Witches incorporated

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A great deal of fuss and chaos ensued.

Some time later… he wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed, he wasn’t keeping an eye on the clock and besides, he had a thumping headache… Ambrose Wycliffe and his sister Permelia arrived to force their loudly blustering way through the milling Department inspectors and ambulance orderlies.

“Mister Dunnywood, is it?” Ambrose Wycliffe demanded. “What is the meaning of this? What’s going on? Who are all these people and why are they here before me?”

“Before us,” said his sister sharply. “Well, young man? Answer my brother!”

Gerald, sitting at one of the central aisle benches, flicked an apologetic glance at the junior ambulance attendant who was pressing a strip of sticking plaster to his forehead. “It’s-ah-it’s Dunwoody, actually, Mister Wycliffe,” he said, at his most humble. “And I’m sorry, but I thought proper procedure was to inform the authorities in the case of a thaumaturgical accident. So I did.”

“An accident?” said Permelia Wycliffe. “What are you talking about? What kind of accident?”

Gerald arranged his face into an expression of servile distress. “We lost another Mark VI prototype, I’m sorry to say. We-”

“What do you mean we?” Ambrose Wycliffe interrupted. “Who is we, pray tell?”

“Mister Haythwaite and myself, sir,” said Gerald, earnestly. “We-”

“Mister Haythwaite?” echoed Ambrose Wycliffe, his florid face paling. “D’you mean to tell me Errol’s been blown up?”

He bit his lip. Yes indeed, Ambrose, that’s exactly what happened. In fact, our Errol’s been blown up twice. In one night. I wonder if that’s some kind of record? Throttling the urge to laugh- am I in shock? — he cleared his throat.

“It’s all right, Mister Wycliffe. Mister Haythwaite’s not dead. Some other ambulance officers are taking excellent care of him.”

Dazed, Ambrose Wycliffe fished a large blue handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his forehead. “Oh. I see. Good. What a relief.”

“The accident, young man!” snapped Permelia Wycliffe. “ What happened?”

“Well, we stayed back, you see, to do some more work on the prototype’s engine,” he explained, glancing uncertainly at Ambrose’s intimidating sister. If her brother was florid, she was pale as snow. In her eyes, the most unnerving glitter. “Ah-Mister Haythwaite was very keen to see that little-er-little hiccup in the thaumic regulation chamber sorted before-”

“What?” said Ambrose Wycliffe, startled out of his bewilderment, and glared at the junior ambulance orderly who was packing up his little tin of plasters and salves. “Be quiet, Dunwoody! You’re discussing private company matters in front of witnesses, you dolt!”

“Oh,” said Gerald. “Sorry, sir. I’m not thinking straight, got rather a nasty bump on the head.”

But if he was hoping for some sympathy from the Wycliffes he was wasting his breath.

“Let me see if I understand you, young man,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “You and another wizard were working here alone in the laboratory tonight?”

He nodded. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe. That’s correct.”

“ All night?”

“All night, Miss Wycliffe,” he said virtuously. “We never left. Everyone else left, but we stayed behind to work. As Mister Wycliffe knows, Mister Haythwaite is devoted heart and soul to the Ambrose Mark VI and he particularly ordered me to assist him. And of course I was only too happy to obey.”

Now Permelia Wycliffe was staring at him with the most peculiar look on her face. As though she’d swallowed a whole swarm of flies and couldn’t quite believe it.

“You never left?” she said. “Not even for a late supper?”

“No, Miss Wycliffe,” he replied. “Mister Haythwaite wouldn’t hear of it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “But I-”

“Oh, do hush, Permelia,” snapped her brother Ambrose. “You’re a gel. You can’t possibly understand my wizards’ dedication and loyalty. Good lord, woman, you shouldn’t even be here. You know perfect well that gels interfere with-”

“ Yes, Ambrose,” said Permelia Wycliffe sharply. “But I think tonight, of all nights, we can make an exception. Don’t you?”

