Wizard Undercover

CHAPTER SIX

“Bloody hell, Gerald!” Monk breathed, awestruck. “You actually said that? And what did Sir Alec say?”

Up to his elbows in sudsy dishwater, Gerald took a moment to scrub the bottom of a pot. For all her besetting sins as a cook, at least Bibbie was keen. And for once her sausages, mashed potatoes and onion gravy had been edible. Only it did mean spending rather a long time in the kitchen afterwards, cleaning up.

“Gerald!” Monk prompted, snapping his tea towel in a vaguely threatening manner. “What did the cagey bugger say?”

He put the scrubbed pot on the sink’s drainer, then glanced at the ceiling. “I wonder how much longer the girls are going to be? I mean, I know your sister’s a raving beauty but it shouldn’t be taking her this long to brew up the right obfuscation hex. I never should’ve let Melissande shut the door in my face. Or throw smelly socks at you until you ran away. I tell you, those two are up to something.”

“And in other startling news,” Monk growled, “water is wet. Gerald, what is going on? Why won’t you answer a simple question?”

Why? Because the question wasn’t simple, and neither is the answer.

I was mad to start this conversation.

“Sir Alec didn’t say anything,” he said, scrabbling around the bottom of the sink to make sure he’d not missed a teaspoon. “Mister Dalby burst in, all hot and bothered about some hiccup in Fandawandi, which meant I became superfluous to requirements. So I toddled home to read up on the history of Splotze and Borovnik, and practice bowing like a minion.”

Monk lifted the drained pot and started towelling it dry. “Oh.”

He’d left no teaspoons behind. Playing for time, trying to avoid possible unpleasantness, he emptied the sink of sudsy water, then started wiping down the table.

With nothing else to dry, Monk put the pot in its cupboard then hung the damp tea towel on its hook. Glancing at him, Gerald saw that his friend’s usually open-as-a-book face was firmly closed. Damn.

“Look… Monk. I really am sorry I didn’t tell you I was going through with the extraction procedure. Only-”

“I know,” said Monk. “You said. Let’s not beat the dead horse, Gerald.”

“No, let me finish,” he insisted. “You were right. Jennings’s procedure is bloody risky. I was afraid that if you had another go at talking me out of it, well… I might listen.”

“Oh.” Monk hooked his ankle around the nearest kitchen chair, pulled it away from the table and sat down, back to front. Then he rested his chin on his folded arms. “D’you wish I had, now? Talked you out of it?”

Remembering the startled fear in Errol’s face, the treacherous pleasure of it, the whispering seduction of power in his blood, Gerald began wiping down the nearest bench. “No.”

Silence, while he pretended to care about spotless benches and his friend brooded. At last, Monk sat up.

“So what d’you think? Did Sir Alec hobble Jennings?”

Gerald shrugged. “I don’t know. And I don’t suppose it matters, does it? What matters is that Mister Jennings didn’t manage to extract all the hexes, which means I have to find a way to live with what’s left until you find a way to get rid of it.”

“And I will, mate,” Monk said darkly. “My word as a Markham. Only first I have to clear my desk of a few things I can’t afford to shove onto a back burner.” He dragged the fingers of one hand through his unruly hair. “Is that all right?”

It’d have to be, wouldn’t it? “Sure.”

“Good,” said Monk, not quite hiding his guilty relief. “Ah- don’t suppose you can tell which hexes got left behind, can you?”

Finished wiping benches, Gerald fussed over rinsing the cloth. It was hard to meet Monk’s eyes, talking about this. He wasn’t to blame for trying to kill his friend, he knew that, but even so…

“It’s tricky,” he said at last, “I can tell which hexes Jennings managed to extract. Like-the power to control a First Grade wizard? That one’s definitely been knocked on the head.”

Monk hooted, not very amused. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Catch the Department letting you hang onto that one. What else?”

“There were a lot of shadbolt hexes. They haven’t gone, exactly, but they’re kind of… smudged. I can’t read them any more.”

