Wizard Squared

by K. E. Mills

  The other Monk frowned, muzzily. “Janitor? What? I don’t—”

  “Never you mind playing the dimwit!” Reg snapped. “Do you expect my Gerald to clean up your mess or don’t you?”

  Face screwed up with pain, the other Monk nodded. “I had to come. He’s our only hope. Gerald’s the only wizard I know who can stop Gerald. The only rogue thaumaturgist in either of our worlds.”

  “And that’s another thing,” said Reg, unyielding. “Why pick this world? Why pick my Gerald?”

  “Sorry,” said the other Monk, close to wheezing. “This world was the only one I could find.”

  “Then all I can say is you didn’t look hard enough!” Reg retorted. “Perhaps if you had then—”

  “Reg,” Melissande said softly. “Please. Can’t you see he’s—”

  “Of course I can bloody see!” said Reg, eyes blazing. “I can see he’s got no more common sense than your Monk, madam! Because how, exactly, does he think my Gerald’s going to help him? My Gerald’s not corrupted himself with any of that manky grimoire magic and I’ll tell you right now, ducky, he’s not going to either.” She glared down at the other Monk. “So your world’s going to have to sort itself out, Mr. Markham from Next Door. Everybody knows charity begins at home. So you can just pop yourself back there and clean up your own mess.”

  Shocked, Melissande stared at her. “Reg—how can you say that? Gerald’s in trouble, he—”

  “His Gerald. Not mine,” Reg snapped. “My Gerald would never soil himself with that muck. My Gerald didn’t. And believe me, madam, whoever that is in his world wearing my Gerald’s face? He stopped being Gerald months ago.”

  Monk cleared his throat. “She’s right about that much. The Gerald who made that shadbolt—I don’t know him. That Gerald Dunwoody’s not my friend.”

  “Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t,” said Melissande. “But for all we know that Gerald is—is trapped inside those awful magics, just like this other Monk was trapped inside that shadbolt. And if that’s true we have to help him!”

  “Mel’s right,” said Bibbie. “He’s still Gerald, just like this is still Monk.”

  “I know,” Monk said reluctantly. “And as much as I hate to agree with myself, knowing what I know of our Gerald’s abilities? If he really did decide to get creative the only wizard I know who could stop him is him. And that means—”

  “Aren’t you noddyheads listening?” Reg screeched. “I said no and I meant no! You are not getting my Gerald mixed up in this!”

  Monk dragged his fingers through his hair. “Look, Reg, when you think about it he’s already mixed up—”

  “One more word out of you, Mr. Clever Clogs, and I’ll do more than bloody poke you in your insignificant unmentionables!” said Reg. Her dark eyes were alight with a fury none of them had ever seen before. “I’ll fly to your Uncle Ralph’s poncy establishment and tell him what you’ve been up to lately. All of it, sunshine. Chapter and verse. By the time this little canary’s finished singing you won’t be able to show your face past your front door for ten years! That’s if Uncle Ralph doesn’t throw you in a dark cell—and trust me when I say I’d bloody cheer if he did!”

  Bibbie leaped to her feet. “Oh, really? Is that so? Just who d’you think you’re messing with, you washed-up old has-been? We’re the Markhams, we are, ducky, and you don’t want to mess with us! I’m warning you, Reg—you try hurting my brother and I’ll have a go at lifting your hex and then I’ll be the one cheering while you—”

  “Bibbie,” said Melissande, reaching out a hand. “Don’t. Can’t you see she’s terrified?”

  “Good!” Bibbie retorted. “And so she should be. I’m not a witch to be trifled with and—”

  “Bibbie, shut up!” she said. “She’s not scared of you. She’s scared that if his Gerald could risk using those grimoires then so could our Gerald, which means—”

  “He would not!” Bibbie said hotly. “How can you even suggest it? Our Gerald’s too smart for that. He proved he’s too smart for that by not using them the first time. His Gerald must’ve had a screw loose or something. Or maybe the other Reg drove him bonkers with all her nagging. But whatever the reason, I won’t—”

  “Bibbie,” said Monk, quietly. “Melissande’s right. Now do us all a favor and hush up. Reg—”

  “Monk Markham, you’re Gerald’s best friend,” said Reg, hopping from the other Monk’s knees to the sofa-back as Bibbie turned away, flushed pink with affronted misery. “You know what he’s like. Show him a lame dog and he won’t care what it costs him to save it. Look how he was with that pillock Errol Haythwaite. Bent over backwards to see him proved innocent after every mean and nasty thing the plonker said and did to him. And now you want to—”

  “No, Reg, I don’t want to,” said Monk. “Believe me, I don’t. But it’s not up to me. And it’s not up to you, either. This is Gerald’s decision. We don’t have the right to make it for him.”