Surprisingly, Ambrose backed down. “Ah-yes, well, perhaps this once,” he mumbled. “But only this once.”

“Actually, sir,” said Gerald, remembering Melissande’s outrage, “I’m pretty sure the notion of gels upsetting the thaumic balance has been thoroughly disproved by-”

“Who asked for your opinion, Dunwoody?” Ambrose shouted, spittle flying. “Keep your mouth shut, you Third Grade ignoramus. You’ve already said quite enough for one evening.” He rounded on the waiting ambulance orderly. “You there. What is Mister Haythwaite’s condition? He’s my best First Grade wizard. The man without whom Wycliffe’s resurgence is doomed! I demand to know-”

The orderly leaned away from Ambrose’s rabid intensity. “Ah, sorry sir, I’m not permitted to discuss the-”

“ Don’t you stand there telling me what you’re not permitted! I want to know how he is! ”

Everyone within earshot of Ambrose Wycliffe jumped, even Permelia. Well. Everyone except for Dalby, who was hovering around the edges of the lab, bruised-looking and completely unremarkable. Gerald let his gaze glide right over the man, then turned again to the quaking orderly.

“Look, I’m fine. Just a few bruises,” he said. “And I’m not important, I’m just Mister Haythwaite’s lowly assistant. I think-”

“Ha!” said Ambrose Wycliffe. “His former lowly assistant, you mean! Dunwoody, you’re sacked. I never want to see your incompetent face again. Getting the government involved in private Wycliffe company business-not having the courtesy to call me, your employer, before these interfering government busy-bodies-it’s outrageous! And I have no doubt this accident is your fault, just like-”

“Now, now, Ambrose,” said Permelia Wycliffe. The peculiar expression still hadn’t quite left her face. “I think you’re being a bit hasty. The young man is right, he is required by law to inform the authorities first. Doubtless they instructed him not to tell anyone else, even us.” She turned. “Isn’t that so, young man?”

Gerald blinked. Permelia was protecting him? How odd. But since the popular theory was not to go kicking gift horses in the teeth… “Yes, Miss Wycliffe. That’s exactly right, Miss Wycliffe. It’d be my licence if I disobeyed the authorities, Miss Wycliffe.”

She gave her brother a sharp, satisfied nod. “You see, Ambrose? And besides, you don’t know what caused this unfortunate explosion. You won’t know until you’ve spoken with Mister Haythwaite. You can’t sack a man who might be innocent of wrong-doing. That flies in the face of everything Wycliffe’s represents. Father would never have stood for it, you know.”

Ambrose Wycliffe’s face burned an even brighter red. “Really? Well, Permelia, in case you’ve not noticed, Father’s not here any more. But I am and I say-”

“That you’ve had a horrible shock,” said Permelia Wycliffe, and took her brother’s arm. “You’re quite overset, Ambrose, and who can blame you? But what kind of a devoted sister would I be, to stand by and let you make a poor decision without trying to stop you? Can you imagine I’d ever do such a thing?”

Ambrose Wycliffe stared at his sister, and she stared back. Some of the hectic colour died out of his jowly, whiskered face, and he cleared his throat. “No. Of course not,” he said hoarsely, tugging his arm free. “Very well. Mister Dunwoody here is not sacked outright.” Recapturing his authority, he puffed out his chest. “But you are suspended, Mister Dunwoody. Pending a thorough investigation into this disgraceful affair.”

“Suspended with full salary and benefits,” Permelia Wycliffe added smoothly. “In fact, don’t think of it as a suspension at all, young man. Think of it as a nice little holiday, to help you recover from your nasty experience. After all, it’s a wonder you weren’t blown to pieces.”

“Ah-yes-thank you, Mister Wycliffe. Miss Wycliffe,” Gerald said, very carefully not letting his gaze touch on the still-hovering Dalby. “I-ah-well, it has all been a bit upsetting. In fact, is it all right if I go home now? I’ve spoken with the men from the Department of Thaumaturgy. They know where to reach me if they need anything else.”