“Shadbolts.” Monk shuddered. “You’re well rid of that muck, mate. Trust me.”

Yes, he certainly was. “I’ve lost the compulsion hexes, too. Before my encounter with Mister Jennings, if the fancy had struck me I could’ve made you cut out your own tongue with a pair of rusty garden shears.” His turn to shudder. “Or Melissande’s. Bibbie’s. Anyone’s.”

Monk was staring, wide-eyed. “Bloody hell!”

Finished rinsing, Gerald turned to the kitchen hob. Should he mention bumping into Errol? Confide in his friend how the urge to smash the arrogant bastard had risen in him like a scarlet tide and threatened to sweep away both conscience and humanity?

No. No, I don’t think so. Things are complicated enough as it is.

Monk grimaced. “So you’ve no idea what got left behind?”

“Not no idea,” he said, still wiping. “Those hexes the other me used to punish witches and wizards who crossed him?” He tapped his temple. “They’re still stuck in here, like burrs. Mister Jennings couldn’t budge them for love or money. And I think-” He swallowed. “I think it might be easier to kill, now.”

“Oh,” said Monk.

They stared at each other, both remembering the other Ottosland and the killing hex that neither of them could escape, even though it had failed. Monk was the first to look away.

Damn. “And there’s other stuff,” Gerald said quietly. “Only I can’t put my finger on it. It’s a feeling, more than anything. I know more than I did. I just don’t know what I know. Y’know?”

“But you’re still you, mate,” said Monk. He almost sounded uncertain. “Right? You’re still our world’s Gerald Dunwoody.”

And this was why he’d not wanted to talk about it. How could he possibly explain to Monk what it felt like to have his potentia so horribly tampered with? To no longer be sure that he was himself, that he could trust himself, from one breath to the next, when sleeping deep inside, too lightly sleeping, was the urge to obliterate whatever irritated him?

Monk’s such a decent bloke, he’d never understand.

“I mean, Sir Alec’s not a fool,” said Monk, sounding close to anxious. “If you weren’t all right he’d never let you out of his sight. He wouldn’t be sending you to Splotze if you weren’t all right. And you wouldn’t risk the girls, mate, would you? You’d stay home if you weren’t all right. Right?”

And that was a far trickier question. The bald fact was, he had a great deal to prove. To Sir Alec. Sir Ralph. The Department. Most of all to himself. And he needed to prove it, soon, before doubt crippled faith.

“Look, Monk,” he said, tossing the kitchen cloth into the sink. “I’m not going to lie to you. I do feel different. It’s as though there’s more of me inside my skin. And I feel darker, too. Like there’s a shadow in between me and the world. It’s not as thick as it was, but… it’s still there.”

“I see,” said Monk, after a moment. He looked sick.

“But I promise you, I swear, I’ll never endanger the girls,” he added swiftly. “If I thought for a moment I couldn’t be trusted to keep them safe I wouldn’t let Sir Alec mix them up in this wedding business.”

“So…” Monk dragged a hand down his face. “There is something going on over there. This isn’t just Sir Alec with the wind up.”

Gerald hid a wince. Careful, now. Careful. He mustn’t mention Abel Bestwick’s graphic message. If Monk got a bee in his bonnet he was perfectly capable of futzing the entire mission. As expected, he’d already gone spare over the notion of Bibbie playing janitor. It wouldn’t take much of a nudge to send him over the edge again.

“All I can tell you is that our man in Splotze has landed himself in hot water. But we don’t know how hot, and we don’t know who’s boiling the kettle. It could all turn out to be a big misunderstanding. That’s why I’m going, to figure the lay of the land. But trust me, Monk, I won’t let the girls get within sniffing distance of trouble.”

“Oh, yeah?” Monk snorted. “Think you can hobble those two if they get the bit between their teeth, do you?”

He was saved from answering by Melissande’s return. “Are you two still in here?” she said, hands on hips in the kitchen doorway. “Honestly, how long does it take to wash a few dishes?”

