by K. E. Mills
Either way he’d have to be careful. This was dangerous magic—even for him.
Gritting his teeth he gathered his own potentia closer. Imagined it thin and sharp like a needle, poised to pierce the invisible shadbolt’s poisonous heart. Where was it, anyhow? He could feel it. He could taste it. It was here. Why couldn’t he see it?
Come on, you filthy thing. Come out, come out, wherever you are.
Images were starting to form in his mind. Shards of glass. Sharpened knives. Bits and pieces of barbed wire. Twisted and tangled and embedded in flesh. And the hand that had forged them—the wizard who’d dreamed them, had turned his dreams into a lethal reality—
Gerald. Oh, Gerald. What happened to you?
Achingly familiar, abhorrently strange, Gerald’s despicably altered thaumic signature tainted every thread of the shadbolt. No doubt about it now. No way to hide. This was Gerald’s doing. The other Gerald. This Monk’s Gerald. He felt a trembling clutch of fear.
I don’t know if I can break this monstrosity. I don’t know the man who made it.
From a long, long way distant he heard himself sob, once. A sound of despair and impending defeat. Then faintly he heard a voice.
“Don’t you dare give up, Monk Markham. We both know you can do this.”
Melissande, being bossy and regal the way only she could. Taking heart from her snippiness, taking heart from her, he steadied his ragged breathing and looked again at the cage in which the other Monk was trapped.
Something tickled his attention. Something familiar. Outlying semi-cants, like the shadbolt he’d broken on Mr. Plummer’s prisoner. Not the same thaumic signature but the same wicked design. Either it was a coincidence—or Gerald and their mysterious black market wizard had been reading the same books. Even though this was awful, he nearly laughed.
His Gerald had told him exactly how to break through this kind of lock. After doing it twice he was practically an expert. And once the correct sequence of semi-cants was triggered, the rest of the shadbolt should just… melt away. All he had to do was work out the correct order.
Except last time it was Gerald who’d identified the right sequence. Sure, he’d figured the proper timing to break them, but without the correct order—
If he can do it, I can. I have to. Come on, Debbie. Prove that pillock Aylesbury wrong.
The other Monk was weakening. The strain of this was proving too much for him. They were both running out of time now.
Come on, come on, come on.
With a surge of his potentia he pushed through the wardings and the barriers surrounding the shadbolt, roughly pulling them apart. The other Monk screamed, the most hideous sound. He felt the pain sear through his own body and screamed with him. He couldn’t help it—but he didn’t let it stop him, either.
Twelve semi-cants. Three groupings. Twenty-four different timings. And oh bugger—what was that? A buzzing, a burning, a warning shudder through the ether. No. He’d set something off. Some kind of thaumic booby-trap. Hell. Why hadn’t he sensed it?
Damn you, Dunwoody! When did you get so sneaky?
Now the race was really on. Desperately he threw his potentia at the tangle of incants. But even as they fell, their timings haphazardly staccato, he could feel the other Gerald’s thaumic booby-trap expanding, spreading like acid spilled from a filthy glass.
Come on, Markham, come on, come on. Are you a bloody genius or aren’t you?
Six hexes down. Seven. Eight. Nine. The other Monk was howling. God, somebody shut him up. Ten. Eleven.
The twelfth semi-cant resisted. Because it wasn’t a simple semi-cant. No, of course it wasn’t. It was a triple-hexed double-looped terto-cant. You bastard. He and the other Monk were howling together now, blood and bones and flesh on fire. The booby-trap had nearly reached its critical tipping-point. No more minutes left, only seconds remaining.
No time for kindness. No time for finesse. He ripped apart the shadbolt’s final incant like a wolf falling on a lamb. And then, as he pulled himself free of the Monk from next door’s tattered aura, he managed to extinguish the booby-trap before it finished its job.
Take that, Gerald, you maniac. Whoever you are.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The other Monk’s cries of anguish were unspeakable. Hands pressed to her face, Melissande turned away. “I can’t bear this,” she muttered to Reg on her shoulder, feeling like the worst kind of coward. “I can’t.”
“Come on, ducky,” said Reg. Her claws were close to drawing blood, she was clutching so tight. “It can’t go on much longer.”