  Melissande looked at her. “We don’t, Reg. You know we don’t.”

  “Where is he?” said the other Monk, stirring. “Your Gerald? I need to see him. I need to—”

  “He’s not here,” she said. “Sir Alec sent him on assignment. Do you know your world’s Sir Alec?”

  The other Monk shuddered. “Not well. And not for long. Melissande—” His beseeching eyes, cloudier now, fixed their gaze on her face. “Please. Get Gerald. Quickly. Time’s running out. If we don’t stop him—” He sat bolt upright, shuddering harder than ever. “Monk—”

  “I’m here,” Monk said, his voice rough. “It’s all right, mate. I’m here.”

  Leaning forward, the other Monk grabbed his arm pulled him close, eyes alight with an almost fanatical glitter. “You felt him. In the shadbolt. You felt what he is now. He’s not your friend. He’ll kill everyone. He won’t stop until the world’s drowning in blood. Stop him. You and your Gerald, Monk. Promise me that. Promise.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” said Monk, sounding helpless. “I mean—you’re me and you couldn’t stop him. How am I supposed to stop him if you couldn’t?”

  Melissande felt her throat close hard. She’d never heard Monk so desperate. So despairing. She’d never seen such a look of distress on his face. And the other Monk’s face—his face—

  “Reg!” she said alarmed. “Something’s wrong—something’s happening—Monk—”

  The other Monk’s eyes were flickering back and forth, madly, and he was shuddering so hard his teeth were chattering. No, this wasn’t shuddering. He was having some kind of seizure. Monk was holding on tight, trying to steady him, but it wasn’t doing any good. The other Monk shook and shook, teeth chattering, hair flopping, blood pouring from his nose like water from a tap left on full.

  Bibbie went to pieces. “Monk, stop it! Monk, do something! Help him, call for an ambulance, Monk—”

  “Shut up, you silly bint!” Reg shrieked, flapping into her face. “Pull yourself together! Is this any way for a witch to behave?”

  “You shut up, Reg!” shouted Bibbie, and batted her aside. “That’s my brother, you gobby old crow!”

  And even though she was wrong, even though that wasn’t her Monk—their Monk—in the most horrible and confusing way, yes. It was.

  “Come on, mate—come on, mate—” her Monk was crooning. “We can fix this. Hang on, hang onto me. We’ll get you some help. We’ll—we can—”

  Melissande, one hand pressed to her mouth, watched through hot tears as her Monk did his best. But his best wasn’t enough. There was too much blood. Too much wrong. The other Monk shuddered again, one last huge convulsion, then sagged into stillness. Slowly, disbelievingly, her Monk lowered him to the sofa’s cushions.

  The other Monk’s eyes opened, slowly, in his dreadful, dead-white and blood-daubed face. He saw her. Breathed out, softly. His bloodied lips curved in a smile.

  “Melissande. I love you.”

  A moment later, he died.

  Reg flapped from the drinks troll
ey back to the sofa. Looking down at the other Monk, she tipped her head to one side. “Bugger,” she said heavily. “That’s all we need.”

  Ignoring the wretched bird, Melissande dropped to her knees beside Monk. He was staring into the dead man’s face as though caught in some hideous dream. “Monk… Monk?”

  “It’s my fault,” he whispered. “The shadbolt—there wasn’t time to be careful. I had to—and there was a trick in it—I did my best—but it was a bastard, Mel. I’ve never seen anything like it. I thought I could do it. I thought I could free him and save him but—” His voice broke. “I did my best.”

  She slid her arm around his shoulder, her eyes burning. “I know you did. And so did he. He knew it was a risk and he wanted to take it. Monk…”

  Horribly he laughed, then shrugged her arm free. Shoved to his feet and stared down at the dead man. “So here’s the thing, girls. Here’s the big question. What just happened—was it murder… or suicide? Can any of you tell me? ’Cause I’m jiggered if I know.”

