Witches incorporated

CHAPTER TWO

Gerald spun round, his heart thudding. Lional. Not as he’d last seen him, a nightmarish corpse, but exactly as he’d been in his extravagant prime. Dressed in black velvet sewn with seed pearls. Negligently leaning against an accommodating tree trunk. Handsome. Charismatic. Rotten to the core.

It’s in the eyes, he realised, staring at New Ottosland’s improbably resurrected king. It always was. Why didn’t I see it? How did I let myself get fooled?

Except he hadn’t been fooled. Not really. Yes, Lional was deceptive-the king of deception, as it turned out-but in Gerald Dunwoody he’d had a willing accomplice. He hadn’t liked Lional from the moment they met, but the sauce of desperation can make the most revolting meal edible. And there was no getting away from it: after the debacle at Stuttley’s he’d been pretty desperate.

As he stood there, staring at impossible Lional, dreadful memories slithered past his mind’s eye: the cavern. The crimson-and-emerald dragon. The dead and dying of New Ottosland and those who’d been left alive, perpetually maimed.

If this was part of Sir Alec’s test he didn’t much care for it. He’d prepared himself for metaphysical challenges, not a stagger down potholed memory lane.

Lional looked up from inspecting his beautifully manicured fingernails. “You haven’t answered my question, Gerald,” he said, reproachful. “I think that’s rather rude, don’t you?”

He held his ground, just, and with an effort shook off his dismay. “No. You’re not real.”

Lional smiled; a suggestion of crimson scales slid beneath his skin. “Tell that to your nightmares.”

His nightmares. He shivered. “You’re not real now. You died.”

“Tsk tsk, Gerald,” Lional chided. “You used to have much prettier manners. Gratitude would be more becoming, you know. After all, I made you. You could at least say ‘Thank you, Sire’.”

Gerald stared at the gravelled driveway. Every muscle and sinew was screaming at him to turn around and walk away. He’d spent the last six months trying to forget this bastard. Forget the cave, and what had been done to him there. What he’d done. What Lional had seen. But Sir Alec had to have his reasons for such a charade, so he didn’t surrender to the almost overwhelming impulse to retreat. Surrender meant failure.

And I didn’t come all this way to fail.

He looked up. Not to look up, not to look at Lional, would’ve been cowardly. “ Thank you? I don’t think so, Lional. Have you forgotten? You made me a murderer.”

“I made you a thaumaturgical god,” retorted Lional. “Pushed you past your dreary moralities so you could get a glimpse of the infinite realm that was waiting for you.”

“The infinite horrors, you mean.”

Sighing, Lional rolled his eyes. “Oh, Gerald. Such melodrama. It doesn’t become you.” He spread his hands wide, entreating. “Don’t you remember what it was like, being a dragon? All right, as dragons go the one you made was pathetic but the principle still holds. You flew. You were invincible.” Another sigh, sorrowful this time, and his hands dropped. “And then you threw it all away.”

Gerald let dead Lional’s barbed words wash over him. So what was the point of this? Did Sir Alec think he was having second thoughts? Did he want to make sure his newest janitor wasn’t regretting the decision to use his outrageous talents for good? Was he somehow listening to this crazy conversation?

Well, if you are, Sir Alec, prick up your ears and listen to this.

“I did what I had to do, Lional,” he said flatly. “The only thing I could’ve done and still live with myself.”

Ruby rings flashing in the mellow morning light, Lional clasped his elegant hands before him. “No, Gerald. You turned your back on brilliance. You chose dancing to mediocrity’s dull little tune.” Another smile. More hints of sliding crimson. “And now tell me you don’t regret it. Tell me you don’t dream of being a dragon… and repine.”

As though Lional’s words were a summoning, Gerald felt the unnatural forces within him stir. His incandescent potentia, these past months kept strictly confined. In his veins the blood warmed. The ether trembled. The glory of the dragon thrummed through his bones.

“All these rules and regulations, Gerald,” said Lional, with spurious sympathy. “Don’t you find them just the tiniest bit tedious?”

If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. “Rules are important, Lional. They remind us of our ties to one another. They keep us civilised. You never grasped that, and you paid the price.”