No, it couldn’t. Because if their Monk didn’t break the shadbolt in the next few seconds the other Monk would surely die—or else go totally mad.
Hurry up, Monk. Hurry up. Saint Snodgrass, help him.
Still hiding behind her hands, she could hear Bibbie’s harsh, choked breathing. Poor Bibbie. She shouldn’t have stayed. This was too cruel.
And then the two Monks let out a blood-curdling yell. She spun around so hard and so fast that Reg nearly lost her perch. Swearing and flapping, the bird managed to hang on. Bibbie leaped for the sofa, her ivory-pale cheeks drenched with tears.
“Monk! Monk! Are you all right? Monk!”
Limp as an overcooked Yok Tok noodle, Monk slid all the way to the parlor carpet. His nose was bleeding, thick red splatters on his chin and his shirt. Eyes rolled up in his head he sprawled on the floor, looking entirely too close to dead for comfort. Only the rasping of air in his throat reassured them that he was actually alive.
“Monk, you idiot!” cried Bibbie, and hauled him into her lap. “Please, please, don’t just lie there. Say something!”
Monk made a nasty gargling sound without any words in it. Bibbie choked back a sob and held her wretched brother even tighter, heedless of the blood smearing from him onto her.
Reg chattered her beak. “You’d better check on the other one, ducky. And cross your fingers while you’re at it, because if the bugger’s dead we might never know what the devil’s going on.”
Reg was right. Of course. She was nearly always right. It was quite possibly her most aggravating trait. “Hop off, then,” she said, twitching her shoulder. “I’ll have no hope of giving him the kiss of life with you breathing down my neck giving me points for technique.”
Ordinarily that would’ve provoked a flood of sarcastic commentary, with bonus insults, but even Reg was flattened by this latest turn of events. The bird hopped to the sofa’s arm without so much as an inelegant snort.
Stepping over and around her Monk and Bibbie, Melissande perched on the edge of the sofa beside the other Monk. He looked utterly dreadful, so pale he was gray except for where he was splodged with blood. She couldn’t see him breathing. Trembling with nerves, heart racing, she snatched off her spectacles and held them over his slightly parted lips. Held her breath—held her breath—then let it out in a sickeningly relieved whoosh as his slow exhalation lightly fogged the lenses.
“Saint Snodgrass be praised,” she whispered, and leaned close. “Monk. Monk, can you hear me?”
The other Monk stirred, his stubby eyelashes fluttering. Beneath his closed eyelids his eyes moved from side to side, restless.
She rubbed her spectacles clean on her sleeve and shoved them back onto her face. “Monk. It’s Melissande. Monk, can you hear me?”
“Is he alive?” her Monk croaked from the floor.
“Well, he’s not dead,” said Reg, always helpful. “But I won’t pretend I’ve not seen healthier corpses.”
“Monk,” Melissande said again, and pressed her palm to the other Monk’s cold, clammy cheek. “It’s all right. It’s over now. You’re quite safe.”
Her Monk groaned. “Help me sit up, Bibs. I’ve gone all rubbery.”
“No, no, you shouldn’t move,” said Bibbie, still tearful, clutching him closer. “You should rest a bit longer before—”
“There isn’t time, Bibs!” said Monk. “Please.”
Swearing under h
er breath, Bibbie helped him sit up.
Melissande gave him another sideways glance. “Bibbie’s right. You should be lying down.”
“Don’t you start!” he snapped, then shook his head. “Damn. Sorry.”
She turned her attention back to the other Monk. “Doesn’t matter.” Leaning close again, she patted his cheek. “Monk. Monk?”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Oh for pity’s sake, woman, stop pussyfooting around and slap him, would you?”
“Don’t you dare!” said Bibbie, crowding close. “Shut up, Reg. You’re no bloody help at all!”
“Well, at least I’m not impersonating a watering pot!” Reg retorted. “I mean, if you want to turn a hose on him, ducky, turn a hose on him and be done with it. Splashing him with a few maidenly tears isn’t going to—”
Bibbie turned on her, ferocious. “Oh, you horrible bird, how can you be so callous? After what he’s just gone through? Sometimes, Reg, I wonder—”
“Hey,” said the other Monk, and opened his eyes. “I thought paradise would be a little more peaceful than this.”
