by K. E. Mills
Bibbie had taken herself off to bed, but Melissande was still awake. She looked up from blacking the cooking range as he strode into the kitchen.
“I want tea.”
She put down the blacking and the brush then wiped her hands on a cloth, warily watching him. She was always wary these days. Not without reason. “Yes. All right.”
He watched as she put the kettle on, spooned tea leaves into the pot and got a generous mug out for him. Dumpy, frumpy bloody woman. She had no business being a princess. If a woman was a princess she was meant to look like Bibbie.
Gonegal threatens me? My God. How does he dare?
Waiting for the kettle to boil, Melissande slid him a sideways glance. “Where’s the other Gerald?”
“None of your business,” he said, glowering.
She swallowed. “He’s not-you haven’t-”
He kicked out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. “No, of course I bloody haven’t. God, you’re an idiot. Not much point half-killing myself to get him here just so I can snuff him out, is there?”
She stared at her red and work-roughened hands. There was boot black under her fingernails. “I suppose not.”
“And like I said. He’s none of your business.”
The kettle had started to steam, very slightly. She fetched a jug of milk from the icebox and the sugar bowl from the pantry.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this, Gerald,” she said quietly. “Whatever it is you’re planning to do.”
“Really?” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. Fury burned beneath his skin. Gonegal. “And what makes you think I give a fat rat’s ass about what you wish for?”
“Nothing,” she said, flinching. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
He grinned. “You’re right. It doesn’t. And neither do you.”
Her breathing hitched. “I know, Gerald. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”
The kettle was belching steam now, so she took it off the range and poured water into the tea pot. “He’ll stop you, you know.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “The other Gerald. He’s not you. He’s better than you. He’s a good man, a lovely man, and he’ll-”
“He’ll what?” he said, as the fury broke free. “What exactly will lovely Gerald do? Save you from this? ”
But she couldn’t answer him. He’d stolen her breath. And as she gasped for air he tightened his fist harder. The shadbolt, tightening with it, crushed her skull like an egg. She hit the kitchen floor like a sack of wet sand.
He finished making his tea and took the steaming mug up to bed. Beautiful in the lamplight, Bibbie lowered her magazine. “So what was the emergency?”
“Nothing I couldn’t deal with,” he said, shrugging. “No need to worry.”
She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t worried. I just want to know if it was worth missing dessert for.”
Her skin was glowing, translucent like pearl. Her eyes had the luster of the world’s best sapphires. And her lips… her cherry lips…
Suddenly he wasn’t interested in tea any more. Suddenly the fury knew where to find a home.
Laughing, pique forgotten, she threw back the blankets. Tossed aside her magazine and welcomed him in. Later, clothed in darkness on the trembling edge of sleep, he pressed her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.
“Mmm?” she murmured, drowsy. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s just I forgot to mention something.”
She sighed. “What?”
“That you’ll need to find someone else to throw eggs at.”
“What? Oh, Gerald…” Bibbie turned over. “Well, that’s a bore, isn’t it.” She yawned. “G’night.”
Their counter-plan was terrifying in its simplicity: kidnap evil twin Gerald before he conquers the world.
Because if the other Gerald’s plan came to fruition he’d succeed in shadbolting every wizard and witch in Ottosland to his service. And once he’d done that, he’d have no trouble bending the whole world to his will. With the power of thousands and thousands of potentias at his command, nothing and nobody would stand in his way. Not even the combined resistance of those UM nations who’d not sold their souls to side with him would be enough to prevent disaster.
But to kidnap the other Gerald, first they had to get the other Monk’s dreadful machine to work. The notion of trying to fool the man was out of the question.
Banished to the thankless role of spectator, at least for the time being, Gerald sat on the bedroll with the other Reg in his arms. Heedless of passing time and how long he’d been awake, Monk worked frantically on stage one of the plan: finishing the instant-shadbolt gizmo so that together they could rig it to judiciously backfire. Their Reg was helping him, passing him tools and bits and pieces of stuff on his barked command, offering unsolicited advice and tolerating his impatient rudeness with remarkable restraint. So far she’d only threatened his unmentionables four times.