  Melissande. I love you. Aching, she risked a hand on her Monk’s arm. “It was neither. Monk, you can’t blame yourself.” She gulped. “This was his Gerald’s fault. There’s no use dwelling. The question that needs answering now is what are we going to do about this?”

  Sighing, he scrubbed his hands over his face then got up to perch on the edge of the sofa. The other Monk—the dead Monk—stared at the ceiling with blank, cloudy eyes. In the fireplace, flames danced and crackled.

  Monk looked up. Met her stony gaze briefly, then turned to Bibbie. His sister stood still and slender and silent, fresh tears drying on her cheeks.

  “We’re going to call Sir Alec,” he said grimly. “We’re going to get Gerald back here. And then we’re going to take care of the madman who’s responsible for this.”

  Sir Alec took a deep breath and furiously throttled the fear. Tried to throttle it—but the fear fought back. The last time he’d been this frightened was during his final janitorial field assignment. The one that had taken him out of the field permanently and thrust him with mixed emotions behind a desk. Since then, fear had become something of a memory… but, by God, he was bloody frightened now. Oh, yes. That heart he tried so hard to pretend he didn’t have was knock, knock, knocking against his broken-more-than-once ribs.

  Bloody hell, Dunwoody. Where did you go?

  Thanks to the bane of Ralph’s life, his irrepressible and annoyingly irreplaceable nephew Monk Markham, Nettleworth’s top secret tracking equipment was the best in the world. Barring certain atmospheric hiccups and the occasional idiosyncratic etheretic fluctuation, with the flip of a switch he could pinpoint the location—via thaumic signature—of every agent in his charge. Thanks to Monk Markham he knew where they all were tonight, every last one of them—save Gerald Dunwoody. Who wasn’t in Grande Splotze. Who—if that cryptic message was to be trusted—had never so much as set foot in Grande Splotze.

  Which means he never made it all the way through the portal. I watched him walk in—but he never walked out.

  Not being a portal mechanic he hadn’t driven back to the farm. It would have been a criminal waste of his time. But he’d sent his Department expert out there, was waiting even now to hear his report. But surely, surely, if there’d been some kind of catastrophic portal malfunction some alarm somewhere would have been triggered. If nothing else positive had emerged from the Wycliffe affair, Ottosland now boasted the best portal diagnostic and warning systems known to thaumaturgics.

  It was the height of folly, but he couldn’t help it. Abandoning his office with its cheerfully crackling fire and small round crystal that remained stubbornly silent, Sir Alec made his way back down to the monitoring station and went in search of Gerald, again. Passing through the main office he noted that Dalby was still here, in the cubbyhole considered his by virtue of him being—well, Frank Dalby. Mr. Dalby. Scourge of the new recruits. Aloofly distant Sir Alec’s trusted right-hand man. But Frank, thank God, was nobody’s fool. One look at his superior’s face and he kept his nose well out of the way. If he was wanted he’d be called for, and that was good enough for him.

  Baffled—and when the hell was the last time he’d been baffled—he stared at his Department’s exclusively upgraded thaumic monitor. Twenty-six steadily burning little blue lights. Twenty-six living, breathing agents, scattered all around the globe. Look, there was Frank, upstairs with his mug of ghastly stewed tea and an asphyxiating cigarette. And look. There’s me. But nowhere, nowhere, could he see Gerald Dunwoody. He wanted to swear. To stamp. To pound his fist in someone’s face. All his uncivilized impulses, roaring to be set free.

  When Felix Saltman’s signal was lost the alarm had triggered seconds after his heart stopped beating. But no alarm had sounded for Agent Dunwoody. So either the monitor was malfunctioning—unlikely—or Gerald wasn’t dead, he just wasn’t registering on the etheretic plane.

  But that would mean he’s no longer in this world. And that simply isn’t possible. Not even a wizard as powerful as Gerald Dunwoody can step between dimensions as though walking into another room.

  Thwarted, he scowled his way back upstairs to his office. The phone started ringing just as he slammed the door.

  “What?”

  “Tokely, Sir Alec. Portal checks out. No malfunction.”

  He stared at the phone’s receiver, disbelieving. “That can’t be right. Check it again.”

