by K. E. Mills
What else was different, apart from the scar? They had the same lanky dark hair, in need of a cut. The same thinly-bridged nose that his mother liked to call aristocratic. The same quizzically-arched eyebrows. The same lopsided mouth. Their prominent cheekbones were identical. They shared a pointed chin. They had the same crooked eye-tooth, thanks to Aylesbury’s bad temper.
But our eyes… good God, our eyes…
The eyes he was looking into had looked into hell.
“I knew you’d help me,” his unwanted twin whispered. “Knew it was worth it. You’re the only one I can trust.”
He knew the answer but he asked the question anyway. “Is this going to hurt?”
His other self smiled. “It doesn’t matter, Monk. You have to.”
For one bad moment he thought his courage was going to fail, that he was going to let himself down, let the girls down. Let down this man who looked-almost-like him.
One last glance behind him, at Bibbie. At Melissande. At Reg. All three girls were gravely silent, urging him on. He loved them so much. How could he not do this?
Hesitant, feeling far shakier than he’d ever admit, he took the Monk from next door’s hand in his own. Waited to feel some strong shock of recognition. Waited to see if this would make him wake up. No such luck. The fingers in his- my fingers- were long and thin and cool. Strong fingers. Clever fingers. Fingers used to playing with thaumaturgical fire.
He closed his eyes and stared into the ether, into the aura he’d never once seen from the outside. Searched for the shadbolt hiding within it like a lethally-honed knife sleeping silent in its sheath.
Oh, he thought, wondering. Oh. Is that what I look like?
Monk Markham’s aura was royal blue shot through with gold. At least, the parts of it that weren’t distorted and twisted were royal blue and threads of gold. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the ruined bits, not yet, so instead he concentrated on the remnants of beauty still untouched.
Unlike Gerald, he’d known from childhood he was special. Born with metaphysical talents few others would ever know. But even though he’d been tested so many times and in so many different ways that he’d long since lost count, had stopped keeping track even, not once had he ever been shown himself like this.
Because they didn’t think it mattered? Or because they were afraid it might matter too much?
Growing up with Aylesbury, he’d promised himself he would never let magic go to his head. Thaumaturgical power was not the measure of a man. No matter what he invented, it could never be more important than being a decent human being. But since he’d never actually come right out and said that, perhaps it wasn’t surprising his family-and the Department of Thaumaturgy-would err on the side of caution.
And I do have a habit of ignoring the rules.
But that was different. That wasn’t about being better. It was only ever about the work.
The man on the sofa, the Monk from next door, stirred a little-and he remembered what it was he was meant to be doing.
An invisible shadbolt? Bloody hell. Who has the power to make a shadbolt invisible? It’s a major feat of thaumaturgics to put a normal one together.
To find the answer he had to look deeper into this Monk’s damaged aura. He had to forget about the beauty and confront the pain instead.
Do I really want to do this? No, I bloody well don’t.
Steeling himself, he inched his potentia deeper and closer to the dark, distorted patterns in the aura that suggested, like shadows on water, the presence of something dangerous beneath. He could see the patterns quite clearly. Thought it was odd that Bibbie couldn’t. She was one of the best witches of her generation.
He felt the other Monk flinch. Felt himself flinch with him. And then felt a teasing, taunting hint of something familiar. Or almost familiar. Something that should be familiar-and yet was somehow not right.
Gathering his potentia, he plunged his awareness into the heart of his unlikely twin’s aura, tearing it wider, baring it to his eyes. He saw the shadbolt in all its vicious, strangling glory, felt its thaumic signature… and heard himself cry out. Felt himself spiraling downwards, falling backwards, falling apart.
Because this was impossible. This had to be a mistake. He knew who’d made that shadbolt… and he knew he had to be wrong.