“All right,” said Ambrose Wycliffe, grudgingly. “You can go. But I don’t mind telling you, Dunwoody, you’ve handled this whole thing poorly. Very poorly indeed.” His disgruntled gaze swept around the now brightly-lit lab complex, crowded with busily investigating outsiders. “You might well have done irreparable harm to this establishment’s reputation. And if that proves to be the case-” Ambrose Wycliffe leaned close. “Not even my tender-hearted sister will save you.”

With an effort, Gerald kept his face under control. “I understand, Mister Wycliffe.”

“You’d better,” snapped Ambrose Wycliffe, then glared at the ambulance orderly. “And you. Take me to Errol Haythwaite at once.”

As the orderly hesitated, Gerald nodded. “Truly. I’m fine. I’ll be right as rain come the morning.”

“Very well, sir,” said the orderly, reluctant. “But you should see your own doctor, soon as you can.”

The Wycliffes followed the junior orderly to the other side of the laboratory complex, where two senior ambulance orderlies were still fussing over Errol. Permelia Wycliffe cast one last, puzzled look behind her. Gerald nodded and smiled gratefully, pretending not to notice anything was wrong.

Then he slid off his stool and made his circumspect way through the ongoing bustle to the lab’s main door… making sure to catch Dalby’s eye as he passed.

Outside it was cool and much more quiet, the aftermath of the accident mercifully muffled. Aching all over, his various scrapes and bruises vigorously complaining, Gerald folded his arms tight to his chest and waited.

A brief increase in noise, as the doors opened then closed again. The scrape of boots on the pathway. A roughly cleared throat.

“Dear me,” said Dalby sourly, very quiet. “What a hurly-burly to be sure. Never a dull moment when you’re around, is there, Dunwoody?”

Gerald didn’t turn. “Does Sir Alec know?”

“You could say that,” said Dalby, with a soft, derisive snort. “He wants to see you. Soon as. Proper put out, he is.”

Proper put out? I bet that’s an understatement. “Fine. I don’t suppose you could-”

“Don’t make me laugh,” said Dalby, and spat. “I’ve got to keep an eye on what’s happening here. Take Haythwaite in when the leeches have cleared him. You’ll have to make your own way to Nettle-worth, boyo.”

Oh. In which case, he’d have to soup-up another scooter. But that still left the one he’d ridden to South Ott. Somehow he’d have to get it back here before someone noticed its absence.

Damn. Why can’t anything ever be simple?

“ Fine,” he sighed. “Only there’s one small problem, Dalby.”

Another derisive snort. “No, there’s not. The scooter you left across town’s shoved in the garden, over there.”

“You found it?”

“Course I bloody found it,” said Dalby, scornful. “The amount of hexing you did on that thing, it’s a wonder every bloody wizard in town didn’t find it. Bloody show-off, Dunwoody, that’s what you are.”

Gerald felt his face heat. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” said Dalby. “That makes my night, that does.”

And he went back inside.

Still aching, and now dry-mouthed with nerves on top of it, Gerald retrieved the scooter… and went to face the formidable Sir Alec.

“So you see, sir,” he finished, at the end of his long and convoluted explanation of the night’s events-keeping the girls out of it had been interesting, to say the least-“Errol Haythwaite is in the clear. But it looks like we’ll have to take another look at the Wycliffes.”

Leaning back in his chair, elbows propped on its arms, Sir Alec steepled his fingers and gazed at the ceiling. “Hmm. Yes. That certainly appears to be the case, doesn’t it?”

The night was so late now it was very nearly morning. Beyond Sir Alec’s office window the sky above Nettleworth was shifting towards dawn, blushing pale pearly grey with the merest suggestion of pink. Gerald was so tired he felt light-headed and not quite real. Strangely insubstantial, as though his bones were made of paper and his flesh of cotton stuffing. Thanks to some noxious brew Sir Alec had made him drink, his aches and pains were mostly subsided. But oddly, he was hungry… and he desperately wanted to sleep.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get Rottlezinder out in time,” he added. “I know you were anxious to speak with him, sir.”

