Wizard Undercover

CHAPTER NINE

“Monk! Hey Monk! Come to the phone, it’s for you!”

Up to his aching eyeballs in randomly oscillating counter-intuitive tetrathaumicles, Monk cursed.

“Damn. It’s not Bailey, is it?”

“I don’t know who it is.”

“Then can’t you take a message?”

“Do I look like your secretary?” Walthorpe demanded, indignant. There was a heavy thumping of heels as he marched back to his cubicle. “Take it yourself.”

“D’you mind?” Dalrymple demanded from the other side of Research and Development’s cramped particle experiments lab. “I can’t hear myself think with you two bellowing back and forth like bloody fishmongers.”

“Don’t blame me,” Walthorpe protested. “Markham’s the one who won’t answer the telephone.”

As Monk opened his mouth to refute that calumny, his carefully constructed containment field overloaded and the oscillating counter-intuitive tetrathaumicles sparked and spat and died in a nasty shrivelling cloud of expended thaumic energy.

“Bollocks!” He kicked the nearest bit of bench. “That’s nineteen hours of work gone up in smoke!”

“Never mind,” said Walthorpe. “At least it gives you time to answer the telephone.”

Monk cursed again, then stamped out of his smelly cubicle to the lab telephone on its rickety desk beside the triple-sealed door. With a glare back at Walthorpe’s cubicle, he snatched up the receiver.

“What?”

“And a very good afternoon to you, too, Mister Markham,” a cool, self-contained voice said in his ear.

Bugger. “Oh. Sir Alec. Sorry.”

“I need to see you, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, indifferent to apology. “Now would be a good time.”

Monk bit his tongue. A good time for who? Not him. He was so far behind on his current project he’d need a miracle of temporal thaumaturgics to finish it on deadline.

“Right now? Are you sure?”

A pause, and then a faint sigh. “Quite.”

Oh. “Yes. All right. Only-”

Sir Alec disconnected the call.

Staring at the humming receiver, Monk fought down a surge of unease. What the hell? Why was he being yanked away from R amp;D in broad daylight with a call to a telephone number Sir Alec had no business using?

Lord, please don’t let anything have happened to Bibbie. Or Melissande. Or Gerald.

This was the first time he’d been stranded alone with all three of them to worry about. He didn’t like it. And when this mission was done with he was going to say so, very loudly, until somebody promised it wouldn’t happen again. Because if it did, hell, if it turned into a regular occurrence, then being friends and relations with those three was going to take years off his life.

“Well?” said Walthorpe, coming out to lean on the open side of his cubicle. His thin blond hair was waving wildly about his face, charged with ambient, random tetrathaumicles. He looked like a startled dandelion. “Who was that, then? A secret admirer?”

He pulled a face. “Idiot. No, it-ah-it was my tailor. I’ve some altered shirts to collect. I won’t be long.”

I hope.

“You’re going out?” said Walthorpe, comically crestfallen. “Oh. But I wanted you to-”

“Did I hear you aright?” said eavesdropping Dalrymple, popping up from his cubicle like an outraged jack-in-the-box. “You’re dashing off to fetch some bloody mending?”

Blimey, Norris Dalrymple could be hard work. From the day he’d set foot in R amp;D, nearly a year ago, in his perfectly pressed three-piece suit that always stayed pristine, with or without a lab coat, and his perfectly polished spectacles and his corrugated brown hair plastered with pomade and never imperfectly parted, he was the kind of bloke you wanted to trip up in passing, just for the pleasure of seeing him go splat.

“Actually, Dalrymple, no,” Monk snapped. “But since you don’t like it when I’m called away without explanation…”

Dalrymple’s face darkened. “I see. Well, then, Markham. Best you run along. God forbid the lowly likes of us keep you from your oh-so-important clandestine business.”

Torn between his own irritation and an inconvenient sympathy, he shrugged. “Sorry, old chap. It’s not like I can help who I was born related to.”

Dalrymple subsided, muttering. “Treats the place like a bloody cafeteria. There are proper procedures. Rules. Not to mention deadlines. Arrogant, insufferable…”

“Never mind him,” said Walthorpe. “He’s brewing an ulcer. Go, if you have to. Is everything all right?”

Lord, it better be. “Of course.”

