefer to look before I leap.”

Her eyes were anxious. “But after you’ve looked you’ll be leaping, won’t you? Monk…”

“What? So now you’re saying we should leave Gerald stranded there? Give him up for dead?”

“ No,” she said, flushing dark pink. “But-but Monk, what happened to being objective?”

“It’s overrated.”

“And what if something goes wrong while you’re using that device? You heard Sir Alec. It’s sent men mad in the past.”

“Yeah, well, I’m mad already, aren’t I? So I should be safe.”

She shook his arm. “Monk, please. It’s not just the device, it’s the rest of it as well.”

Wanting to kiss her, he patted her hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that!”

True. “Maybe not, but here’s what I do know. If I don’t follow Sir Alec’s plan a lot of people could die. Sure, it’s going to be tricky, but-”

“Tricky’s one word for it,” she said grimly.

Sir Alec cleared his throat. “Mr. Markham. Time is a factor here.”

Time was always a factor. When were they going to run into a nice, leisurely crisis? He stared again at the shrouded shape on Gerald’s bed. “Are you all right?” Sir Alec had asked. And of course he’d said he was, because admitting weakness to that man would be the gravest of tactical errors.

Except I’m not all right. I watched myself-felt myself-die. It was probably my fault. I was pretty rough dismantling that shadbolt. But I can live with that if I rescue Gerald. I think.

“Mr. Markham…”

He glanced at the bedroom doorway, where Gerald’s superior stood with Bibbie and Reg. “I know.”

“Then stop piss-assing about, sunshine,” said Reg, hunched on Bibbie’s shoulder. “I’m losing so much beauty sleep waiting for you I’m going to have to put a bag over my head come morning.”

Oh, Reg. He managed a sort of grin. “Yeah? Well, if you’re looking, we keep them in the second-bottom kitchen drawer.”

Fingers tugged on his arm. “ Monk…”

He knew his Melissande pretty well by now. She was fighting fear and embarrassing, unroyal tears. Ignoring Reg’s bubbling kettle impression, he brushed his knuckles against his young lady’s cheek.

“Don’t worry, Mel. I’m just going to rummage through what’s left of the poor bugger’s memories.”

“And after that?” she demanded, unmollified. “Monk, please, at least don’t let Sir Alec send you alone. You need us to come with you. There’s safety in numbers.”

Who cared if they had an audience? He kissed her chastely on the forehead and then, on impulse and far less chastely, on her severe, unhappy lips.

“No. It’s far too dangerous for you to go. Hell, it’s too dangerous for me to go-and I really wish I didn’t have to. If you came with me and something went wrong-I can’t afford to lose my focus. I have to get to Gerald.”

“ Mr. Markham! ” Sir Alec snapped. “When I say time is a factor, do you imagine-”

“Sorry,” he said, turning. “I’m ready.”

“Come and stand with us, Mel,” said Bibbie kindly. “You’ll only be in the way if you hover.”

His little sister never ceased to amaze him. First that shadbolt business, and now this. She cared a great deal for Gerald, and for him. She was afraid for both of them. But she was also excited and fascinated by the realm of thaumaturgic possibilities opening up before them. He was starting to wonder if she wasn’t the maddest member of the Mad Markham clan. In a good way, of course.

“Bibs is right, Your Highness,” he murmured. “Go on. I’ll be all right.”

Frightened and resentful and nearly killing herself not to show it, Melissande left him alone at the bed. With a last glance at Sir Alec, who nodded once, his expression forbidding, he put her-he put all of them-out of his mind, dragged the bedroom chair closer and dropped himself onto it.

The body was so… still.

His hand unsteady, he tugged off the covering sheet and let it fall to the carpet. His breathing wasn’t steady either, and his heart was galloping like a speed-em-up hexed racehorse. It felt like any moment it was going to burst against his ribs.

Settle down, Markham. You’re a genius, remember? This’ll be a doddle. A walk in the park.

The dead Monk’s face had taken on a bluish-gray pallor, and most of the heat had leached out of his flesh. He felt odd to the touch, like cool, uncooked bread dough. How could anyone ever mistake sleep for death? Even a man deeply stuporous, barely moving, didn’t look like this. Empty. Uninhabited. The spirit flown away.

I’ll look like this one day. Sooner than I was planning if this plan of Sir Alec’s goes ass over ears.

The device-Sir Alec’s object-was already threaded onto the fingers and thumb of his left hand. A beautiful plaiting of copper, bronze and gold, it linked them together and turned his hand into a starfish. The incants that had forged the device hummed quietly against his skin. They weren’t out-and-out dark magic, not like the filthy hexes that had given birth to this Monk’s shadbolt. No, this magic came from the potentia of an amazing wizard who’d chosen to use his extraordinary power for personal gain. Sir Alec refused to say who he was, or what had happened to him.

But I reckon Reg was right. I reckon he died because of this thing.

He took a deep, shaky breath and glanced again at Gerald’s boss. “I’m ready.”

Sir Alec nodded. “Take it slow and steady, Mr. Markham. If you rush you might well miss a crucial detail. And don’t forget your recording incant.”

Damn. He nearly had. Hastily he triggered his own tweaked version of the bog-standard hex and embedded it in the bad cloak-and-dagger novel on Gerald’s nightstand. Whatever he said as a result of his reading the dead Monk’s memories would overwrite the book’s printed text, giving them a permanent record of any information retrieved.

He swallowed self-doubt. For someone like Sir Alec to chance his career, his reputation, maybe even his freedom, on such a dangerous, maverick plan… to trust him…

“All right,” he said, his mouth cotton-dry. “Wish me luck.”

Closing his eyes he held the device over the dead Monk’s solar plexus and slowly lowered it until living and dead flesh came close to touching. A shock of thaumic power jolted through his fingers, then along the robust bones of his hand and wrist and arm. He heard himself gasp, air catching in his throat and chest. Felt the drumming of his blood along constricting veins and arteries. His eyes burned hot in their sockets, his skin goosebumped shivery and cold. His potentia twisted, protesting. What he was doing wasn’t natural and every thaumaturgic instinct he possessed was rising in rebellion against it.

Sir Alec did say it wouldn’t be easy.

Breathing harshly, sweating, he made a conscious effort to stop fighting the device. The moment he surrendered, his thundering heart steadied and he stopped gasping for air. Cracking open his eyelids, he saw that the plaited metal imprisoning his fingers now shone fiercely, like a sun. He couldn’t feel any heat from the device, though. Maybe he’d feel it later-but he couldn’t worry about that now. What had Sir Alec told him? Oh, yes. He had to empty his mind completely and allow the memories stirred up by the incanted metal to flow into him through the incanted metal and out again through his mouth. He mustn’t react to them or fight them or try to examine them as they appeared. He was merely a conduit. A tool.

So what’s new? These days every time I turn around somebody’s trying to use me.

No, no, he had to stop thinking. This wouldn’t work if he couldn’t clear his mind. It might not work anyway-the other Monk had been dead for hours. For all they knew his memories had already escaped him like water seeping through a sieve. But Sir Alec said there was a chance-so he’d take the chance. He had to. He’d open his own mind and-and A burst of light. A rush of heat. And he fell face-first into someone else’s life.