Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  Hastily, Gerald backed up his trolley. “Sorry, Mister Haythwaite. Getting right on that, Mister Haythwaite.”

  Kirkby-Hackett said something, his voice too low to carry. Errol laughed and Kirkby-Hackett laughed with him, despite his obvious worry.

  “Oh, yes,” said Errol, clapping a hand to Kirkby-Hackett’s expensively suited shoulder. “That’s right. Found his true level at last, has our old chum Dunnywood.”

  Gerald watched them saunter out of the building, furious that he couldn’t follow them. Desperate to know what had brought Kirkby-Hackett here, so patently uneasy.

  Oh Reg, Reg, don’t fail me now. Be in the garden…

  “You’d better do as Mister Haythwaite says, Mister Dunwoody,” said Robert Methven, in passing. “There’s plenty of desperate Third Grade wizards in the world. Do you want to keep this job or don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mister Methven,” he said, suitably chastened. “Right away, Mister Methven.”

  He was just finishing up the latest load of stained lab equipment when Reg appeared without warning at the closed scullery window. He nearly dropped another beaker, which would have been a disaster. He’d already been lambasted by Errol for the one he’d smashed after hearing about the latest portal incident.

  Reg banged her beak on the glass. “Don’t just stand there gawping, sunshine!” she shouted, her voice muffled. “Open it up! I’ve got something to tell you!”

  Bloody hell. He looked over his shoulder through the open scullery door but nobody had heard her. Praise Saint Snodgrass for small mercies. Grabbing a trolley, he eased the door closed and barricaded it then rushed to open the window before Reg broke it.

  “What? What? Reg, are you crazy? Are you trying to get me fired?”

  “Put a sock in it and listen, Gerald,” she retorted. “Because I’ve just been doing your dirty work again. Do you know—”

  Irritation disappeared in a flood of hope. “You overhead them? Errol and Kirkby-Hackett? Oh, Reg. That’s terrific. What did they—”

  “Do you know,” said Reg, glaring, “I’ve a good mind to send that Sir Alec a bill when this is over. All this wear and tear on my nerves! First I’m scouting for you, then I’m eavesdropping for madam, then I’m back eavesdropping for you again! And I’m only getting paid to help madam! You’re taking me for granted, Gerald Dunwoody, and I don’t like it. I’ll have you know my feelings are hurt.”

  He snatched her off the windowsill, dropped a kiss on her head then put her back. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. What did Errol and Kirkby-Hackett talk about?”

  Reg fluffed out all her feathers. “Have you got a stool in here? You should be sitting down for this. Haf Rottlezinder. Someone official was asking Kirkby-Hackett about him. Had they been in contact recently, old university chums catching up sort of thing. And did he know if Rottlezinder had been in touch with any other old university chums, like, say, for instance, one Errol Haythwaite?” She cackled. “That pillock Errol turned fourteen different shades of puce when he heard that.”

  Gerald frowned at the barricaded scullery door. He wouldn’t have much longer, surely, before someone tried to barge in. “And what did Errol say, once he was finished turning fourteen different shades of puce?”

  Reg shrugged. “Said he hadn’t spoken to Rottlezinder in years. Said he didn’t want anything to do with him, something about rumours of unsavoury thaumaturgical practices. Said if Kirkby-Hackett had the brains of a gnat he’d not have anything to do with their old chum Haf, either. And then he sent Kirkby-Hackett on his way with a flea in his ear. Properly put out, he was, the poncy prat.”

  “Do you think Errol was lying? Or was he telling the truth?”

  “Hmm,” said Reg, and thoughtfully scratched her head. “That’s a good question. Wish I could answer it, sunshine, but the truth is—I couldn’t tell.”

  Damn. “I’ll bet Sir Alec’s behind Kirkby-Hackett’s quizzing,” he murmured. “He’s stirring the pot a bit to give me a better chance of seeing what floats to the surface.” Snatching Reg up again he rested his cheek on her head, briefly. “You’re wonderful. You’re marvellous. I couldn’t do this without you.”

  “Ha,” she said, trying hard not to show she was pleased. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” he said, still holding her. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” And he settled her gently back on the windowsill.