Gaze lowered again, Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “ Anxious, Mister Dunwoody? I’m not in the habit of feeling anxious. Certainly it would’ve been useful if we’d been able to chat with Mestre Rottlezinder, but alas. In this business we quite often encounter disappointment. However experience has taught me that things often do work themselves out, though perhaps not as swiftly as one might prefer.”

Gerald frowned. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “the fact that Rottlezinder’s dead will give us a bit of breathing space. Finding his replacement won’t be easy. Perhaps we’ll get lucky, and the search itself will help us identify who’s behind the portal sabotage. Ambrose Wycliffe, or whoever.”

The faintest hint of weariness touched Sir Alec’s cool eyes. “Indeed. In our business, success too frequently hinges upon fortuitous serendipity.”

While failure turned on the lack of it. “I’m sorry about the boot factory, too. Even though I didn’t see anything in Rottlezinder’s room except for him, Errol and the portal hex, there might’ve been information hidden elsewhere in the building. I wish I’d been able to investigate more thoroughly. Still… maybe Mister Dalby can find something in the debris.”

“It’s unlikely,” said Sir Alec. “Which is also unfortunate. But under the circumstances-all things considered-I appreciate that your choices at the time were limited.”

Gerald waited for the inevitable, sardonic reference to Stuttley’s. When it didn’t come he felt himself relax, just a little bit.

“So, all in all, an eventful evening,” Sir Alec said, his steepled fingers tapping each other.

“Yes, sir,” he sighed. “Eventful is one word that springs to mind.”

Sir Alec’s gaze narrowed. “The thing is, Mister Dunwoody, that when one is assigned a watching brief, the emphasis is generally placed upon watching. But it seems there has been rather a lot of running about in this instance. Also some very… creative… uses of thaumaturgy.”

He swallowed. “As you say, sir. Things got a bit eventful.”

“And then, of course, there’s the matter of the docilianti compulsion,” Sir Alec continued, ignoring that. “If I recall correctly, I believe I made quite a point of telling you how rarely such a dangerous incant is to be employed. And yet here we have you, a junior janitor, whipping it out at the first opportunity. Tell me, Mister Dunwoody, do I misremember the facts or were you not quite… opinionated… regarding the uses of such thaumaturgics?”

Sir Alec’s voice was mild enough, his expression perfectly bland, but behind his grey eyes something dangerous waited. Gerald felt his jaw tighten.

“I know what I said about that kind of thaumaturgy, Sir Alec. And my opinion hasn’t changed. But under the circumstances I didn’t think I had a choice. We had to get out of there, and Errol-well, I knew Errol wasn’t going to co-operate. And there wasn’t a lie I could tell him that he’d believe.”

“No, no I don’t suppose there was,” Sir Alec said at last, musingly. “Given your colourful history. Tell me, Mister Dunwoody, how did you manage to breach Rottlezinder’s perimeter warding hexes? I don’t recall you mentioning that.”

He kept his gaze steady, his expression unchanged. Watch yourself, Gerald. This man is no-one’s fool. “I don’t recall mentioning that there were any warding hexes, Sir Alec.”

Sir Alec smiled. “Perhaps you didn’t. But there must have been some, surely. A man like Haf Rottlezinder would never leave himself exposed and unprotected, even in such an obscure location. Everything we know about the man suggests he’d have himself warded to the stars. So. How did you successfully breach his defences?”

Seated on the other side of Sir Alec’s imposing desk, in the remarkably uncomfortable wooden visitor’s chair, Gerald dropped his gaze to his knees. Well. Hadn’t he been an idiot, to hope Sir Alec wouldn’t put his finger precisely on his story’s omission? The question before him now was how did he handle the situation. Reg’s uncharacteristically solemn warning echoed in his memory.

If I were you, I might be a bit… careful… about what I said in my reports to that Sir Alec.