Gerald.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
S eated at his dusted and neatly ordered desk, Sir Alec stared at the open folder in front of him. Rereading it was pointless. He knew that. He’d read the report four times and none of the words had changed. The truth hadn’t changed. His agent was dead. One moment’s inattention. One heartbeat of distraction. That was all it ever took. Just one. Not that the eyewitnesses put it that way, of course. The eyewitnesses, being ignorant, had seen what they were meant to see: a horrible shooting accident. One of those things that regrettably happened, sometimes, when a bunch of jolly chaps got together and went after grouse.
But he knew different. Saltman had gotten too close, too fast. He’d spooked his quarry and his quarry, instead of bolting, had turned to fight.
Damn you, Felix. What were you thinking? You should’ve known better. I thought you did.
Not an inexperienced janitor, Saltman. This had been his ninth assignment. Sloppiness like this was simply unacceptable. And now months of painstaking work had all been for nothing. Their quarry was on his guard now. Who knew how long it would take for him to relax his stirred defenses? This had been their chance, perhaps their only chance, of nipping Grantham Farnsworth’s activities in, as they said, the bud.
Beneath the anger he did feel grief. As hard as he tried he could never quite keep himself from forming a sympathetic attachment to the men he moved about the international stage like breathing chess pieces. Perhaps if he’d never been a janitor himself. Perhaps if he had no idea what it was like to risk life and sanity to keep the innocent masses safe. Perhaps then he’d be able to maintain a prudent distance. But he’d long since abandoned any hope of achieving it. His only hope was that no man whose life ultimately depended on him would ever know the depths of his feelings. Would know that he had feelings at all.
The second-to-bottom right hand drawer of his desk contained a heavy, official stamp and a stamp pad soaked in blood-red ink. Ralph said that was gaudy and ostentatious but he felt it was important not to pretend in black. Death wasn’t black, at least not until the funeral. Before then it was crimson.
Neatly, precisely, he stamped Felix Saltman’s file. A single word: Inactive. So circumspect. So polite.
The loss of an agent never failed to complicate his life, but at least it had been quite some time between drinks. And seeing, thanks to Saltman, that the pursuit of Farnsworth must for the next while be abandoned, his Department retained its precarious equilibrium.
Which was a slight and stinging consolation.
He slotted Saltman’s folder in the cabinet reserved for inactive files. That cabinet had been around for years, put to use long before he’d begun his tenure as head of the Department. He’d known perhaps a quarter of the men whose lives were interred within it, and of that quarter about one third had died on his watch.
He never allowed himself to wonder what the final tally would be.
His office wall-clock sounded softly, ticking towards nine. Slicing through time. He often worked late. Fewer distractions. A world deceptively at peace. The office’s heavy curtains were drawn and a small fire burned merrily, but the dancing flames failed to lift his mood.
Gerald should have returned from Grande Splotze by now. At the very least he should have made contact, if there were problems. If the man he was meeting had failed to show up.
He nearly succumbed to the lure of good malt whiskey. Felix Saltman was dead. Careless or not he deserved one small toast. But he left the bottle of aged Loriner unopened. Instinct was stirring and he’d long since learned to trust it.
Something’s not right. There’s another shoe somewhere, wanting to drop.
I don’t care what Ralph says. He’ll not let me down.
He looked up as someone tapped on the closed office door. “Come.”
“Sir,” said Dalby, ghosting in. He had the softest tread of any agent in Nettleworth-or out of it, for that matter. “Sorry to disturb you.”
Frowning, Sir Alec returned his pen to its holder and sat back. “You’re still here?”
He could always trust Frank Dalby to answer the unasked question. “Got a bloke who knows a bloke,” he said, ever the laconic. “Chance of a tip. Worth losing some sleep on.”
In another lifetime he and Frank had both been janitors. They were of an age. Had shared experiences. If Frank resented answering to him now he’d never shown it. But it was doubtful. Frank Dalby was born to hide in the shadows. The glare of politics would kill him inside a week.
Comfortably at ease on the other side of the desk, Frank gave the tip of his nose a thoughtful rub. “Bloody fool, that Saltman.”