“Where’s Bibs?” said Monk, neatly side-stepping the domestic bear-trap. “Don’t tell me you’ve made her hex herself so hideous she can’t bear to show her face!”

“On the contrary,” said Melissande loftily. “I’ve managed to kill two birds with one stone. Gentlemen, I give you Gladys Slack, lady’s maid to Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland.”

She moved out of the way, and into the kitchen walked a modestly downward-looking young lady with glossy dark brown hair pulled into a bun and melting brown eyes framed by thick horn-rimmed spectacles, whose plain black skirt and prim cream blouse and sensibly low-heeled button shoes and knitted stockings did nothing to disguise the tempting figure beneath.

“Well, that’s no good,” said Gerald, feeling his heart crash and bang against his ribs. “Where’s the hooked nose? The beady eyes? Where are the warts with hairs in them? Blimey, Melissande. She might not look like Bibbie but she’s still beautiful!”

“Exactly,” said Melissande, as Bibbie stood like a mouse with her hands demurely clasped before her and her gaze still downcast. “She doesn’t look like Emmerabiblia Markham, which means if there’s anyone in the wedding party who’s ever dined at the Markham mansion they won’t think twice when they see her. But she’s still guaranteed to attract Crown Prince Hartwig’s wandering hands, which means they won’t be wandering over me this time, so I can avoid creating an international incident, which I’m sure Sir Alec will appreciate.”

Gerald swallowed. What about him creating an international incident? He didn’t want Crown Prince Hartwig’s philandering hands all over Bibbie! Except he couldn’t say that, could he? He didn’t have the right.

“And Bibbie? You seem very comfortable speaking for her about this, Mel,” he snapped. “What’s her opinion?”

“She doesn’t have one,” said Melissande, lofty again. “She’s a maid. But if she did, it would be identical to mine. Yours would be, too.”

His jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

“Begging’s good. Very miniony. Keep it up,” Melissande said, encouraging. Then she sighed. “Honestly, Gerald. Don’t be so thick. Minions ministering to royalty possess no thoughts that haven’t been inspected and approved first. You do remember Lional, don’t you?”

Of course he did. But he’d hoped Melissande had forgotten him. Instead here she was doing the most appalling impersonation of her imperious dead brother. Ignoring her, he turned to Bibbie.

“Look, Bibs-”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Bibbie, in a mousey little voice. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you mean. My name is Gladys, and I’m sure I shouldn’t be speaking to any young man without Her Highness’s permission.”

There wasn’t even the hint of a mischievous twinkle in Bibbie’s changed eyes. Giving up, Gerald rounded on Monk.

“So you’re just going to sit there, are you, like a drunk flea on a dog? You’ve nothing to say about Melissande tossing your sister into the clutches of this grabby Crown Prince Hartwig?”

Monk grinned. “No. If Hartwig’s stupid enough to put his hands where they don’t belong, Bibs’ll take care of him. She’s had a lot of practice.”

“Wonderful,” he groaned, reluctantly accepting defeat. “Where’s Reg? I know she’ll be on my side.”

Melissande and Bibbie-Gladys-whoever the devil she was being-exchanged cautious looks.

“Reg?” said Melissande. “She’s-ah-taking a post-prandial flap about the neighbourhood.”

Oh, no. “You had a fight?”

“Of course not,” Melissande said quickly. “Just… a difference of opinion. Don’t worry. She’ll be back soon.”

Uncomfortable, they stared at each other.

“It is going to work out, isn’t it?” said Bibbie, alarmingly uncertain. “With Reg, I mean. The day will come when we don’t look at her and think You’re the wrong one. Won’t it?”

Nobody answered her.

Soon afterwards, Bibbie unhexed herself then went back upstairs to change out of her Gladys Slack attire. Melissande and Monk withdrew to the parlour for a bit of privacy, and possibly to argue some more about Bibbie, and Gerald shut himself in the library with paper, pen and ink and his mission briefing notes so he could order his thoughts. He read them twice, once quickly, once slowly, and then, ideas and random observations simmering, started scribbling.