  “Yes, all right,” she said, sleeking her feathers ready for flight. “But—look here, Gerald, just you be careful. I don’t care how much thaumaturgic power you’ve got at your fingertips these days, my boy—if I’ve told you once, I haven’t told you often enough. You’re not indestructible. And I can’t be in two places at the same time.”

  And on that final trenchant note, she flapped away.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gerald watched her out of sight, missing her so much, then hurriedly unbarricaded the scullery door and shoved his trolley back out into the lab for yet another round of hunt-the-dirty-beaker.

  He didn’t see Errol again, but he heard him inside the Mark VI lab, shouting at some unfortunate inferior or other. Even for Errol, the vitriol was vicious. Look after wary look was exchanged around the complex. Heads ducked lower, shoulders hunched. Even the other First Graders tried to make themselves inconspicuous, just in case Errol stormed out of his lab in search of fresh prey.

  At length, Robert Methven came out of the Mark VI lab, looking alarmingly close to tears.

  Gerald put his head down and got on with his beaker-hunting. Sir Alec had stirred the pot all right: Errol was as rattled as he’d ever seen him. In fact, he’d never seen Errol rattled like this. It certainly was… suggestive.

  The work-day dragged to its eventual conclusion. One by one Wycliffe’s wizards began to go home. First Japhet Morgan and his two fellow Third Graders. Then Robert Methven, set-faced and silent, followed soon after by Wycliffe’s other three First Graders. The seven Second Graders weren’t long behind them. That just left Errol. And of course Ambrose Wycliffe, shut uncharacteristically late in his office.

  Gerald was ready with an explanation if anyone asked why he was still working when the other Third Grade wizards had bolted. Making up for the time he took earlier, he intended to say. But nobody asked. Nobody gave a toss about Dunnywood or what he was up to. Not a single wizard was stupid enough to risk Errol’s wrath by showing any interest in a man their superior so openly despised.

  When Ambrose Wycliffe finally emerged from his office into the complex, florid and preoccupied, Gerald ducked into one of the small labs so he wouldn’t be seen. He heard Ambrose exhort Errol not to kill himself on the Mark VI prototype. Things were looking up. The market would wait a little longer for the greatest airship in history. Errol’s reply wasn’t loud enough to be heard. Shortly after that, Ambrose bid Errol goodnight, dimmed the main lights to a mere glow and departed. Silence descended, full of unsolved mysteries.

  Risking discovery, Gerald looked through the small lab’s almost-closed door. Where was Errol? What was he doing?

  Please, please, let me catch him in a treacherous act. I want this bloody assignment to be over.

  A moment later Errol stamped out of his own lab, swearing and muttering under his breath. In the subdued lighting his face was a portrait of furious indecision as he half-paced, half-dithered in the complex’s wide aisle. He looked like a man attached to invisible strings tugging him first this way, then that. The fingers of one elegant hand dragged through and through his disordered dark hair. His jaw was set hard, and shadowed with stubble. He was a far cry from the urbane, polished and sophisticated Errol Haythwaite who’d paraded himself for obsequious admiration at the Wizards’ Club and through the pages of newspapers and thaumaturgical publications alike.

  “Dammit,” Errol said at last, furious. “I’ll have to chance it. I’ll have to. Dammit.”

  Spinning on his heel he headed back to his office, which was tucked betwee
n the Ambrose Mark VI lab and the complex’s outer wall. Breath hard-held, Gerald watched him go in—and couldn’t believe his luck. Errol left his office door open, which meant the thaumaturgic soundproofing wouldn’t work. It was a gift… and a hint. Time to spy. But with the lab complex so quiet and empty of all other wizards, there was a chance he’d be heard. And even if he wasn’t, Errol would undoubtedly sense his presence. Unless… unless…

  What if he threw out an obfuscation hex to cover any inadvertent sound he might make and mask his thaumic signature completely? It was a neat solution, except—

  I’d need to drop my shield. Will Errol feel it disengage? Will he feel me cast the hex? I may hate his guts but I can’t deny the truth: he is a phenomenal wizard. Dare I risk it? Is he upset enough to be sufficiently distracted?

  Sadly, there was only one way to find out.