But Walthorpe was no fool. “Yeah. Look, Markham, leave your cubicle. I’ll desaturate it for you while you’re gone. And if Bailey does call I’ll fob him off.”

“Thanks, Wally,” Monk said, touched. “I’ll try not to be all day. And when I get back I’ll take a gander at that third-level splice you’re working on. I’m not sure, but to artificially induce etheretic subsoms I suspect you’ll need to go deeper. Maybe a fifth-level splice. Have a think about it, anyway, while I’m gone.”

Mildly cheered by the memory of Walthorpe’s almost boyish excitement, he drove his jalopy white-knuckled to Nettleworth. There he let himself into the dismally nondescript Department building through its dingy back entrance, jumping at the tingling buzz of the thaumic detector as it read his potentia and let him pass.

When he tapped on Sir Alec’s open office door, Gerald’s superior didn’t look up, just waved him in and continued to read the report spread across the desk. Knowing better than to sit uninvited, Monk did his best to read the report for himself, upside down, while standing in front of the desk with his hands in his baggy pockets looking like he’d never dream of doing anything so impolite.

What he read threatened to send him shrieking from the room.

After a few moments, Sir Alec cleared his throat. “Mister Markham.”

He was too shaken to even attempt a denial. “But sir, I thought we’d smashed the dirit weed trade.”

“Did you?” Sir Alec shuffled the report’s pages together, slid them into a folder and set it to one side. “That was rather naive, wasn’t it?”

Monk fought the urge to wince. “I’m guessing you didn’t ask me here to talk about dirit weed.”

“Naive and yet, at the same time, peculiarly perspicacious,” said Sir Alec, his smile acidic enough to etch glass. “Sit.”

“Sir,” said Monk, and sat with a bump in the old wooden visitor’s chair.

“Regarding the mission to Splotze,” said Sir Alec, his grey gaze cool and watchful, as ever. “Miss Cadwallader informs me they are safely ensconced in the palace, with Mister Dunwoody and your sister’s false identities duly established. As we speak, Mister Dunwoody is attempting to ascertain the status of the agent whose whereabouts are currently unknown. I hope to hear from him shortly.”

Giddy with relief, he nodded. “That’s good to know, sir. Thank you. Ah-was that all, sir? Only I’m right in the middle of this bloody awful project and-”

Sir Alec folded his hands on the desk. “No, Mister Markham, that is not all. I have spoken with Sir Ralph, and he has agreed that, given your undesirable yet inevitable familiarity with the Splotze-Borovnik situation, and taking into account the fact that my Department finds itself temporarily over-stretched-” That watchful grey gaze flicked with cold contempt to the dirit weed report. “-I am within my purview to request your assistance.”

Despite his deadline agitation, Monk felt a warm glow of pleasure. Ha. So Bibbie’s not the only honorary janitor in the family. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Anything I can do. Just name it. Anything.”

Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “Thank you. Mister Markham, I need you to do a little discreet digging. I have asked Miss Cadwallader to provide me with the most recent wedding guest list, as well as the names and nationalities of all those guests’ retinues. As soon as I have it, I will pass it to you and you will educate yourself about these people so that you might, in turn, educate me. No detail about them should be considered too obscure-and it should be noted that I don’t much care how you go about discovering the information, provided you don’t get caught.” Another acidic smile. “If you do get caught, then you can expect to discover me afflicted with amnesia.”

Of course he bloody could. “But…” Monk shifted on the uncomfortable chair. “What you’re asking. That’s spying, or something very like it. I thought you were talking thaumaturgics. I can do thaumaturgics. But I’m not trained to-”

“Training has nothing to do with it,” said Sir Alec. “You’re a Markham. Intrigue is in your blood.”

“Yes, well, that’s very flattering, Sir Alec, only-”

“Mister Markham,” Sir Alec said, severe, “if you think the notion of once more dragging you into this Department’s business affords me any pleasure you’re entirely mistaken, but I don’t have a janitor to spare and you, as it happens, are uniquely qualified for this task.”

He blinked. “I am?”

“Yes. Thanks to your family, you know people who know people who will not talk to me but will talk to you, and who can very likely tell you what I need to know. So talk to them, Mister Markham. Help me to help your friend Mister Dunwoody. Again.”