“Yes, I thought you did,” said Lional, looking pleased. “A wizard like you, as far beyond First Grade as First Grade surpasses a gnat, chained to mundane, mawkish convention. Manacled by you must and you can’t and under no circumstances shall you. You are so grand, Gerald… and they are so small. So they have to keep you small. It’s the only way they can control you.”

He felt a prickle of temper. “No-one’s controlling me, Lional. I’m in the Department of my own free will.”

Lional’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? All right, Gerald. If you say so. But what if you wake up tomorrow and choose another path? What then?”

“I won’t.”

“Perhaps not,” said Lional, watching his rubies flash and sparkle in the sun. “But that wasn’t the question, was it?”

Gerald shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the sky. Once upon a time he’d been twinned with a dragon. Had flown untrammelled in the wild, warm air. Sometimes, in his dreaming, he was that dragon again. A creature of myth and magic, bound only by his will. Born because he wanted it. Brought to life because he could.

No, said a sharp, scolding voice in his head. Because Lional was about to commit wholesale slaughter. So you took a small innocent life, because it was there and you needed it. And then you warped it, tortured it and in the end destroyed it to fix the mess you made. Nothing glorious about that, sunshine.

Frowning, he scuffed his shoe-heel in the gravel.

“Would you like to know what I think, Gerald?” said Lional. His eyes were glittering. “I think you do repine. I think you repine daily. I think if we could turn back time you’d choose differently. You’d join me. You’d run to me.”

He stepped back. “No, Lional. I wouldn’t.”

Lional laughed, softly mocking. “The true test of honesty is what a man says to himself when no-one else can hear the words. Remember the cave? I know you, Gerald. Better than any man alive. Or dead.”

The cave. He took another step back. “You don’t know anything. You’re not real.”

“I’m real enough to know you resent that ridiculous etheretic shield,” said Lional, with a nonchalant shrug. “I know you’re tired of being restrained. After all, what’s the point of having power if you never get to use it? And they won’t let you use it, you know. Sir Alec and his minions. They’re so frightened of you, Gerald, they can hardly spit.”

“That’s not true.”

Lional smiled. “Isn’t it?”

Sickened, Gerald stared at him… forced at last to confront what he’d been trying for weeks now to deny. Lional was right. They were afraid of him. All that poking and prodding. All those tests. All those questions. Always someone watching when he ran through his selected, approved repertoire of incants. Watching. Measuring. Taking careful notes. As though they didn’t trust him. As though they thought that if they turned their backs he’d do something crazy… like make another dragon. Or turn them all into stoats.

“The real question, Gerald,” said Lional, “is what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” he retorted. “They’ve got good reason to fear.”

I’ve got good reason. I need to be watched.

“ Do you know what I think, Gerald?” said Lional, considering him carefully. “ I think you’ve let them bamboozle you. You’ve let them turn you inside out and upside down. Got you convinced there’s something wrong with who you are. What you are.”

Gerald folded his arms. “And what am I, Lional?”

“Whatever you desire to be, of course.”

“Which makes you what-my conscience?” He snorted. “Thanks, but I’ve already got one of those. Her name’s Reg. And one is more than enough.”

Lional laughed, mocking again. “One is one too many, Gerald. No man can fly with a millstone round his neck. Genius requires freedom. Morality is for the weak. Compassion is-”

“If you think that argument’s going to convince me I made a mistake when I killed you, I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment.”

Lional’s cerulean eyes opened wide. “Oh, no, Gerald. I know you don’t regret killing me. I know you think you did the world a favour. I’m merely stating my position, that’s all.”

He shook his head. “Then why — ”

“Because I want you to believe me,” said Lional, simply. “I want you to believe yourself. I want you to be perfectly clear on the facts. You’re convinced you did the right thing in New Ottosland. You do repine. You know they’re afraid of you… and even while a part of you shares that fear, another part-a much bigger part than you’re willing to admit-resents them for holding you back.”

Gerald stared at him, silenced. This isn’t fair. Murderous madmen who tortured you to the brink of insanity aren’t supposed to tell the truth.