Although he was so tired his eyelids kept trying to slam shut, he made himself stay awake. Kept himself alert by catching up on events with the other Reg.
“I don’t understand,” he said softly, not wanting to distract Monk and his Reg. “I know your Melissande told her Rupert to keep out of this, but… surely someone else in the government could’ve tried asking Kallarap for help? I mean, the jury might be out on whether their gods actually exist, but there’s no denying Shugat’s got a lot of power at his fingertips.”
Sighing, the other Reg rubbed her beak against his coat, a gesture of affection far more frightening than pleasing. Lord, she felt so fragile beneath his hands. She’d never been a plump bird-vanity saw to that-but with what this Reg had endured since New Ottosland… well, she was feathers and skin and hollow bones and not much else.
“Don’t be daft, Gerald,” she said. “That ratty old holy man Shugat got one whiff of my Gerald back in New Ottosland and that was that. He wasn’t having any of it. Not even when the Butterfly King found out madam was in trouble and ran bleating back to Zazoor. I think the poor gormless twit thought that since Zazoor and Melissande were almost engaged for two minutes that’d make some kind of difference.”
“But it didn’t?”
“Of course not,” she said, scornful. “Shugat’s answer was to seal Kallarap inside one of his poncy magic bubbles and leave the rest of us poor infidels to sink or bloody swim.”
He shook his head. “And what did your Gerald have to say about that?”
“Not a lot,” she said, after a moment. “He just laughed. ‘Shugat and Zazoor can hide, but they can’t run. I’ll get to them.” That’s all he said.”
“Reg…” He looked over at his Monk and their Reg, up to their elbows inside that infernal invention. “None of this is your fault, y’know.”
She heaved another mournful sigh. “I never should’ve gone back to Ottosland with madam and the others. I never should’ve left you to face that pillock Lional on your own. I deserted you when you needed me the most, Gerald. And look what’s come of it. Of course it’s my fault.”
Gently, so gently, he lifted her until they were eye-to-eye. “ No. It’s not. I- he — your Gerald-had a choice and he made the wrong one. Nobody twisted his arm. Nobody held a staff to his head and said: steal Lional’s pilfered grimoires or you’re a dead man. He chose to do that. It’s on him, Reg. Not you.”
Her dull eyes brightened. “Why didn’t you choose that, Gerald? Did I-did she — ”
“I don’t know,” he said shrugging, and lowered her to rest again in his lap. “Maybe my Reg said something different, or did something different. Maybe Monk did. Or Melissande. I honestly don’t know. I don’t know why your Gerald lost faith in himself, lost his courage, and I didn’t. And I don’t suppose it matters now. We are where we are. All that matters is stopping him before it’s too late.”
“If we can,” the other Reg muttered. “He’s strong, Gerald. You know, sunshine, you’ve felt him. He’s a rogue wizard with a very bad attitude. In all my years
I’ve never met anything like it.” She sniffed. “Speaking of which, how are you doing with that muck he made you swallow?”
He smoothed a finger over her head. “Like I told Monk. I’m fine.”
“Ha!” she retorted, with a tiny flash of the spirit he loved so much. “And when was the last time you managed to lie to me?”
“Never,” he said solemnly. “And we both know that’s because you and I only met a few hours ago.”
She chattered her beak. “Smart-ass. Gerald-”
“Yes, Reg?”
“Gerald, are you happy?”
“Right now? No, not terribly.”
“Gerald Dunwoody-”
Laughing softly, because he didn’t want to weep, he picked her up again. “I’m as happy as I can be, Reg, under the circumstances.”
“All this rogue wizard malarkey,” she said, sounding anxious now. “It’s not-nobody’s tried to-you aren’t-”
“It’s… complicated,” he said at last. “But no, I’m not in any danger.” Or I wasn’t before this happened. What I’ll face when we get home again is anybody’s guess. “You don’t have to worry.”
“Good,” she whispered. “Gerald-”
He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “Yes, Reg?”
“My Melissande. She’s not really fine, is she?”
Damn. “Reg, from what I can see, nobody who lives in this world is fine. Not while my evil twin is free to do what he likes.”