Blimey. Was he imagining things, or did Sir Alec sound rattled? “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

And then, belatedly, an unwelcome thought occurred. His current project, hurtling towards deadline and nowhere near completion. Had Uncle Ralph bothered to consult with Bailey on lending him to Sir Alec? Bailey, who called three times a day demanding an update. Bailey, who’d taken to accosting him in the men’s room, wild-eyed and practically foaming at the mouth. Bailey, who Sir Alec sat back. “Do not concern yourself with Bailey, Mister Markham. He will not interfere.”

Dammit, how did the man do that? How did he always know? “Really, sir?” Monk said, not managing to hide his doubt. “Because Bailey, well, he’s-”

“Taken care of,” said Sir Alec.

“Oh. Right. Good. Only-” Monk cleared his throat. “The monitoring system I’m building for him? Actually, Sir Alec, it’s pretty crucial, really, and-”

“Trust me, not as crucial as this.”

His mouth dried. “Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.” Sir Alec’s eyes were like chips of ice. “Mister Markham, should the Splotze-Borovnik wedding be disturbed by any violent activity then no new thaumaturgic monitor that you could devise will prevent a conflagration the likes of which has never been seen. Believe me, it will make the Jandrian conflict look like a nursery school spat.”

Because of that piddling Canal? But the Jandrian conflict had killed tens of thousands. Since when had the Splotze-Borovnik Canal been worth so many lost lives?

Feeling sick, Monk stared at Gerald’s difficult superior. “Sir, Gerald said that you said my sister wouldn’t be in danger. She’s just window dressing. That’s what he said you said. Sir.”

“And I did say it,” Sir Alec replied, his voice thin and distant. Then, steepling his fingers, he turned his head, just a little, to frown out of the office window. “But that was before I learned Lanruvia is attending the wedding.”

“Lanruvia?” Monk swallowed, his heart knocking hard enough to crack a rib, surely. Because he was a Markham, and because his parents had always trusted him, he knew a lot more about a lot of things that most people had never heard of. Probably not even Gerald or Melissande knew what he knew about the deeply treacherous currents running through the waters of international thaumaturgical politics. “But why?”

“I don’t know, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, sounding grim. “But between us I am rather hoping we can find out. Because as doubtless you know… wherever Lanruvia treads, trouble is bound to follow.”

With Sir Alec’s alarming words of warning ringing in his ears, instead of returning directly to his cramped cubicle in Research and Development, Monk went home to the Markham mansion.

“Hello, Dodsworth,” he said, as the butler stepped back from the front door to let him in. “Don’t suppose my brother’s about, is he?”

“He is, Mister Monk,” said the butler warmly. “I believe you’ll find him in the Octagonal Library.”

“Then that’s where I’ll be, if you need me. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” said Dodsworth, pushing the heavy front door closed. “Have you eaten, sir, or can I bring you some luncheon?”

He nearly said No, don’t bother, I won’t be here that long, then changed his mind. He was ravenous, and lunch served from the Markham mansion’s kitchen was infinitely preferable to what he could scrounge for himself back at R amp;D. Especially since he suspected that Dalrymple would’ve done his best by now to make sure there’d be nothing left worth eating in the cafeteria.

“Thanks,” he said, and patted Dodsworth’s stooped shoulder. “You’re a scholar and a gentleman.”

Dodsworth’s smile was deprecating. “Neither, sir. But I’m sure it’s kind of you to say so. I’ll see you upstairs shortly.”

Because he’d been expecting it, Aylesbury’s lack of enthusiasm at his appearance didn’t sting. Well, not much. Truth was, he was so used to it now that if his brother had evinced pleasure at seeing him he’d likely faint from the shock.

“You’re still here, then,” he said, closing the library door behind him.

Seated at the large reading table, Aylesbury shook his head without looking up. “My brother, ladies and gentlemen. Master of the obvious.”

“Sorry. All I meant was that Bibbie mentioned your Aframbigi trip’s been delayed. I hope that’s not too awkward.”

“Do you?” Aylesbury rested one finger on his place in the report he was reading and lifted his unenthusiastic gaze. “I can’t imagine why.”