Two scrawled pages later, a gentle rustling of feathers turned his attention to the open window.

“And that’s you, is it?” Reg enquired politely, from the sill. “Thinking You’re the wrong one every time you look at me? Sorry now you didn’t leave me behind to die too, are you?”

So she’d heard that? Damn. A sharp pain was brewing in his temples. Sighing, Gerald let his head fall against the back of the chair.

“Don’t be daft, Reg. Of course I’m not sorry.”

A feathery whoosh and flap as she glided from the windowsill to the arm of the chair opposite. “And don’t you try to kid a kidder.”

He cracked open his good eye. “I’m not.”

“No?” Her dark eyes were gleaming in the lamplight. “And I s’pose you’re not peeing-your-underdrawers terrified that you’re going to wake up one morning and find you’ve turned into him, either.”

“Not peeing-my-underdrawers, no,” he said, after a brief hesitation. “But I’ll admit to an occasional looseness in my bowels.”

“Ha!” Her tail rattled. “And so they should be loose, sunshine. He was a nasty piece of work and no mistake, your opposite number.”

“Which means I’m a nasty piece of work, surely,” he countered. “Doesn’t it?”

“That’s up to you,” Reg said, shrugging. “Every man’s captain of his own ship, Gerald Dunwoody. You made the right choice the first time. All you have to do is make it again.”

“And again, and again, and again,” he murmured. “Every hour of every day, for the rest of my life. And how much harder is that going to be, with his magic inside me like he’s perched on my shoulder?”

“But it’s not all inside you, is it? Not any more.”

“Trust me, Reg. Enough of it is. And if Monk can’t pull a rabbit out of his trousers, it always will be. D’you know, I nearly flattened bloody Errol Haythwaite?”

Reg chuckled. “Bloody Errol Haythwaite could do with a bit of flattening.”

“It’s not funny!”

“Gerald, Gerald,” she sighed. “Lose your sense of humour, my boy, and you really will be in a pickle.”

And that was when she sounded like his Reg. He felt the memory jolt through him, bright flames in the sunlight as she crumbled to ash. Smothered a groan. A familiar, feathered weight came to rest on his shoulder and a long beak rubbed gently against his cheek.

“I know it’s hard,” she whispered. “I know you miss her. It’s easier for me. I got my Gerald back. That other manky bastard, he’s just a bad memory. But I know it’s not the same for you, Gerald. I won, and you lost, and how that’s going to end up I honestly can’t say.”

“No,” he croaked. “Me, neither.”

“I’ll go, if you want me to,” the other Reg said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “I managed before I met you and I’ll manage if I leave. No need for you to worry about that. If having me around makes it harder for you to do your job, then I should go. Just say the word, Gerald, and you’ll not lay an eye on me again.”

“No!” he said, sitting up. “Reg, are you mad? Of course I don’t want you to go. No-one wants you to go. Things might be a bit difficult at the moment, but they won’t always be. And I absolutely want you to stay. We all do.”

Instead of replying, Reg hopped from his shoulder to the library’s writing desk and cast her eye over his various scribblings.

“Not bad, not bad,” she said, when she’d finished reading. “In another ten years or so you might make a halfway decent secret government agent. Only you’re mad if you only take one crystal ball with you. You’ll need at least three. More if you can manage it. Because if your luggage doesn’t get left behind, dropped over the side of a riverboat, down a mountain or into a bog, or end up confused with someone else’s so it’s shipped to Jandria by slow hot air balloon, then I’m not the dispossessed Queen of Lalapinda.” She looked at him over her wing. “And no matter where I happen to be, I am.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, grinning despite the evening’s heartache. “At least three crystal balls. I’ll make a note.”