“And your Melissande?”
Eyes still closed, he smiled. “Bossy as ever. And no more princessly now than she was the day we first met her.”
“A fully-qualified witch, is she?”
He shook his head. “Sadly, no.”
“Ha! I told her that Rinky-Tinky woman was just stringing her along.” Reg fluffed her drooping feathers. “And your Emmerabiblia?”
He felt a bittersweet ache in his chest. “Brilliant and brave and beautiful, Reg.”
“Ah,” she said knowingly. “So have you set the date yet?”
And damn again. He looked over at Monk. “How are you getting along there? Nearly done?”
Monk dragged his sleeve over his face. “Do I look like I’m nearly done?”
“I can’t see, Monk. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Yes, he’s nearly done,” said Reg, perched on the stool. “So maybe you could stop your nattering, sunshine, and pay attention?”
“She’s right,” said the Reg in his lap. “They’re probably getting to the sticky end of things by now. Go on, my boy. Make yourself useful.”
She was thin, and her dark eyes were dull and all the gloss had faded from her feathers. But she was still Reg. He kissed her beak, settled her on the bedroll and left her to sleep.
“Right,” said Monk, after ten more minutes of tight-lipped work. “So that’s that. But your evil twin’ll want to know what you did to make this thing work, so I’ve left half a dozen gaps in the amplification chamber’s matrix. You’ll need to fill them with the strongest incants you can rustle up. That’s the important bit-the ether won’t ignite without them. And once you’ve sorted those, just-tizzy up a few of my incants. You know. Add some extra thaumaturgic decoration.”
“Now?” he said, staring at the almost-completed machine.
Monk rolled his eyes. “No, next week.”
“Ha,” he said. “Y’know what? You’ve been spending too much time with Reg.”
Reg whacked him with her wing. “Cheeky bugger. Put a sock in it, sunshine, and let’s get this over with. Saint Snodgrass only knows what those girls are up to behind our backs. Especially with that manky Sir Alec hanging around like a bad smell.”
Summoning his potentia — feeling anew its taint of darkness- but I’ll be all right. I will. I will- he sank himself into the ether and looked at the machine. Monk was right, the incants needed to complete its amplification chamber’s matrix were daunting. Well… daunting for someone who wasn’t him. Feeling the surge of power through his blood and bones, he filled in the matrix’s gaps then added his own flourish here and there to give the impression he’d done even more work than that.
In passing he felt the ever-so-slightly different thaumic signature of the other Monk Markham. The dead one. Melancholy, he touched it lightly- Thanks, Monk — and moved on.
“All done?” said his Monk, once he’d withdrawn from the machine.
He nodded. “All done.”
“I’ll just have a quick squiz,” said Monk. “Not because I don’t trust you, mate. Only if that other bugger asks me-”
“Fine. Go ahead. Squiz away.”
So Monk squizzed, nodding his approval. “Good. So this bloody thing-” he whacked the gizmo with the back of his hand, “-will, when it’s activated, trigger a massive etheretic carrier wave. And once it’s triggered, and your evil twin tags it with his favorite shadbolt incant, every non-shadbolted and unprotected witch and wizard in this Ottosland will be instantly shadbolted.” He frowned. “Damn. That means we’ll need to proof you, Gerald, somehow, in case-”
“No need,” he said. “Turns out I’m already proofed. Don’t suppose you know anything about that?”
“ Me? ” Monk stared at him. “Why would you think I- ” And then he understood. “Oh, that’s great, Gerald. That’s a real vote of confidence. Thanks a lot. Once, once, you got clobbered with one of my incants-and it wasn’t even my bloody idea!”
“Well, you can’t blame me for wondering,” he retorted. “Every time I turn around you’ve invented another crazy gizmo-broken another rule-and if you thought it was for my own good we both know you’d-”
“Do you mind? ” said Reg, rattling her tail feathers ferociously. “Save the kindergarten fisticuffs for our own backyard. Right now we’ve got an evil twin to thwart, you plonkers!”
He and Monk glared at each other, and then he sighed. “Yeah. You’re right. Sorry.”