The warning only echoed his own misgivings. He might’ve spent the last six months here in Nettle-worth, being poked and prodded, but that didn’t mean he knew Sir Alec any better now than five minutes after they first met.

All right, yes, Monk says I can trust him to fight the good fight, but how does Monk know that? He’d never lie to me… but that doesn’t mean someone wouldn’t lie to him. And I have no idea what Sir Alec really thinks of my abilities. For all I know he already sees me as a threat…

Sir Alec cleared his throat, very mildly. Too mildly. “Mister Dunwoody,” he said, suspiciously pleasant. “I feel it would be a great pity for you to thrust a spoke in the wheel of your brand-new career by choosing, at this point, to tell me anything less than the whole, unvarnished truth.”

He looked up, straight into Sir Alec’s unnerving grey eyes. Eyes that had looked upon death, and worse than death, for more years than he cared to think about. And he realised he’d reached a kind of crossroads, without ever noticing the journey or its destination. He’d thought he’d made his final choice in New Ottosland. That Sir Alec’s offer of joining the Department was the defining moment of his life.

But he’d been wrong. This was the defining moment of his life. Because after the factory, and Rottlezinder, he knew from the inside just what he was getting himself into. It was the difference between looking at a rapid-filled river… and swimming in it.

So. Did he want to keep swimming? Or did he want to get out? Was Sir Alec a man with a life preserver or was he someone with a long pole waiting to push him under the surface to watch him drown? There was no way of knowing. Not for certain. It all came down to a question of faith.

Either you trust him or you don’t, Dunwoody. The time has come to make your choice: piss or get off the Department pot.

“ I don’t know how I did it,” he said, shrugging. “I was thinking about sticking my toe in the door, and the next thing I knew a tiny thread of my potentia had woven itself into Rottlezinder’s warding hex. I didn’t plan it. It just happened. And somehow I was able to pass through the barrier undetected.”

“I see,” said Sir Alec, after a moment. “How very… creative… of you, Mister Dunwoody.”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know about creative, Sir Alec. All I know is that it turned out lucky for Errol. If I hadn’t-improvised-he would’ve been blown to bits, just like Haf Rottlezinder.”

“Yes indeed, he certainly would have,” murmured Sir Alec.

He leaned forward. “Look, sir. I’ve no idea what you know about me that I don’t. I don’t know what all those tests have told you. And to be honest, right now I’m too tired to care. But let me tell you what I know about me. I agreed to join your Department so I could make up for what happened in New Ottosland. All I’m interested in is stopping people who hurt other people with thaumaturgy.”

Sir Alec unsteepled his fingers, and instead laced them across his lean belly. “Yes, Mister Dunwoody. I am perfectly aware of your motives for joining this Department.”

“Maybe, but I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings,” he retorted. “I never asked to be a rogue wizard, Sir Alec. If I could undo it right now, believe me: I would.”

Sir Alec’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“You asked for the truth. That’s it. I’ll always be truthful with you, provided honesty doesn’t get someone hurt.”

“Mister Dunwoody…” Sir Alec sighed. “Surely you’ve learned by now that life is rarely so cut-and-dried. Telling the truth frequently results in casualties. That is the nature of our business. It is sadly too often how this wicked world of ours works.”

“I know,” he said, uncomfortable. “I suppose what I’m trying to say, Sir Alec, is that while I might work for you, that doesn’t mean you own me. And it doesn’t mean I’m going to let you spend six more months poking and prodding and investigating me to satisfy your curiosity about just what makes me tick. You take me or leave me the way I am, flaws and all, right here and now. And if there’s more about me and my rogue powers to discover, then I say let’s discover them while I do what I joined this Department to do. Because otherwise, I don’t see any point in me staying.”

Sir Alec’s wintry smile appeared then disappeared, like a sparkle of sunlight on dancing water. “What a forthright young man you are, Mister Dunwoody.”

“I try to be,” he said, making himself meet Sir Alec’s unforgiving gaze. “And I try to learn from my mistakes.”