Lional yawned. “Was there anything you wanted to add?”

“Just this,” he said quietly. Are you listening, Sir Alec? “I do know I did the right thing, Lional. But when you claim I don’t regret it… that’s where you’re wrong. I regret I wasn’t able to save you.”

“Oh, Gerald, Gerald,” said Lional, and wagged a roguish finger. “Such an arrogant young man. Whatever makes you think I wanted to be saved?”

He shrugged. “I never said you wanted it. I only know you needed it.”

Lional laughed again, a soft, shivering sound. “Well, well. Fancy that. It seems, my dear Gerald, there’s hope for you yet.”

Okay. That’s it. Enough is enough. If I wanted mental therapy I’d have kept my second appointment with the Department’s brain boffin.

“Look,” he said. “It’s getting late and I have a test to pass. Whatever game this is, I’m tired of playing it.” He turned on his heel and started walking. “Goodbye, Lional. Or whoever you are.”

“Oh, you know who I am, Gerald,” Lional called after him. “And you know where to find me. I’m never far away.”

Right. Fine. Gerald hunched his shoulders, feeling the gravel scrunch under his feet. Feeling his belly churn. What the hell was Sir Alec playing at? They’d already talked about Lional. Spent days and days dredging through the sorry escapade in New Ottosland. There was nothing new for Sir Alec to learn. Lional was dead. Literally and metaphorically. And the dead should stay buried.

He stopped walking, struck by a horrible thought.

Unless, of course, this has nothing to do with Sir Alec. Unless it’s not even happening. What if I’m still in bed, back in Nettleworth, dreaming this is my final test? Because this is impossible. The hexed gates, the wall, Lional. It’s crazy, all of it, just like a dream.

Profoundly unsettled, he swung about. The driveway behind him was empty. Lional had gone.

Yes, but was he ever there? Am I here? Or am I going to wake up in the next five minutes with my alarm clock dinging and drool on my chin?

Feeling like an idiot he slapped his own face, hard. Ow. The stinging in his cheek and palm seemed to suggest that yes, he was here.

But does that mean I’ve spent the last twenty minutes talking to myself? Because if I have there’s a good chance I’ve gone mad. On the other hand, if Lional really was here that means I’ve been talking to a ghost and that means, hello, there’s a good chance I’ve gone mad.

“ Bloody hell, Reg,” he said to the empty sky. “Why aren’t you ever around when I need you?”

He spun on his heel again and stamped the rest of the way up to the house.

It was an old place, two storeyed and rambling, built from weathered yellow sandstone. Thick green ivy crept up the walls in search of a better life. There were five timber-framed windows, all crooked, all with sun-bleached curtains blocking the glass. A long time ago the front door had been painted fire-engine red. Now it was faded, its brass gargoyle knocker and round doorknob desperate for attention. An ivy-covered archway protected anyone forced to bang on it in the rain.

Gerald hesitated, just for a moment, then marched right up, rapped the gargoyle knocker emphatically, twice, and waited.

No answer.

He pressed his hand flat to the door’s dulled red paint, expecting to feel some kind of incant or hex. Nothing. He banged the gargoyle knocker again, hearing a faint suggestion of hollow echoes deep within the house. Still no answer.

“Well, bugger this for a boatload of monkeys,” he said at last, grabbed the doorknob and turned it. The door opened without protest, a conservative inch. So he took a deep breath, pushed it wide, and stepped over the threshold…

… into Sir Alec’s austere office at Department headquarters, Nettleworth.

Seated behind his polished teak desk, neat and tidy as always, Sir Alec made a note in an open file then looked up. His unremarkable face was expressionless, but in his cool eyes lurked the merest hint of approval.

“At last, Mister Dunwoody,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if we’d see you again.” He nodded at the discouraging wooden visitor’s chair. “Have a seat. Just a few formalities, then we can discuss your first assignment.”

Stunned, Gerald sat. “My first-you mean-that’s it? That was the test? And I passed?”

Sir Alec was the least casual man he’d ever met. Sir Alec never slouched. He never slumped. He never leaned against anything. And if he was weary he never ever showed it. There was nothing whatsoever restful about him. His wintry smile appeared, briefly.