He felt his lips twitch. To say that Frank was unforgiving was like saying water was wet. “We all make mistakes.”
Frank snorted. “Felix bloody did, and all.” He let his disinterested gaze slide around the room. “You got anything brewing in Splotze?”
The other shoe dropped, a soft sounding of doom. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing on the duty board about Splotze,” said Frank, his gaze upcast at the firelit ceiling. “And everyone’s accounted for.” His gaze dropped. “Everyone based here.”
It was an invitation to a confidence which he wasn’t inclined to share. With a flick of his fingers he indicated his work-covered desk. “If there’s a point, Dalby, you might consider reaching it.”
Indifferent to rebuff, Frank fished in his pocket and pulled out a folded note. “Back-channel squawk,” he said, handing it over. “Didn’t make much sense but I wrote it down just in case.”
He took the note. “I see.” As far as he knew, his labyrinth of informants didn’t include a detour via Frank Dalby. “Back-channel how?”
“Remember Scrubby Yates?”
Scrubby Yates, in a roundabout way, had once nearly and spectacularly cost them their lives. Ah yes, indeed, the good old days. “Vaguely.”
“Turns out Scrubby still keeps half an ear to the ground,” said Frank, a sardonic glint in his eye. “One toe in the water. A couple of fingers in a few pies. Someone reached out to him. He wouldn’t say who. I pushed, but he said he’s grown attached to his head.”
“And what has that to do with Splotze?”
“How should I know?” said Frank. “All I know is Scrubby moaned about the accent. And then he clammed up. I said I’d send him some ale.”
The folded note was burning his fingers like a brand. “Fine. Half a case and not one bottle more. I’d rather not encourage him. Scrubby Yates’s time has both come and gone.”
Frank didn’t often grin, but he was grinning now. “Half a case it is.” And then his amusement died, as though an internal switch had flipped. “I’m here if you need me, Ace. Just say the word.”
Frank Dalby would never have made the mistake Felix Saltman made. “It’s doubtful,” he said. “But I’ll certainly bear it in mind. Thank you, Mr. Dalby.”
As soon as the office door clicked shut behind his former colleague, he unfolded the note and read it. One sentence. Eight words.
Didn’t he want to wear a yellow cravat?
Cryptic for some. Clear as glass for him.
Gerald Dunwoody had never arrived.
“ Gerald?” said Reg, shocked. “ Gerald put a shadbolt on him? My Gerald?”
Monk scowled at her. “No, Reg, his Gerald. I thought you were paying attention.”
Inconveniently close on Melissande’s shoulder, she whacked him with her wing. “I am paying attention. And mind how you speak to your elders, sunshine. You’re not too old for a thrashing and I’m not too old to give you one.”
Rubbing at his arm, he sighed. “Sorry.”
“I should bloody think so,” said Reg. “Because we’ve just got through establishing that muggins over there is you, haven’t we? Which means his Gerald is my Gerald and I can’t see my Gerald doing something like that. Can you?”
They’d retreated to the parlor’s furthest corner again, the better to have a quiet conniption. The Monk from next door had lapsed into a doze, worn out by the effort of getting here and having his etheretic aura rummaged through like a bargain bin at a market stall and whatever else he’d been enduring up till now, that made him look likethat.
“Are you all right?” Melissande asked quietly. “Because you look like you’ve got the most fearful headache.”
“I have,” he admitted. “But never mind. Let’s concentrate on the shadbolt for now.”
“The shadbolt my Gerald-or any Gerald-couldn’t possibly inflict on anyone,” said Reg, feathers ominously bristling. “Are we all perfectly clear?”
“Look, Reg,” Bibbie said after a moment. “I don’t want to believe it either. But Monk’s not going to make a mistake about something like this. He knows Gerald’s thaumic signature better than any of us. If he says the shadbolt is Gerald’s handiwork, then like it or not we have to accept that.”