“Yes, well, I’d advise you to learn from this one,” said Sir Alec. “Do not edit your reports to me, Mister Dunwoody. I’m not sure if it’s occurred to you, but trust is in fact a two-way street.”

The girls. He winced. But I can’t drop them in it. Nor Monk. I’ll just have to do a better job of keeping them out of things after this. “Yes, sir.”

“Hmm,” said Sir Alec, eyes narrowed. Then his expression relaxed. “And now, to celebrate the establishment of our new and deeper, more trusting relationship, I will share with you some rather alarming news about your erstwhile superior Errol Haythwaite.”

Gerald sat up. “He’s not dead, is he? I mean, I took every precaution with that lab explosion, Sir Alec. I know I timed it right, and jiggled the prototype’s engine matrix not a single thaumicle past what I needed to, and I absolutely protected him with-”

“ Relax, Mister Dunwoody!” Sir Alec said sharply. “I realise you’ve had a morbid night but there’s no need to assume everything is about death.”

He swallowed. “Sorry. So-Errol’s all right?”

“He’s not dead,” said Sir Alec. “But I’m afraid to say that he’s far from all right.”

Oh, lord. “What’s happened now?”

Sir Alec got out of his chair and moved to stand at the window, gazing into the slowly lightening sky. “What can you tell me of Jandria, Mister Dunwoody?”

“Ah… not an awful lot,” he said, staring. “Um. They were the instigators of the last big war. Must be coming up to forty years ago. They lost. They were required to pay some pretty steep reparations and made to agree not to rebuild their- oh.”

“Yes,” said Sir Alec, at his blandest. “ Oh indeed. They were made to agree not to rebuild their military capabilities.”

He felt his heart thud, sickeningly. “Are you saying the Jandrians have broken the terms of the armistice?”

“I’m saying we’ve received reliable intelligence that they are working on a secret fleet of military airships,” said Sir Alec. “Incorporating some of Errol Haythwaite’s most innovative thaumaturgical designs.”

Gerald felt his jaw drop. “ What? No. That can’t be right. I mean, Errol’s a lot of things, Sir Alec-” pillock… plonker… tosser… “but he’s not a traitor.”

Sir Alec turned from the window. “No? And what makes you so sure of that? It wouldn’t be the first time a Haythwaite has let down his country.”

I’m so tired, and this is all going too fast. “ Sorry, Sir Alec. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Never mind,” said Sir Alec, and resumed his chair. “The Haythwaite family history is not germane to this conversation. Let us instead look at the unpalatable facts of this new development, shall we?”

Yes, please. “You said we’ve received reliable intelligence?”

“We have a janitor in play,” said Sir Alec, nodding. “A long term undercover agent inserted into Jandria more than ten years ago, against the possibility of just this event.”

More than ten years? One of Sir Alec’s men had been living in a deceptive, hostile foreign country for more than ten years? But-but “Yes, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec, very dry. “A confronting notion, is it not? What one might describe as the very antithesis of treachery. More than ten years of looking over your shoulder, hoping and praying you don’t make a slip, not one single, infinitesimal mistake, that would reveal to those around you that you’re not at all what you seem. And all the while on alert, living on your nerves, looking for the clue that might save countless lives. Prevent another devastating war. Save the entire world from a thaumaturgical conflagration.”

Gerald swallowed, his mouth suddenly like sand. “It sounds-” He shook his head. “Very lonely.”

“It is,” said Sir Alec, his sharp gaze losing its focus. “Lonely and dangerous.”

Something in the way he said it, some odd little note in his voice, had Gerald looking at him even more closely. He’s speaking from personal experience. But he knew better than to comment on it. Think about Errol, instead. That’s a lot safer. And more comfortable.

“And this agent in Jandria has seen some of Errol’s airship designs?”

Sir Alec nodded. “He’s seen copies, yes.”

Leaning forward, he willed Sir Alec to believe him. “Sir, I don’t mean to contradict you or the janitor who passed you this information, but I really can’t believe Errol would do this. He’s got too much pride. Appearances matter to Errol Haythwaite. Hell, appearances are everything. If you’d heard him tonight, talking to Rottlezinder. He was furious he’d been dragged into this portal investigation.”