“Mister Dunwoody, the testing of your janitorial suitability started from the moment you arrived here. Surely you knew that? Or at least suspected it?”

“No. Well. Sort of. Maybe. At least-I thought-I wondered-” He slewed round in the wooden chair and stared at the office door. “Ah-Sir Alec-if you don’t mind me asking-um-how did I get here? I mean, was that a portal? The door at the haunt-the establishment? Because it didn’t feel like a portal. At least not like any portal I’ve ever travelled through.”

“Really, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. Now he sounded irritated. “We are a secret government Department. Did you think we wouldn’t have a few surprises up our sleeve?”

He swallowed, hard. “No, of course not. So who invented that one? Not Monk, by any chance?”

Instead of answering, Sir Alec reached for another file from the pile on his desk, opened it and extracted a sheet of heavy, official looking paper, embossed in five places with enormous crimson wax seals. The black ink printing looked equally official and impressive.

Gerald read his name on it, upside down, and felt his heart thud heavily.

This is it. I’ve done it. I’m a real live janitor.

He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know nearly enough. The international law, the restricted incants, the seventeen volumes of case files that didn’t even scratch the surface of the Department’s work over the past ten years. He’d barely absorbed any of it. All was chaos in his head, facts and figures tumbling like leaves in a windstorm. He didn’t know enough yet to be let loose on the world.

Sir Alec was holding out a pen and a second sheet of paper. “Mister Dunwoody?”

Still dazed, he took them. “What am I signing?”

“Your permanent contract.”

“Oh.” He looked down. The words swam on the paper. Insofar as… wherefore the agent aforementioned… duty and diligence… penalties under the Act… utmost secrecy… blah blah blah blah…

He looked up again. “Do I have to sign right now, or do I get some time to think about it? And, you know, read the fine print.”

Sir Alec frowned. “Six months isn’t long enough for cogitation, Mister Dunwoody? Or are you having second thoughts?”

The ghost of Lional, whispering in his ear. They’re so frightened of you, Gerald, they can hardly spit.

“No, no, it’s not that. I just-well, you know what they say. Never sign a document you haven’t read at least twice.”

Sir Alec just looked at him.

Oh, blimey. Gerald stared at the contract again. At his black-and-white future. The years stretched ahead of him, full of danger and duty. Deception and lies. Loneliness. Fear.

Full of doing the right thing. Full of making amends. Full of Lionals who have to be stopped. The dead must be honoured… and you gave them your word.

He signed.

“Excellent,” said Sir Alec, and stood. “Now come with me.”

Gerald followed him out of the office, along the dingy corridor, down five flights of stairs to the underground complex beneath the unremarkable premises in Nettleworth, where he’d spent so much of his time lately being poked and prodded and investigated, like a crime.

But instead of going to the laboratory, which had become his second, reluctant home, Sir Alec led him to a small, featureless room with two doors, one chair and a table in it. On the table, in a black cradle, sat a lump of pale yellow scrying crystal.

“Have a look,” Sir Alec invited. “Then tell me what you see.”

Bending over the table, Gerald stared into the crystal. “A man,” he said. “He looks… frightened.”

“As well he should,” said Sir Alec grimly. “The fool’s been caught with the wrong secrets in his pocket. Now it’s our job to find out precisely how much more he knows, that he shouldn’t, and to which of our enemies he’s passed-or intends to pass-his pilfered information.”

“I see,” said Gerald, and gazed again into the scrying crystal.

Slightly distorted by etheretic vibrations, the man sat on a wooden chair rather like the one in Sir Alec’s office, his right arm pressed against his middle as though he had a pain, agitatedly chewing the fingernails of his left hand. He was thin and sallow… or maybe that was just the scrying crystal’s influence. He didn’t much look like a thief of secrets. A traitor to his nation. Or not the way Gerald imagined a man like that would look. If you took away the fear and the fingernail-chewing he appeared earnest and prosperous. Like many of the men he’d worked with when he was a Probationary Compliance Officer.

“Is he a wizard?” he asked, straightening.