As always, that undertone of mocking cynicism. But he couldn’t let it distract him. Bibs and Melissande and Gerald were counting on Monk Markham to save the day.

“Anyway,” he said, closing a little of the physical distance between himself and his brother. “Have you got a moment? I wanted to ask you something.”

Aylesbury scowled. Because this was a business day he wasn’t wearing his neck ruff and velvets, and his earlobe was empty of his favourite dropped pearl. Instead he looked like any ordinary wizard, in a plain charcoal grey suit and restrained dark red tie.

“Look, Monk,” he said, not even attempting a cursory courtesy. “I might not be in the office, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got time to lark about. With the Aframbigi trip on hold it means I’m back to juggling three other clients, all of whom are convinced the other two don’t matter a toss.”

Monk dropped into the nearest overstuffed leather reading chair. “It’s important.”

“So’s this! Find someone else to pester.”

It was hard, but he kept his temper in check. “Trust me, Aylesbury, if there was someone else I would. But it’s you, or no-one. And this can’t wait.”

Intrigued despite himself, Aylesbury sat back and considered him with tightly narrowed eyes. “Fine. I’m listening. But not for long.”

“Thank you,” he said, managing to keep the sarcasm at bay. “So, what can you tell me about whispers from Lanruvia?”

“Lanruvia?” Aylesbury’s eyes widened. Then he shrugged. “Nothing. There haven’t been any whispers. Not for years.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. “Are you sure? I mean, your people have a lot of interests on the Andabedin Continent. And there’s not much that escapes the notice of local businessmen and traders.”

Aylesbury’s lips pinched in annoyance. “Yes, Monk, I’m sure. What, d’you think I’m being untruthful?”

No. Not exactly. But ever since childhood, whenever Aylesbury found something his little brother wanted he did his best to make sure he never got it.

So maybe I do think he’s lying. But really, is that fair? I mean, he’s got no earthly reason to.

“Why d’you want to know, anyway?” said Aylesbury. “Nobody in their right mind crosses paths with a Lanruvian.”

Ah. “It’s a work thing. Someone mentioned something in passing and it tweaked my interest.”

“Yes, well, I’ll bloody well tweak you if you’re not careful,” Aylesbury retorted. “I’ve got better things to be doing than-”

“Please, Aylesbury,” he said. “Indulge me, just this once.”

Aylesbury laughed, his expression scornfully impatient. “No, Monk, I won’t. There needs to be one person in the world who refuses to indulge the great Monk Markham.”

This wasn’t the time for one of their childish argy-bargies, so he throttled resentment. “Please.”

Clearly baffled, Aylesbury threw up a hand. “Fine. Ever since that near miss in ’91, everybody within spitting distance of Lanruvia sleeps with one eye open. I promise you, little brother, those slippery buggers are minding their manners. You hardly see them around any more.” He sneered. “But if you don’t believe me, why not ask Uncle Ralph? In fact, why not ask him in the first place, instead of bothering me?”

“Because sometimes the last person to know what’s happening in a place like Lanruvia is a man like Uncle Ralph.”

Aylesbury drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “This isn’t you pulling my leg, is it?” he said, after a moment. “You really are windy. Monk, what’s going on? And don’t give me that tripe about something in passing. It’s more than that.”

Yes, indeed, his brother was far from being a cabbage. “Ah…” Monk rubbed his chin. “Honestly, Aylesbury, I’d tell you if I could. I will tell you, once I’m cleared to. But in the meantime, could you keep an ear out for whispers about Lanruvia? Please? Because-”

He turned as the library door opened and Dodsworth entered carrying a large silver tray, on which were two covered plates and two glasses of red wine.

“Luncheon, gentlemen,” the butler announced. “Might I place it on the large reading table?”

“Do what you like it with it,” Aylesbury snapped, standing, and began shoving his reports into his briefcase. “I’ve a long-distance conference. I’ll be in my private study. Don’t disturb me unless one of Father’s experiments blows the roof off. And as for Lanruvia-” He flipped the briefcase catches shut. “You should think about cultivating a few more contacts, Monk. Last time I looked I wasn’t your dogsbody.”

Monk watched his brother march out of the library, then sighed. Bloody typical. With Aylesbury, in the end everything was reduced to the personal. Trying not to mind, he turned to the butler.