“Perhaps because this investigation threatened to uncover what he’s really been up to,” Sir Alec suggested. “I accept your assertion that Haythwaite is not involved in the portal sabotage. But that in no way means he is innocent of industrial espionage and treason.”

“But-but-it doesn’t make sense.”

Again, a swift flash of that chilly smile. “You’ll find, Mister Dunwoody, once you’ve been in this line of work for slightly longer than a few weeks, that many things on their surface do not appear to make sense. Nevertheless they are true. And in due course they often do make sense. At least to the criminals we apprehend. Usually we come to understand their twisted logic, in time. But understanding them is not a prerequisite for catching them. I think that principle was discussed in some depth during your training.”

“It was,” Gerald admitted. “Except-”

“Exceptions exist to prove the rule, Mister Dun-woody,” Sir Alec said briskly.

“So is there any more evidence against Errol? Aside from the fact that his airship design-work has turned up in Jandria? Rottlezinder mentioned some… youthful indiscretions.” He sat back, staring. “Is that why you’re so quick to believe Errol’s trucking treason with Jandria? Because he and Haf Rottlezinder made some mischief when they were students?”

“ Made some mischief…” Sir Alec murmured. “Are you by any chance comparing Rottlezinder to Monk Markham? I wouldn’t. Your friend is flamboyant and frequently thoughtless, but he lacks the cruel streak that marked Rottlezinder’s chequered career.”

Cruel streak? “Are you saying he and Errol-”

Sir Alec shook his head. “I’m not saying anything, Mister Dunwoody. As you pointed out, that record is sealed.”

“Maybe, but whatever’s in it has you believing Errol’s a traitor.”

“No, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec, his cool gaze direct and impatient. “The fact that Errol Haythwaite signs his design-work has convinced me of that.”

Gerald slumped. “Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

So, things were looking pretty grim for Errol. And why do I care? He’s never done me any favours. He’d see me on the scrap heap, given half a chance. Except… he expected more of himself than that.

“But that doesn’t mean he’s the one passing his work to the Jandrians, does it?” he said, thoughts racing despite his crushing weariness. “Couldn’t someone be stealing it from him?”

“If you’re thinking of another Wycliffe wizard, it’s most unlikely,” said Sir Alec. “They’ve all been exhaustively investigated. None of them has access to Jandria.”

“But Errol does?”

Sir Alec nodded. “There are some family connections, which are being investigated as we speak. And you mustn’t forget, Mister Dunwoody-the only wizard at Wycliffe’s capable of breaching Errol Haythwaite’s privacy hexes is you, and I’m assuming you’ve not been passing Mister Haythwaite’s designs to the Jandrian government?”

Oh, ha ha, Sir Alec. Very funny. “Still,” he muttered. “Despite all the evidence, I can’t bring myself to believe Errol’s guilty.”

“Mister Dunwoody, you have me perplexed,” said Sir Alec, and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “There is no love lost between you and Errol Haythwaite. Why are you so determined to defend him in this matter?”

“Because-well, because I don’t like him,” Gerald said at last, goaded. “It’s too easy to believe the worst of someone you loathe and despise. If it was Monk you were accusing I’d never stand for it, because he’s my friend. So what kind of man would I be if I didn’t apply the same kind of rigour to someone I don’t like, for the sole simple reason that I don’t like him?”

“What kind of man indeed?” Sir Alec murmured, leaning back in his chair and staring across his desk with a contemplative, narrowed gaze. “That, Mister Dunwoody, is an interesting question.”

“Where’s Errol now? Is he under arrest? Is he here?”

Sir Alec glanced at the quietly ticking clock on the wall. “Not yet. But he will be, soon. We wanted to make sure he was cleared by a medical specialist before bringing him into the Department for questioning.”

“Dalby’s bringing him?”

Another disapproving pinch of lip. “ Senior Janitor Dalby, yes.”