She sniffed. “Yes. Well. See that you do. Because if you’ve only got one and you lose it at a delicate moment, meaning you’ve got to nick someone else’s in order to save the day, all you need is some other snooty guest’s busybody minion poking his nose where it’s not wanted and you’ll be answering awkward questions and drawing attention to yourself. And that won’t please your Sir Alec, will it?”

“No,” he said. “Reg…”

With a rustling of feathers she hopped around to face him. “Gerald?”

Heart thumping, he stared at her. This was as good a time as ever to say it. And he had to say it. Had to.

“Reg, if ever you see me turning into him, you must speak up. And if I won’t listen, if I try to brush you aside, you must go to Sir Alec. He’ll know what to do and he’ll do it, no hesitation. He’s very good at his job.”

Reg chattered her beak. “Now, Gerald-”

“No, Reg. I mean it,” he said, leaning forward. “You promise me. Right now. I need this. I need to know I can trust you. Just in case the day comes when I can’t trust myself.” He swallowed. “And it might come. We both know that. So please, don’t insult me by telling me I’m talking nonsense.”

“Oh, Gerald,” said Reg, and gave her tail feathers an aggravated rattle. Then she sighed. “Fine, you wretched boy. Yes. I promise.”

Was it his imagination, or did the shrouding shadow lighten then, just a little? He touched his fingertip to her wing.

“Dammit, Reg. I wish you were coming to Splotze. But since you’re not, do me a favour, would you? Keep an eye on Monk? Because he adores Bibbie, and Mel, and he’s going to worry himself sick over them. Besides, you know what he’s like. He can no more stop himself from inventing things than Melissande can help giving everyone orders.”

“Ha!” said Reg, eyes gleaming again. “And won’t madam be in her element, with two of you to boss around from sun up to sun down and half way into the night!”

Half laughing, half groaning, Gerald sprawled backwards in his chair. “Saint Snodgrass’s teeth, Reg. Don’t bloody remind me!”

Standing with Frank Dalby in Nettleworth’s dingy Ops room, staring at the enormous relief map of the Central Northern Continent where Fandawandi spread like a threadbare carpet across nearly half of the humpy landmass, Sir Alec pinched the bridge of his nose, hard.

“I must be going blind,” he muttered, glaring at the glowing, unbroken line that traced the thaumaturgically protected edges of Fandawandi’s territory. “Or senile. For the life of me I cannot fathom how these bandits are getting the dirit weed past Fandawandi’s checkpoints and across the border into Dibaloo.”

“Neither can I,” said Frank, his expression dour. “And since we don’t have an agent in Dibaloo, or any kind of political influence there, that means it’s only a matter of time before the bloody stuff’s smuggled from there onto boats crossing the Damooj Strait, then starts showing up on the back streets of Ott and every-bloody-where else you’ll find young fools cursed with more money than sense.”

“Yes, while the Fandawandi authorities mop and mow and wring their lily-white hands,” Sir Alec said. He thumped his fist to the edge of the relief map. “Why the devil they’ve not taken steps to eradicate dirit is beyond my comprehension!”

“You know bloody well why,” Frank said roughly. “Because when they’re not busy wringing their hands, those same Fandawandi authorities are putting them out for bribes to turn a blind eye. What do they care if a muck-load of Ottish youngbloods fry their brains smoking poisonous herbery?”

“Well, I’m going to damned well make them care. Mister Dalby-”

The Ops room’s door burst open. “Sir Alec. A moment of your time, if you’d be so obliging.”

Frank’s scowl deepened. Sir Alec frowned him into blandness, then turned. “Sir Ralph,” he said, with every appearance of cordiality. “Good morning. Did we have an appointment?”

Ralph’s colour was high, a sure sign of danger. “We have one now. Your office, if you please.”

If it had been anyone other than Ralph, and if the witness to such blatant bad manners had been anyone other than Frank Dalby, there would have been hell and more to pay.

Fortunately for Ralph, that was not the case.

“Right, Mister Dalby,” he said, his tone as cool and conversational as ever. “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

Frank nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“After you, Sir Ralph,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m sure you remember the way to my office.”