“The large table’s fine, Dodsworth. And since we now seem to have a spare serving, why don’t you join me? There’s no point letting good food go to waste.”

Dodsworth hesitated. “Really, Mister Monk, that’s most kind of you but-”

He slid off the arm of the chair. “Dodsworth, I insist. In fact, I’ll not take no for an answer.”

So Dodsworth set out the two plates, uncovered them, placed the covers and the silver tray out of the way, and joined him at the large reading table for a fragrant slice of Cook’s best venison pie.

Grinning, Monk lifted his glass of wine in a toast. “Here’s mud in your eye, Dodsworth.”

“Indeed, sir,” said the butler. “You are too kind.”

Savouring his first gravy-rich mouthful of flaky pastry and meat, Monk was struck by a thought. Can I? Should I? Sir Alec did make it clear it was results he cared about, not methods. And he doesn’t strike me as being a snob… Besides, from the outside, life as the Markham family’s butler looked awfully dull. He’d be doing their old family retainer a favour if he enlisted his help. Surely, after a lifetime of good care, he owed Dodsworth a little adventure in his old age.

And with Aylesbury so bloody unhelpful, I’m not sure I can do what Sir Alec wants without him.

“I say, Dodsworth,” he said slowly. “You’re a butler.”

Dodsworth considered him gravely. “Indeed, sir. I am.”

“And you know a lot of other butlers, don’t you?”

“That I do, sir. Yes. Were you perhaps thinking of engaging a man for Chatterly Crescent, sir? If so I would be pleased to-”

“What? No!” he said, recoiling. His own butler? How ghastly. Bad enough he had to answer to Bibbie for his scattered socks. “No, this is something else. Look. All these butlers you know. I don’t suppose any of them buttle at Ott’s foreign embassies, do they, by any chance?”

Dodsworth gave him an old-fashioned look. “Ah-Mister Monk…”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, grinning. “Right. Good. So, listen carefully Doddsy, my old chum. There’s something important I need you to do.”

Trying not to breathe too deeply, Gerald blinked the ceaseless sweat out of his stinging eyes. How much time had passed since he’d tripped this stinking entrapment hex? It felt like years… but he guessed it wasn’t more than a couple of hours.

Oh, lord. The girls will be going spare.

He was going a bit spare himself, to be honest. The hex holding him was the most powerful of its kind he’d ever encountered. Every time he caught hold of one strand, started teasing it undone, the other strands tightened to strangling point. All this time fighting it, and he was exhausted. Defeated. Covered in wire-thin bruises. He could feel them, and see some of them, snaking round his wrists and between his fingers.

So much for being a rogue wizard. I’m an idiot, that’s what I am. If only I’d listened to Sir Alec and left that grimoire magic where it was…

Because with his luck, the other Gerald had given him the perfect key to unlock this thaumaturgical door. But he’d never know now, would he? All he knew for certain was that no key lurked in the grimoire magic’s remaining dregs. He’d looked. So he was trapped here, with every chance that the men responsible for his capture, for Abel Bestwick, were on their way back right now, eager to see what insect wriggled in their clever web. And when they found him, they’d kill him. Or worse.

Come on, Dunnywood, come on. Think what Errol Haythwaite would say if he could see you now. Think what Reg would say, or Monk, or Sir Alec. Think!

A tickle in the back of his empty, aching mind. Words, a memory, drifting dreamlike to the surface.

I know more than I did. I just don’t know what I know. Y’know?

He’d said that to Monk, in the kitchen at Chatterly Crescent. A lifetime ago, or so it seemed.

I know more than I did. I just don’t know what I know. Y’know?

Yes, all right, he’d said it. But what did it mean?

He knew what he was afraid it meant. He was afraid it meant that he did have the power to break free from this hex… but only if he crossed a terrible line. Because there was using the grimoire magic and there was becoming the grimoire magic. And lacking a specific hex, to escape his entrapment he’d have no choice but to embrace it so completely that he became it.

The thought terrified him.

But did he have a right to that fear? With so much at stake-a brave man missing, hurt, possibly murdered, two nations in peril, the threat of bloodshed spreading further as treaties and alliances dragged more nations into war-wasn’t his fear a bloated self-indulgence that would cost more innocent lives?