Pulling her hands back to the safety of her lap, Melissande managed a wobbly smile. “Not if Reg is there with you, it won’t be.”
“I think you might be right,” said the other Monk. His voice was thready, almost no air behind it. And then his sunken, bloodshot eyes warmed. “Hello, Mel.”
Oh, Saint Snodgrass. “Hello.”
He fumbled for her hand. She let him. His fingers held hers, weakly. “It’s so good to see you. I haven’t seen you for so long.”
Really? Why not? But she couldn’t ask him.
“God…” His voice broke. “Melissande, I’ve missed you.”
No, no, no. She couldn’t begin to have that conversation. “You and your bloody inventions,” she said, seeking refuge in scolding… but didn’t pull her hand free. “You never learn, do you?”
He shook his head. Smiled. Shattered her heart. “Apparently not.”
“Monk,” said her Monk, behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Can you talk now? The shadbolt… it’s gone?”
The other Monk closed his eyes again. Coughed, a horrible rattling sound. “Yes,” he murmured. “Feels… strange.” His eyelids lifted slowly. “Thanks, mate.”
Melissande heard her Monk make a funny little sound in his throat. “Don’t thank me. You know—”
“Yeah. I know,” said the other Monk. “Not your fault. Had to be done.”
“What?” said Bibbie, alarmed. “What’s not his fault?”
The other Monk looked at Bibbie, his eyes washing over with tears. “Oh, Bibs. I wish you’d listened to me. I wish I’d known what to say. How to say it. I’m so sorry. You deserved so much better.”
“Than what?” said Bibbie. “Monk, you’re frightening me. What are you talking about, why are you sorr—”
“It doesn’t matter,” the other Monk whispered. “It’s not the same here. You’ll be all right.”
“No, tell me,” she insisted. “I want to—”
“Bibbie, don’t,” Monk said quietly. “There isn’t much time.”
Bibbie stared at her other brother. “What?”
“Open your eyes, ducky,” said Reg, impatient on the sofa’s arm. “Something went a bit wrong breaking that bloody shadbolt.” She looked at Monk. “Didn’t it, Mr. Clever Clogs Markham?”
Melissande felt her Monk flinch. “I did my best.”
“He did,” said the other Monk, his voice hoarse. “It’s all right. I always knew—”
“Knew what?” Bibbie demanded. “Monk—both of you—either of you—what’s going on?”
Ignoring her, Monk grasped his other self’s forearm. “How long?”
“Soon,” whispered the other Monk.
“Tell us what you can,” said Monk. “Quickly. When did everything go ass over elbows?”
The other Monk groaned. His eyes were starting to cloud. “New Ottosland. Lional and his dragon. Gerald swore to stop them.”
“We know,” said Bibbie. “And he did. He made another dragon and—”
“No,” said the Monk on the sofa, sickly pale and sweating. “That didn’t happen. Not in my world. My Gerald made a different choice. He—”
A surging wave of pain silenced him. And as he fought his way through it—
“Oh, blimey bloody Charlie,” said Reg, with a violent rattling of tail feathers and a great flapping of wings. “And his bunions and his piles!”
Monk looked at her. “Reg?”
“The palace roof, sunshine. Remember?” said Reg. Her tail was still rattling and her eyes were wide with horror. “Just before Shugat and his swanky sultan turned up? Gerald was all set to help himself to Lional’s manky grimoires.”
“And you talked him out of it.”
“Yes, I did,” Reg retorted. “But the other me didn’t.” She looked at the Monk on the sofa. “Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?”
Wheezing, the other Monk nodded. “And by the time we got back from Ottosland, it was too late,” he whispered. “My Gerald had… turned.”
Melissande, looking at him, could have wept for his pain. He blamed himself. Gerald was his best friend and in his mind, he’d failed him.
How close did we come to his fate, I wonder? Was it serendipity that saved us, or something else?
“But—how does that work?” said Bibbie, breaking the stunned silence. “Gerald’s Gerald, isn’t he? He can’t decide to do one thing here and another thing—”
“Ha,” said Reg. “’Course he can, ducky. Don’t tell me you’ve never been in two minds about something. I’ve seen you in front of the icebox.”