  As softly and gently as he knew how, he switched off his shield-incant then held his breath again. Waited for Errol to storm out of his office, searching for the source of the strange surge in the ether.

  No Errol. No storming. The lab remained as quiet as a tomb.

  Not my tomb, please. I don’t feel like dying today.

  Under his breath, Gerald whispered an obfuscation hex Reg had taught him years ago. Despite all of the new incants and hexes Sir Alec’s people had given him he hadn’t found one of theirs to beat it for flexibility. And he hadn’t shared it with them, either. It was important to keep safe some things from his old life.

  Besides, as Reg liked to say, it never hurt to keep a trick or two stuffed down your knickers.

  He crept out of the darkened lab, into the almost dark complex and along the aisle towards Errol’s office. Flattened himself against the wall beside the door and closed his eyes… hoping that would help him hear more clearly what was happening.

  “—were right and I was wrong. See? I can admit it.”

  Errol, sounding oddly subdued. Conciliatory. Almost… entreating. Speaking not on the telephone, but through a crystal ball. He could feel the connection vibrating the ether: yet another legacy of his roguish, barely-charted powers. If there was time, he could very likely trace that connection all the way back to its source, but there wasn’t.

  Who the hell is he talking to? Please, let it be Rottlezinder. Come on, Errol, give yourself away.

  The person on the other end of the conversation said something in reply. The crystal ball’s volume was turned down so low there was no hope of hearing it.

  “Yes. And I’m sorry, Haf,” Errol replied. He actually sounded humble. Was he sickening for something? “I want to make it up to you, old friend. Please, can we meet? Tonight? We need to sort this out.”

  Though he’d been hoping for it… expecting it… Gerald felt his muscles slacken with shock. Confirmation at last. Errol was in cahoots with Haf Rottlezinder. Even as a small, vindictive part of himself that he hated to admit even existed let out a glorious, gloating yell—he thought: damn.

  Because Errol was one of Ottosland’s leading thaumaturgical lights. But to serve his own base ambitions he’d turned against his own people. Their blood was on his elegant hands. There was going to be such a scandal… and the people who tended to look sideways at wizards, who supported the nutty anti-thaumaturgical brigade, who eschewed lives that took advantage of thaumic advances… their blind prejudices would be reinforced and they’d end up with more converts to their short-sighted cause.

  Dammit, Errol. How could you?

  He realised Errol was talking again. “—know where that is, yes. It’s too early to risk coming now, so wait for me. If you don’t—please, Haf. Just make sure you’re there.”

  There? Where was there? Damn, if only he’d been able to hear Rottlezinder’s half of the conversation, or had time to trace the etheretic connection between the crystal balls back to Errol’s partner in crime. Now he’d have to remain hidden here until Errol left the lab then follow him… a venture fraught with the very real chance of discovery and failure.

  But never mind. At least we know Rottlezinder’s here in Ottosland. At least he’s within our reach, at last.

  So, should he contact Sir Alec? Call for some more agents? No. That would only further complicate an already complicated situation. Besides, he’d had it drummed into him repeatedly during the last six months: nine times out of ten, janitors worked solo. They relied on themselves and nobody else. A janitor was a lone resourceful wolf.

  Gerald slunk back to the shadows, prepared to wait for as long it took.

  Lord. I wish Reg was here.

  “You know, Bibbie,” said Monk, tucking his hands into his armpits. “I’m starting to have second thoughts about this.”

  “Really?” said Bibbie brightly, wrapping a striped scarf around her neck. “I’m not.”

  He stamped his feet. “Bibs, you’ve only had your driving certificate for five minutes.”

  “Excuse me? It’s been almost three months, thank you.”

  “Where you’re concerned that’s pretty much the same thing,” he retorted. “And it’s dark, Bibs. Worse, you don’t even know where you’re going! For all you know you could end up in a not-very-salubrious part of town. Truly, I think you need to reconsider.”

  Bibbie pulled on a battered old pair of gauntlet-style driving gloves. “I don’t.”

  “Then at least you should let me come with you.”

  “No.”

  “I think it’s quite interesting,” said Melissande, “that you’re not showing the least bit of concern for my welfare.”