He could hear Sir Alec, curt and impatient.

Yes, Mister Dunwoody. So what are you waiting for?

Help. Rescue. A last-minute miracle. Only this time they weren’t coming. No Reg. No Monk. No Melissande. No miracle. He was on his own. This time he’d have to rescue himself… or not.

And if it’s not, if I choose to give in to fear…

Then chances were he’d destroy the world anyway. Or at least, this corner of it. Not directly, perhaps, but his inaction would make him responsible. And didn’t he already have enough innocent blood on his hands? Hadn’t he sworn an oath to himself?

Never again.

Fear to the left of him, terror to the right.

Pick your poison, Dunwoody. Pick your poison and drink.

With a stifled groan, Gerald sank into his rogue potentia. Glittering. Powerful. Welcoming. Changed. Still healing in so many places where Mister Jennings’s extraction procedure had torn it apart. He brushed lightly against those tender scars and moved on, moved deeper, towards those new, dark places he’d tried so hard to deny. He could feel them. Taste them. Hear them singing in his blood.

There.

Eyes closed, his throat coated with fear, he fought the urge to turn tail and run. Fought it sweating. Fought it panting. The entrapment hex howled, constricting him so tightly he thought he’d be sliced to bloody pieces. A long way distant he heard someone whimpering. Swiftly realised it was himself. Ignored the pathetic sound.

The lingering grimoire magic was a black pool in his soul. With a silent, despairing cry he half-leapt, half-fell. Cried out again, in pain and wonder, as it closed over his head. Flooded him, burned him, and turned him to ice. He felt his rogue potentia flare. Felt every wounded place in it mend. Felt its melding and remaking as the remaining grimoire magics changed his potentia again, changing him into something new. Something more than a mere rogue wizard.

Oh, lord. What have I done?

Gerald opened his eyes… and was shocked to find that Abel Bestwick’s small, wrecked coldwater kitchen looked exactly the same. The only thing different in it was him.

“Right,” he said, and was surprised to hear he still sounded like Algernon Rowbotham. “To hell with this.”

He took a deep breath and tensed every muscle in his body. Saw with his mind’s eye the entrapment hex’s binding filaments fly apart. A ripple, like a shadow crossing the sun. A sting of heat. A shiver of protest. The hex resisted, then gave way.

He was free.

Breathing slowly, though his heart raced, he waited for his roiled potentia to calm. When he was himself again-his new self-he lifted his hands. They were unblemished, the wire-thin bruises healed. The pain was gone, too. He felt stupendously alive. And he could see-he could see Bloody hell. I can see.

With both eyes, he could see. His blinded eye had been made whole again. The permanent reminder of that deadly battle with Lional and his dragon, of the little lizard life he’d taken, was vanished. Undone. As though it had never been.

But even as he started to laugh, an echo of dark thaumic energy struck him like an angry hand.

Elation vanished. He looked down at the floor, at the pieces of smashed crystal ball on the scarred timber before him. Not Abel Bestwick’s doing, this destruction. The fingerprints here belonged to the wizard who’d crafted the entrapment hex. So. For whatever reason, Bestwick had left his crystal behind and his attacker-or maybe attackers, in his desperate message he’d said they — had smashed it out of spite.

But what if they’d managed to extract information from it first? What if they now knew that Bestwick had called someone. What if they knew who? What if He leapt to his feet. Knowing it was reckless, and not caring, he unleashed his full potentia and sought for enemies unseen.

Nothing. No-one. He was still safely alone.

Then he caught a hint of something else. Something new, yet somehow darkly familiar. Following instinct, he returned to the ruined living room and stood adrift in the mess. It was in here, he was certain. Whatever he’d missed the first time, it was here. He could feel it through the powerful deflection incant that had defeated him before-before Before I leapt without looking.

And yes. There it was. Embedded in the blood stains that had soaked and dried the old carpet. Kneeling again, Gerald hovered his fingertips above Abel Bestwick’s blood. Let out a long, slow breath and opened himself to evil.

The grimoire magic inside him leapt to life, like to like.

“Dammit,” he said softly, as his remade potentia rippled and writhed and his belly started to heave. “Oh, Bestwick. You poor bastard. How am I meant to help you now?”