Ralph remembered. The door hadn’t even closed behind them before he spun about, fists clenched and chest heaving.

“What the devil, Alec! What the damned bloody devil! You’re involving my niece in your janitor shenanigans? Where the hell do you find the nerve, involving my niece? Without so much as a word to me first? I think I deserve a damned sight better than that!”

Sir Alec hesitated, then chose to stand by his office’s cold fireplace. “How did you find out?”

“What does that signify?” Ralph demanded, his eyes bloodshot with outrage. “The point is, I did. And now you’ll kindly put a stop to it.”

“It signifies,” he said, priding himself on the fact that not even Ralph would know how tightly he was controlling his temper, “because the Splotze-Borovnik mission is already on shaky ground, and if-”

“It was my bloody nephew, all right?” said Ralph, close to spitting. “Monk told me. He’s supposed to be working on a new thingamajig for Bailey’s crew but instead I found him farting about with an obfuscation hex! Naturally I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, wasting his time with frippery when he knows he’s on a deadline, and he spilled the beans.”

Swallowing a sigh, Sir Alec rested an elbow on the fireplace’s mantel. I’d haul him and Dunwoody over the coals, if I thought there was any point. “Of course he did.”

“I’m serious about this, Alec,” Ralph said, taking a thunderous step toward him. “I won’t have you dragging little Emmerabiblia down your dirty, dangerous alleyways! It’s bad enough Monk’s caught in your orbit. You can’t have his sister too.”

“I’m afraid I must, Ralph,” he said, gently. “This business in Splotze might be nothing, or it might be a powder keg getting ready to blow. Which means I don’t have the luxury of playing favourites with who can and can’t help me keep a lid on things before they go up. Like it or not, your niece is in the right place, at the right time, with the right friends, to be of use. So I am going to use her, Ralph. Because that’s what I do.”

Stricken silent, Ralph stared at him. Then, with a stifled curse, he collapsed into the visitor’s chair, pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket and pressed it to his sweaty forehead.

“I always knew you were a ruthless bastard, Alec, but you’ve surpassed yourself today.”

He was a fool to let the words wound him, but Ralph had always been more friend than foe. Mask perfectly in place, Sir Alec moved from the fireplace to his desk and sat behind it.

“Your niece is a Markham through and through, Ralph. What’s more, if she’d been born a boy we both know she’d likely be giving your reprobate nephew orders by now. But just because she’s a girl is no reason to waste her… or underestimate her. Besides, she’s not going to Splotze as a janitor.”

“She’s going as a lady’s maid, I know,” Ralph said gruffly. “But she’s still going, isn’t she? And so’s Dunwoody. Dunwoody? Alec, how can you ask me to trust my only niece to his care? Dammit, man, he’s tainted with grimoire magic. What if he runs amok?”

“If I thought that were a possibility then he’d be under lock and key,” Sir Alec retorted. “Ralph, because I asked for his assistance, the King of New Ottosland is sending his sister to the damned wedding. Would I ask such a thing, would I risk a diplomatic disaster, if I thought Princess Melissande’s life would be at risk?”

Ralph glowered. “Of course you bloody would. New Ottosland could drown in quicksand tomorrow and it’d be a year before anyone noticed it was gone.”

“Ralph…” He shook his head. “Not a week passes when you and I don’t ask someone’s son or nephew to put country before self. How can we do that, how can we ask them to ask their families to bear that burden, if you and I are unwilling to bear it ourselves?”

“The devil with that, Alec!” said Ralph, his voice catching. “I’m the one with the burden, not you. You’re an only child with no family. Emmerabiblia’s my flesh and blood!”

“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. But I can’t let that count.”

A long silence. Then Ralph tucked his handkerchief back into his vest, and stood. “No. You can’t. And though it pains me to say it, neither can I. But if anything happens to her, Alec… if anything happens…”

Leaving the threat unfinished, he walked out.