  “Yes, well,” said Monk, harassed, “you’re not my sister.”

  “And a good thing too,” said Reg. “Or things might be a bit awkward.”

  They were standing in the rear court of Monk’s Chatterly Crescent establishment. Once upon a time, before the invention of the thaumic engine, the rear court had been the stable yard. But the stables had been converted to woodwormed storage sheds and a single falling-down garage, which housed the battered jalopy that Great-uncle Throgmorton had left behind when he died. All the house’s back lights were on, casting everything into varying shades of black and white. Reg sat on the jalopy’s bug-eyed left headlight, feathers plumped against the night’s chill.

  Monk looked at Melissande, his gaze owlish with distraction. “Please, Mel, don’t take me the wrong way. It’s just that if anything happens to you my parents aren’t going to come after me with a shotgun.”

  She smiled her very thinnest smile. “True. But my brother might well come after you with an army borrowed from his friendly next-door neighbour Sultan Zazoor. You remember him, don’t you? He’s the one with the very nice war camel and quite a lot of swords.”

  “I remember,” Monk said darkly. “But Zazoor’s half a world away. My parents are only two suburbs over.”

  He had a point. “Monk, we’ll be fine.”

  “The famous last words of disaster victims through the ages,” he said and tugged at his untidy hair. “Honestly, girls, I really think this is a bad idea.”

  “So you said, Monk,” Bibbie replied. “But we didn’t ask you what you thought, we asked you to lend us the jalopy and you said yes. And then you asked what for, but you know the rules. Once you say yes, you can’t take it back.”

  “Nursery rules?” he said, incredulous. “Made up when we were five years old? Honestly, Bibs. You need to take this seriously. You’re talented but you’re not witching’s answer to Gerald Dunwoody.”

  She shrugged. “I could be, one day. Or I could be a famous explorer and paddle a canoe single-handed down the great and mysterious Lanruvian River. Or I could try to solve the riddle of the singing forests of Fandawandi. I am Emmerabiblia Markham and I can do anything I want. Which tonight means I’m taking your rackety old jalopy and investigating a peculiar occurrence with my colleagues from Witches Inc. Because you said yes and now you can’t take it back.”

  Melissande exchanged an eye-rolling look with Reg then patted Monk on the arm. “Truly, you mustn’t wo
rry. I’ll make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”

  “Will you?” he said, his expression so woebegone. “Really? Because I wasn’t joking about the shotgun, you know. Ma and Pa dote on her, Saint Snodgrass knows why. I know I don’t when she’s in this mood.”

  “Oh, pooh,” said Bibbie. “And likewise fiddlesticks and furthermore pishwash.” She marched to the jalopy and flung open the driver’s side door. “Are we going or are we standing around here watching Monk be a wet hen?”

  “Oy,” said Reg crossly. “How many times do I have to—”

  “And you can stop being a wet hen too,” said Bibbie. “Are you going to come with us or fly? Make up your mind.”

  Reg sniffed. “I’ll go with you. But you’d best leave a window down in case I need to make a fast getaway.”

  And she flapped herself into the jalopy’s back seat as Bibbie slid behind the wheel and patted it, like a pet.

  Now Monk was chewing the side of his thumb. “Oh blimey,” he muttered. “This is what comes of giving girls an education. And the vote. And familial emancipation.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Melissande, and instead of kissing his cheek punched him hard on the shoulder. “Would you like to withdraw those gormless, brainless, mannerless remarks?”

  “No,” he said sulkily. “And what’s more I’m starting to regret ever introducing you to Bibbie.”

  “What? You’re saying she’s my fault?”

  “I’m saying that ever since you three started up Witches Inc. she’s—she’s—Mel, she could get hurt.”

  Outrage surrendered to his genuine concern. Melissande, offended and touched at the same time, patted the shoulder she’d just punched. “Monk, honestly, stop fussing. We’re not trying to be Gerald. We’re just keeping an eye on a silly old biddy who agreed to go traipsing about the streets of Ott late at night for her very dear friend Permelia Wycliffe, when Permelia Wycliffe appears to be perfectly capable of doing her own traipsing… yet doesn’t want to.”