Sir Alec nodded. “A Second Grader in the Department of Industry. The perfect target for subornment, Mister Dunwoody. Likes the ladies a little too much. Enjoys one tipple too many at his local club. Tends to bet just that fraction more than he can afford at the races.” He made a small sound of contempt. “And then thinks he can save himself by betting more the next time.”

“Ah,” said Gerald. “I have a second-cousin like that.” Morley, who’d never met a broken-down racehorse he wasn’t convinced would win the Five Furlong Dash. “So this man-this wizard-ah-”

Sir Alec smiled. “His name’s not important.”

Oh. “So… let me guess. This wizard got into debt, and couldn’t get out of it, and did something stupid to try and save himself. Is that right?” Oh yes. Just like Morley.

“You consider him a victim, do you, Mister Dun-woody?” Sir Alec asked softly. “A hapless, harmless ne’er-do-well who’s just made a silly little mistake? Committed a small error of judgement?”

Surprised by the sudden chill in Sir Alec’s voice, Gerald frowned. “Well, no, not exactly. I mean, if he’s been selling proprietary government information, well, obviously that’s wrong. But-”

“But because he’s not spilled blood, because he’s not a murderer, because, really, how much trouble can you get into with a dull set of chaps like the Department of Industry, you don’t think I should be taking this quite so seriously?”

Sir Alec’s voice was so cold icicles were practically forming in the air.

“No, sir,” he said, close to shivering. “I didn’t say that, either.”

“Shall I tell you the consequences of this traitor’s actions should we fail to uncover the extent of his perfidy and the identity of every last foreign agent in receipt of his stolen information?”

“Yes. Please.”

“You’ve been out of the way here, Mister Dun-woody,” Sir Alec said, his voice clipped. Still chilly. “And fairly well occupied, so it’s not unreasonable you’re a trifle behind the times. Allow me, therefore, to bring you up to speed. There’s been a breakthrough in the application of artificially agitated thaumicals to certain non-thaumically sensitive items. It’s early days still, but should preliminary tests prove out, the patents will be worth a fortune. And before you ask, no, Mister Markham is not involved. I realise you’re a great champion of his talents but he has only eight fingers and two thumbs and we-the government-have a few more pies to dabble in than that.”

Gerald managed, barely, to keep his face straight. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Can you tell me any more about this breakthrough?”

“Once the process has been sufficiently refined and is applied,” Sir Alec continued, “it will have a significant impact on various sectors of the economy. Enormous benefits will accrue to both government and selected private enterprise-at the expense of several nations currently enjoying certain… monopolies. And that is as specific as I’m prepared to be. The point, Mister Dunwoody, is that should these nations be warned ahead of time as to our progress, or be given access to research on the patents, they could either attempt to usurp the process or take pre-emptive and punitive action that will severely damage our economy.”

Gerald thought about that. “But aren’t we trying to damage their economies?”

“ Trying?” Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “Certainly not. We are striving to benefit our nation, the primary duty of any good government. I admit there will be some inevitable realignments in some foreign revenues. An adjustment to income for the nations in question. But that is the nature of international trade. Swings and roundabouts, Mister Dunwoody. A loss here, a gain there, and it all comes out in the wash. Eventually.”

Gerald nodded. “I see.” And I’m getting a headache. “So this is about money.”

“It is about sovereignty and security,” Sir Alec snapped. “And preventing a war.”

“ War? How did we get to war? I thought we were talking about trade?”

“Trade is war,” said Sir Alec. “Or at least a close relative. Mister Dunwoody, you are not a stupid man. Ottosland has long been the envy of lesser thaumaturgically-gifted nations. To allow the envious to use our own gifts against us would be to encourage their predations. To give the impression that we are an easy target, disinclined to stand our ground. And as history so amply demonstrates, to give that impression to one’s enemies never leads to a happy ending. In short we must nip this matter in the bud. Before it comes to real war, and people start dying.”

“I can see that it’s necessary,” said Gerald, slowly. “But where do I fit in?”

Sir Alec’s wintry smile appeared again, brief as ever. “You, Mister Dunwoody, are my pruning shears.”