Good old Bibbie. Tentatively, he stroked a fingertip down Reg’s wing. “You think I’m happy about this, Reg? Just thinking about it makes me sick.”
She rattled her tail feathers, distressed. “I don’t understand,” she muttered. “It’s just not like him. Not even that government stooge Sir Alec could convince my Gerald to do something like that-especially to you.” She took a deep, rallying breath. “So if this is true-and I’m not saying it is — then something must’ve gone terribly wrong.”
Oh, it had. Because the Gerald who’d prisoned the other Monk in his shadbolt-that Gerald stank of filthy magics. If that Gerald walked into the parlor right now, chances were he wouldn’t recognize him. Not on the inside. Not where it counted. And even though nothing in the world next door had anything to do with him he was suddenly scalded by a terrible, angry grief.
What did you do, Gerald? What the bloody hell did you do?
“Rats,” said Melissande, her chin coming up. “I’ve just had a thought. What if we’re looking at this round the wrong way?”
With an effort Monk shook himself free of grief and made himself pay attention to the girls.
“How d’you mean?” said Bibbie.
“Well…” Mel snuck a look at the other Monk. “Aren’t we making a few assumptions here? And don’t we all know what happens when one assumes?”
“Yes,” said Reg. “One makes an ass out of you and anyone who doesn’t happen to be me. My assumptions always turn out to be right.”
“Yes, Reg, of course they do,” said Mel, with admirable restraint. “ Blimey. But see, the thing is, because that’s Monk-sort of-passed out on the sofa, we’re all assuming he’s telling the truth. But what if Reg’s stupid joke is true? What if this Monk really is like an evil twin and he’s come here with some dastardly plan to destroy us? Don’t ask me why. Or-or maybe he’s an escaped convict. You did say shadbolts were used on criminals.”
“Madam could be right,” said Reg, unflatteringly surprised. “This other Monk Markham could be a rotter. It would certainly explain why his Gerald had to restrain him.”
“Monk?” said Bibbie, anxious. He couldn’t remember seeing her anxious before. He hated it. “What do you think?”
“You’re right,” he said cautiously. “It’s a theory.” But not one he was terribly willing to embrace.
And why’s that? Because I can’t see myself as an escaped criminal on th
e run? Because I can’t be the villain, I can only be the hero?
No. It wasn’t that. According to Uncle Ralph he was already a perishing villain. It was the oppressive, metallic after-taste of the other Gerald’s thaumic signature that revealed the horrible truth. And he’d tell the girls that. He would. As soon as he was sure he could get the words out without heaving up his supper…
“The problem is,” said Bibbie, grimmer and older than he’d ever seen her, “we could keep dreaming up theories until the cows come home-which would get us exactly nowhere. So we don’t have a choice. We have to get that shadbolt off him. It’s the only way to find out for sure what’s going on.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “True, ducky. But taking off a shadbolt’s not like wriggling out of a corset, now is it?”
Monk gave her a look. “You’re asking me?”
“Trust me, sunshine, the last man in the world I’d ask about corsets-on or off-is you,” Reg said coldly. “Now shadbolts, on the other hand…”
The trouble with any kind of conversation involving Reg was that it was far too easy to get distracted by the insults. She seemed to shed them effortlessly, like lice. How Gerald lived with it he would never understand.
Bibbie cleared her throat, not looking at the bird or Melissande. “Ah-Monk? Perhaps we should-”
“I know,” he muttered. “Bloody hell.”
“Bloody hell?” echoed Melissande, instantly suspicious. “What d’you mean bloody hell? What’s going on? Why is it that every time someone mentions shadbolts the pair of you turn green and nearly jump through the roof?” Arms folded, toes tapping, she treated them to her best prime ministerly glare. And then she blinked. “Wait a minute. Emmerabiblia Markham, does this have anything to do with why you were looking as sick as a goose when you finally turned up at the office this morning?”
Bibbie tried to smile. “Ah-would you believe the breakfast milk was off?”