He pushed to his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You need to let me talk to Errol. Alone.”

“That’s out of the question,” said Sir Alec. “For one thing it’s been determined at the highest levels that you are never to be publicly identified with this Department. And for another, Mister Dunwoody, you are hardly a qualified interrogator. You are barely a janitor at all. I think you’re allowing tonight’s little achievements to overrule your-”

You sanctimonious bastard. “If I’m not an interrogator,” he said, his heart thudding, “then what the hell was that business with Monk’s souped-up delerioso incant?”

Sir Alec’s face hardened. “I don’t recall mentioning a delerioso incant.”

Oh… bugger. Sorry, Monk. “Sir Alec, don’t dismiss me. I can-”

But Sir Alec wasn’t so easily sidetracked. “Mister Dunwoody, am I to understand you have violated protocol and contacted-”

“You made me think I had to torture someone!” he shouted. “And I did. At least, I started to. And then you refused to discuss it afterwards! What did you think I was going to do, Sir Alec? After what Lional did to me, what did you think? Did you think I was going to smile and shrug and laugh it off?”

“What I thought or did not think is irrelevant,” Sir Alec snapped. “Mister Dunwoody, this is a serious breach. You have discussed confidential Department business with a non-Department individual.”

“Oh, don’t give me that!” he snapped. “You’re the one who went to Monk and got him to soup up his incant in the first place! And don’t you go blaming him for this either. He didn’t come to me, I went to him-because what I did in that final test disturbed me and you refused to talk about it.”

For quite some time, Sir Alec said nothing. Then he nodded at the hard wooden chair. “Sit down, Mister Dunwoody. And do make an effort to moderate your tone. I’m not in the habit of permitting subordinates to shout at me in my own office. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

Gerald thudded back into the chair. “I’m sorry. But-”

“I think, Mister Dunwoody,” Sir Alec said, lowering his hand, “that your best course of action is to leave it at ‘I’m sorry’.” He steepled his fingers again, his pale grey eyes coldly intent. “Now. What makes you think you’re qualified to successfully interrogate Errol Haythwaite?”

“I don’t want to interrogate him,” he said tiredly. “I just want to talk to him. I mean, you put me into Wycliffe’s in the first place because you know he doesn’t like me any more than I like him. I get under his skin. I throw him off-stride. So let me throw him off-stride. Let me use what I overheard tonight-” He looked at the early morning sky and shrugged. “Last night. If he thinks I believe him about not being in cahoots with Rottlezinder, maybe I can get him talking about this other thing with Jandria, and one of your real interrogators can maybe catch him in a lie. If he’s lying.”

And I really don’t think he is.

“I’m sure that sounds terribly exciting in theory, Mister Dunwoody, but there remains the matter of your anonymity,” said Sir Alec.

Gerald shrugged. “We both know you can fix that, Sir Alec. This Department’s got access to any number of useful, despicable incants.” He snorted. “Probably we invent most of them ourselves.”

Sir Alec was silent again, one forefinger tapping his lips. “You’d sanction that?” he said at last. No emotion in his voice, no hint of what he was thinking or feeling. “The use of despicable incants against Errol Haythwaite?”

“Given that I’ve already rearranged his memories once tonight, I’d be a bit bloody hypocritical to complain now, wouldn’t I?” he retorted. “Besides… if it means we stop Jandria from starting another war?” Staring at his knees, he thought about New Ottosland. Remembered all those charred, twisted bodies in the streets. Imagined the same kind of bloodshed here… and in other cities… but with a death toll in the thousands. Imagined death raining down from the sky from military airships. Just another kind of dragon. Looking up, he nodded. “Yes. I can live with hexing Errol. Besides, nothing could hurt him worse than being falsely accused of treason and maybe found guilty of something he didn’t do.”

Sighing, Sir Alec passed a hand across his face. “Mister Dunwoody,” he murmured. “What a trial you are proving to be.”

“Um…” said Gerald. “So, would that be a yes?”