Pruning shears? “ I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“The wizard in question has proven himself remarkably… stubborn,” said Sir Alec. “Not only does he steadfastly decline to willingly co-operate with our investigation, he has managed to acquire for himself a shadbolt, to ensure his lack of assistance.”

What? Gerald stared, disbelieving. “Is he mad?”

“Better say desperate,” said Sir Alec. “Or greedy beyond any reason.”

“But not even the thaumaturgical black market deals in shadbolts. Does it?”

Sir Alec sighed. “It deals in everything, Mister Dunwoody. No matter how ill-advised, distasteful or patently illegal. If one can pay, one can purchase.”

“Yes, but a shadbolt?”

“Clearly our friend next door gambled that his rewards would compensate for any… personal inconvenience.”

“Next door? You mean he’s-”

“Through there. Yes,” said Sir Alec, nodding at the small room’s other exit. “Waiting for you.”

Gerald felt his skin crawl. “For me?”

“Indeed.” Sir Alec frowned. “We can’t break his hex, Mister Dunwoody. Whoever designed this particular shadbolt used some… regrettable… incants. After due consideration it’s been decided that we need your particular and peculiar talents to loosen our man’s tongue.”

Oh. “I see.”

“So in you go. I’ll be here, watching through the scryer. Ready to lend a hand should assistance be required.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Ah… Sir Alec? I’m only guessing because I’ve never done this before, but-forcibly breaking a shadbolt. That’s not going to be pleasant.”

“Not for our treacherous friend, no,” Sir Alec agreed. “But I’m inclined to feel he should’ve thought of that before he betrayed his country.”

“Yes. Only, was he thinking about betraying his country? Or was he just thinking about the money. Getting himself out of debt.”

Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Is it relevant?”

“Well… yes. I think it is.”

“Mister Dunwoody, you are an agent of the Ottosland government,” said Sir Alec, impatient. “Committed to its service and the defence of the nation’s sovereignty. You just signed a contract to that effect. And now you’re being asked to honour that contract. Are you telling me you’re not able to fulfil your obligation?”

“No,” said Gerald. His hands were sweaty. “No, I’m not.”

“Then fulfil it,” said Sir Alec. “The clock is ticking, Mister Dunwoody. Lives are depending on what you do next.”

Dizzy, he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The nameless Second Grade wizard jumped as the door into his small room opened.

“Hello,” said Gerald, closing it behind him. “I’m Gerald.”

The wizard looked at him, uncertain. “William.”

“Hello, William.”

William frowned. “So, what are you? My lawyer?”

“Lawyer?” he said, feeling ill. “No, I’m a wizard. Like you.”

“Ha. If you can turn around and walk out of here, you’re not like me,” sneered William.

There was a second chair in this room. Gerald sat down and pressed his hands between his knees. “Look. William. They’ve sent me in here to break your shadbolt.”

“Then you’re wasting your time,” said William, dismissive. Beneath the bravado he stank of fear. “My shadbolt’s the best a small fortune can buy. Guaranteed to make me unbreakable.”

Gerald looked at him. Let me out, let me out. I don’t want to be here. “ No-one’s unbreakable, William.”

Arms folded across his chest, William sat back. “I am.”

“No, you’re not. Trust me.”

“All right. Fine. Go on, then, Gerald,” said William, shrugging. “Give it your best shot. The others failed. You will too.”

Deeply apprehensive, Gerald closed his eyes and let his senses unfurl. He felt the shadbolt straight away, saw it in his mind’s eye as a series of chains and padlocks looped and secured around William’s etheretic aura. It was ingenious. Complicated. Diabolically strong. But so was he-and he could sense how to break it. In fact he could break it quite easily, in one fell swoop, if he didn’t mind sending William insane. Or killing him.

He opened his eyes. “William, you need to listen to me. Deactivate the shadbolt and tell Sir Alec whatever he needs to know. Because I really, really don’t want to hurt you.”

William snickered, even as his fingers crept towards his mouth. “You won’t. You can’t.”

Gerald stared at his hands, pressed almost bloodless now between his knees. “Sir Alec,” he said, just loudly enough for the scrying crystal to pick up. “I don’t want to do this.”