“So that was the moment when our worlds diverged,” Monk said, frowning. “Our Gerald made his own dragon and defeated Lional in thaumaturgical combat. Whereas his Gerald—”
“Corrupted himself,” said the other Monk. “He was trying to do the right thing, but—what was in those grimoires, combined with his unique potentia—”
Monk ran a shaking hand over his face. “Bloody hell. No wonder his thaumic signature felt so wrong. Your Gerald, mate, he’s got to be—”
“Stopped,” whispered the other Monk. “I know. Why d’you think I’m here? He’s convinced the world needs saving, and only he can save it. By ruling it. He won’t listen to reason. And the things he’s done—the things he’s doing—what he plans…” Another shuddering, indrawn breath. “Everything’s falling apart so fast. My world’s on the brink of war. Half the member states of the United Magical Nations have banded together and delivered an ultimatum. Ottosland must stand down from its demands or face an all-out punitive response.”
“And oh wait—let me guess,” Reg said darkly. “The other half’s agreed to join your Gerald’s team in return for a share of the international spoils. Politics.”
“Exactly,” said the other Monk. “And he could win. He’s powerful enough, and—and—”
“And you’ve been helping him?” said Monk, his voice tight. “A few new inventions? A nifty little thaumaturgical gadget here and there?”
The other Monk flinched. “I did try to stop him. We were friends.” Another flinch. “I thought we were friends. I thought I could reach him. I never dreamed he’d—and once the shadbolt was on I couldn’t get it off and every time I tried to argue with him—reason with him—” A terrible, ghastly travesty of a smile. “He really doesn’t like it when people say no. This ultimatum, Monk—he’ll never surrender. He really will plunge my whole world into war first.”
Melissande felt herself go cold. I don’t believe it. He can’t be talking about Gerald. Gerald Dunwoody’s the most moral man I know. Glancing at Reg, she saw that the bird was—amazingly—lost for words. Bibbie was trying hard to blink back tears. And Monk—her Monk—Oh, Saint Snodgrass. I never imagined I’d ever see him terrified.
“How long?” he said, staring intently at the other Monk crumpled on the sofa. “Before the UM nations who haven’t gone rogue attack Ottoslan
d?”
“They gave us a week,” said the other Monk. “That was four days ago.”
“Four days?” said Reg, feathers bristling. “And what have you been doing since then, sunshine? Lolling about getting manicures?”
“Reg!” Bibbie looked close to violence. “Shut your beak, you horrible bloody bird! You’ve got no right to—”
“I’m sorry,” said the other Monk. “I worked as—” Abruptly his breathing turned to more coughing, and fresh blood-pink froth bubbled on his lips. “I worked as fast as I could,” he said, once he’d caught his breath. “But I had to get my hands on the portable portal and figure out how to tweak it without him noticing and then I had to come up with a plausible reason why I needed to be left strictly undisturbed in the lab and—”
Monk dropped to a crouch beside the other Monk. Took hold of his shoulder and held on tight. “Don’t. It’s all right.Which nations are on your Gerald’s side, d’you remember?”
The other Monk pressed his knuckles to his forehead, grimacing. Another cough. More blood on his lips. “Sorry—it hurts—”
Melissande leaned close. “Try, Monk. Please. I know it’s hard, I know you’re in pain, but if you want us to help you then you have to help us.”
“I know,” he grunted, nodding. “Believe me, Mel, I know. Jandria. They were first to join him.”
She exchanged a jaundiced look with her Monk. Well, yes, of course bloody Jandria. Never a crisis brewing that they’re not interested in heating up.
“Fine,” she said, trying to sound encouraging despite the churning nausea. “Who else?”
“Oh ducky, forget the laundry list,” said Reg. With another flapping of wings she launched herself off the arm of the sofa, landed on the other Monk’s knees and stabbed him with her steeliest glare. “Let’s just leap ahead to the punch line, shall we? To cut a depressing and abbreviated story even shorter—you came here to fetch our—my—Gerald to your world so he can snap his fingers and janitor away your troubles, didn’t you?”