  “Checked it three times, sir.”

  To argue further would be ridiculous. When it came to portal thaumaturgics, Tokely was the expert’s expert. But—“Are you saying you found nothing unusual?”

  “Didn’t say that, sir. There is a slight blip. And of course we’ve got one incomplete journey. Can’t say I’ve ever seen that happen before. Not without finding—well, you know. Remains.”

  “You’re saying my agent simply vanished halfway to his destination?”

  “Sorry, Sir Alec.” Now Tokely sounded defensive. “I know how it looks, but that’s my finding. You want a second opinion, call one in. You’ll get the same answer.”

  “No, a second opinion’s not necessary. Written report to me soonest, Tokely. My eyes only. This one’s off the books, yes?”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  He replaced the receiver, heart knocking hard again. So Gerald really had disappeared on his way to Grande Splotze, with no alarms triggered here or at the DoT. How was that possible? Who could begin to—

  No, surely not. Not even Ralph’s nephew is stupid enough to try something like this. Is he? By God, if Monk Markham’s behind this I’ll—

  On the corner of his desk his crystal marble buzzed. Swamped sickeningly with relief, he snatched it up and hexed open a channel.

  “Dunwoody? Dunwoody, where the hell are—”

  “Um, actually, no, this isn’t Gerald,” said a thin, nervous voice. “This is Monk, Sir Alec. Monk Markham. I need to see you urgently. At home. Can you come?”

  “Markham?” he said, incredulous. “How the devil did you get this—” And then he ground his teeth together. “Never mind. I’m on my way.”

  He was too angry to bid Frank a very late goodnight. Barely nodded at Chawtok, the agent on front desk duty. Swathed in coat and scarf and gloves and hat, he slammed out of the building and into his car and drove at reckless speed through the dark night streets, out to South-West Ott and Chatterly Crescent.

  Monk Markham, the incorrigible reprobate, was waiting for him on his charming establishment’s front doorstep. “I’m sorry, Sir Alec. I didn’t know who else to call.”

  There was blood on Markham’s face. Dried, but recent. His usually cheerful, slightly anarchic demeanor was absent. He was tense, his face pale, and there was something approaching dread in his wide eyes.

  Raging temper receded, slightly “This had better be good, Mr. Markham.”

  Ralph’s nephew swallowed. “Actually, sir, it’s pretty bad. Please—come in. You won’t believe me until you see it for yourself.”<
br />
  So he followed Ralph’s nephew inside the old, comfortable house, through to the parlor where he found—surprise, surprise—not only the young troublemaker’s precocious sister Emmerabiblia but Melissande Cadwallader and the bird.

  And another Monk Markham, dead and stiffening on a couch.

  “I’m sorry?” he said, looking at them one by one. “Is this some kind of ridiculous joke?”

  “Do we look like we’re laughing, sunshine?” said the bird. “Would you say this is my hysterically amused face?”

  Ralph’s appalling nephew wiped his hands down his front. “It’s all right. I can explain,” he muttered. Then he sighed. “Um—well, actually, I can’t. Not really. But I can tell you what’s happened, Sir Alec. And then—I hope—you can tell us what to do about it.”

  He listened to their story, growing colder by the minute. Some small, rational part of his mind was screaming, very rationally, This is not possible. There are laws of thaumaturgics. They can’t be bent like this. And then he remembered with whom he was dealing and he felt like screaming again, not rationally at all.

  “So you see, sir,” said Ralph’s regrettable nephew, when his insane tale was finished, “I really think we need to get Gerald back here. You know, from wherever you sent him. Because if ever there was a case for your best janitor to work on, I think this is it.”

  He was so angry he felt perfectly calm. “You constructed an interdimensional portal opener? By accident? And you failed to declare it?”

  “He only used it the once,” said Ralph’s equally regrettable niece, firing up. “It’s been in his sock drawer ever since. And it was the other Monk—” she pointed without looking, “—that one, who got his opener to work between worlds. And he only did that because his Gerald’s gone insane and has to be stopped. So really it’s lucky our Monk made his, isn’t it, or he’d probably not understand how this other one works, would he? And then Gerald would have no way of getting through to the other world and stopping his mad self before he kills everyone. So—so you might remember that before you start being mean.”