“ Anyway,” said Monk, breathing hard, “now that we’ve finished this infernal machine we can jigger it so it backfires in that mad pillock’s face.”
“Yeah…” He scratched at his chin, which was starting to stubble. “About that. Look, how confident are you that you can hide the bits of jiggering I’m not supposed to have done? Because if that crazy bugger catches so much as a whiff of me in the wrong place then-”
“Bloody hell, Gerald, how many times do I have to say it?” Monk snapped. “ He won’t. The masking incant Sir Alec gave me is brilliant. You didn’t detect me in this bloody shadbolt I’m wearing, did you?”
“No,” he said at last, reluctantly. “But come on, Monk. You can’t compare this gizmo and a shadbolt. The amount of thaumic energy it’s going to gobble up-the etheretic discharges-the carrier wave itself-what if they blast that masking incant to smithereens?”
Monk shook his head. “I know it’s a risk but we have to take it. Because this is it. This is our one shot at spiking your evil twin’s guns, Gerald. If we don’t stop him with this… well. You know what comes next.”
Unfortunately he did. He looked at this world’s sleeping Reg, then back at his own. “What d’you think?”
“I think you’d be better off ignoring that bird over there,” said Reg. “Because when this plan of ours works, and it’ll work because he’s a genius and you’re a rogue wizard and I’m a very intelligent woman, we’ll be buggering off home with your nasty double and leaving her behind.” She gave Monk an equally sharp look. “That goes for you too, Mr. Clever Clogs. No saving that fallen woman masquerading as your sister, or the Princess Pushy she’s got stashed away. They belong in this world, not ours. Our world’s already got a Bibbie Markham and a Princess Melissande and a cruelly dispossessed Queen Dulcetta. And you don’t know what kind of mischief you could be stirring up, bringing them home with us for good. Bad enough we’ve got to drag along the other Gerald. It only takes one straw to break the camel’s back.”
“I hate to say it, Monk, but she’s right,” he said, after a moment. “We d
on’t dare risk unbalancing the dimensional metaphysics any more than that-especially when we don’t have a clue how they work. And anyway-once we’ve taken care of this world’s me, they won’t be in danger any more. Will they?”
Monk frowned at his nicked and singed hand. “Right,” he said at last. “So, now that I understand exactly how this gizmo works, I’m thinking we need to embed a reverse-thaumic trigger inside the activation matrix. And we need to make it target specific. So when that mad bugger switches this thing on, instead of lots of shadbolts imprisoning lots of witches and wizards-”
“-he gets trussed up by his own shadbolt,” said Reg. “Neat and tidy and ready for kidnapping. Y’know, Mr. Markham, that just might do the trick.”
“Will it, Gerald?” said Monk. “I mean, he is bloody powerful and he’s soaked to the gills in all that foul grimoire magic. And you’d have to think he’s immune to his own shadbolt incant.”
“Well,” he said slowly, “as powerful as he is, I can’t see him being stronger than the etheretic amplification wave this machine’s designed to create. And as for being immune to his own shadbolt-” He shrugged. “Maybe there’s something I can do about that.”
Monk’s eyebrows shot up. “ Maybe? ”
“Let me think about it,” he said. “In the meantime, we’d better jigger what we can, quickly. Who knows when that bastard’s going to turn up again?”
“Good point,” said Reg, and ruffled all her feathers. “So come on, get jiggering!”
He pulled a face at Monk, who grinned. “You heard Her Majesty, Gerald. Chop chop!”
Despite the horrible shadbolt binding Monk’s aura and the taint of dark magics in his own blood, despite the thin, downtrodden other Reg asleep on the bedroll-and their own Reg making exploding teakettle noises because, in her opinion, they weren’t working fast enough-he and his best friend found their tandem thaumaturgic rhythm almost at once… and without even having to discuss tactics began jiggering up a storm.
At one point Monk paused and grinned again. “All I know, Gerald, is that after this caper nobody back home whose name rhymes with Uncle Ralph or Sir Alec better say boo about you and me practicing on my inventions in the attic. Because if we hadn’t done that-”