“ He’s not an innocent casualty, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec, seemingly out of thin air. “ He’s a willing accomplice. The kind of man who creates innocent casualties. Your compassion should be reserved for them.”

“Even so…”

“ I told you once this was not a job for the faint-hearted. I told you there were times when you’d have to be a scalpel. This, Mister Dunwoody, is one of those times. ”

A scalpel. Pruning shears. A dustpan and brush. How many euphemisms were there for what he’d become?

“ Please, William,” he said, not caring that Sir Alec could hear his desperation. “Tell us what you did. All of it. And after that we can work things out.”

William’s eyes were the colour of dirty dishwater. Filled with unease now, his gaze jittered from side to side. His fingernails were so badly bitten they’d started to bleed. “Can’t. Can’t. No talking. That’s the deal.”

“ Mister Dunwoody.”

Gerald flinched. Sighed. “I’m sorry, William.” Looking with his mind’s etheretically-tuned eye, he reached for the first strand of the shadbolt… and snapped it.

William howled like a dog run over by a carriage.

Fighting a wave of nausea, he leaned forward. “William, please, I’m begging you. Save yourself. Talk.”

William sobbed, and shook his head.

He snapped another strand of the shadbolt. William toppled sideways off his chair to the floor, blubbering, all bravado burned away in white-hot flames of pain. Gerald stared down at him… and remembered the cave.

I can’t do this. I’m not Lional.

“ I can’t do this,” he said out loud, to Sir Alec. “If that means I’m in breach of contract then fine. Sue me. But I can’t-I won’t — do this.”

Without waiting for a reply he got off the uncomfortable wooden chair and walked to the small room’s other door, the door that would let him get out of this place. He turned the handle, pulled it open…

… and found himself outside the wrought-iron gates of the haunted house. The morning mist was heavy. Fading into the distance, the muffled clip-clop of hooves and the creak of wooden wheels as the cart that had deposited him here returned to the railway station.

And as he stared at the gates, numbed beyond any thought or feeling, they swung wide and soundless, inviting him to enter. Cold despite his overcoat, gloved hands thrust deep in its pockets, he walked unhindered up the gravel driveway to the mist-shrouded, ivy-covered house. Banged the gargoyle doorknocker. Nodded to the very proper butler who answered the door.

“I’m Gerald Dunwoody. I believe I’m expected.”

“Certainly sir,” said the butler. “Sir Alec is in the parlour. Please, follow me.”

And yes, Sir Alec was in the parlour, a buttercup yellow and fresh dairy-cream room. Seated in a blue-and-white striped wingback armchair and conservatively, nondescriptly dressed in a grey pinstripe suit, he was sipping tea from an elegant porcelain cup. He looked up as the butler announced his visitor.

“Ah. Mister Dunwoody,” he said, unnervingly expansive and genial. “So good of you to join me. Come in. Sit down. Would you care for some refreshment?”

Standing just inside the doorway, Gerald shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said, struggling not to sound as dazed as he felt. “Sir Alec, what was that? Lional… the hexed gates… that wizard, William? What just happened?”

Sir Alec considered him over the rim of the teacup. “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, I–I thought it was real, then I thought I was dreaming, and then-” He shook his head again. “I don’t know. I’m assuming it was… all part of the test?”

Sir Alec nodded. “Correct.”

“And I passed?”

Not even this warm, cosy room could thaw Sir Alec’s smile. “Well… let’s just say you didn’t fail.”

Oh. Well. That was good… wasn’t it?

“Do sit down, Mister Dunwoody,” added Sir Alec, much less genially. “I’m not fond of repeating myself.”

He dropped onto the parlour’s couch. “Sorry, sir. So, if I’ve passed, and I’m a janitor, then what happens now?”

“Now, Mister Dunwoody?” Sir Alec put down the cup. “Now I have a job for you.”

“A job?” he repeated. He still felt not quite real. “Already?”

“Certainly,” said Sir Alec. “The government’s not in the habit of paying agents to loll about. It’s time, Mister Dunwoody, for you to get your feet slightly damp.”