Wizard Squared

by K. E. Mills

  “No. It wasn’t necessary. I still defeated Lional.”

  “So I gather,” said the other Gerald, so disparaging. “And all your victory cost you was your sight.”

  Unbidden, his fingers came up and touched the skin beneath his blind eye. “Only half of it. I manage. And I’d rather lose my eye than my humanity.”

  “Oh, please,” said the other Gerald. “I give you fair warning, Professor—being lectured puts me in a very bad mood. And whoever’s doing the lecturing tends to end up pretty damned sorry.”

  It felt like the air in the bedroom had chilled by a swift ten degrees. “D’you know,” he said softly, “you sound uncannily like Lional when you say things like that.”

  The other Gerald shrugged. “Then don’t lecture me, old chap, and you’ll be spared the trip down memory lane.”

  He wiped a hand across his mouth, trying to banish the foul taste of bile. “So what happened? Did you lose your nerve? Doubt yourself? You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have let fear make—”

  “Be careful, Professor!” the other Gerald snapped, and raised a clenched fist. Bright blue thaumic power danced over his skin, crackling the air. “I don’t permit anyone to speak to me like that.” His lips bared in a snarling smile. “Not even me.”

  Gerald straightened his spine. The important thing was not to show weakness. Rabid dogs always attack when they scent fear. “Something tells me you wouldn’t have brought me here only to kill me ten minutes after we met.”

  “Kill you, Professor?” His counterpart’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t be ridiculous. But it’s only fair to point out I’ve no problem with hurting you.”

  He braced himself, waiting for something terrible to knock him to his knees. But nothing happened. Instead, the other Gerald sighed again and lowered his fist. “This is silly. We’re meant to be friends. How can we not be friends when you and I have so much in common?”

  And that was the question, wasn’t it? Just how much did he and this—this other Gerald have in common? Take away the dark magic and how alike were they, really? If the theories and suppositions were correct, he and this man who looked like him had at least started out the same person.

  So are we still alike enough for me to reach him? Alike enough for me to stop whatever insane plan he’s cooked up, that he wants me to be part of?

  He had no idea yet. He needed more time—and more information. “You took them all in, didn’t you? Every last incant in those grimoires Lional stole from that criminal idiot Uffitzi.”

  A small, crimson flame flickered deep in the other Gerald’s shining eyes. “Yes, I did, Professor. And let me tell you—it was the best decision I’ve ever made. I mean, I had power before. I had lots of power. But until those grimoires I had no idea what to do with it.”

  “And now you do?”

  “Yes, Professor,” said the other Gerald, and laughed. “Now I do.”

  He cleared his throat. “Congratulations. Don’t suppose you’d like to let me in on the secret?”

  The question was bold. Almost aggressive. He half-expected another threat—or worse. Instead, his counterpart thrust his hands in the pockets of his expensive silk dressing-gown and considered him in silence, through half-lidded eyes. Then, after a nerve-shatteringly long pause, he smiled.

  “All in good time, Professor. All in good time.”

  Bugger. It was never encouraging when villains said things like that.

  And is that what he is? Is that what I became here? A villain? Is this Gerald the kind of wizard I’d be hunting, back home?

  Stupid question. Of course he was.

  I don’t understand. My didn’t Reg stop me? How could she stand by and let something like this happen?

  Reg. Oh lord, he had to ask. And whatever the answer, he’d have to bear it. “And where’s our little feathered friend?”

  “Who? Reg?” the other Gerald said carelessly. “She’s around somewhere. I’m sure you’ll see her sooner or later. Why, did you think—” He blinked, as though genuinely surprised. “Oh, Professor, come on. Anyone would think I’m a monster. But really, how can I possibly be a monster when I’m you?”

  Dizzy with relief, he closed his eyes. It was crazy to care so much, of course. The Reg in this world wasn’t his Reg. Just as the woman in the thin scarlet silk dress wasn’t his Emmerabiblia.And yet… and yet…

  It doesn’t matter. I still have to save them from what’s happening here. I have to save him, from himself if nothing else.

  But to do that he had to survive. And to survive he had to play along, at least until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with. Until he’d found this world’s Monk, and seen Reg, and Melissande. If they were still themselves then he might have a chance. But if they weren’t… if they’d turned, like Bibbie…

  No. No. I’m not going to think about that.

  He opened his eyes. “All right. Bottom line, Gerald. Why the hell did you bring me here?”

  The other Gerald heaved a theatrical sigh. “Well, it’s about time. I was beginning to wonder if you’dever get to the point. Was I always this slow on the uptake, I wonder? Or is this simply a by-product of interdimensional travel?” He pulled a face. “Gosh. I hope not. When Monk emerges from his inventorly trance we’ll have him test you, or something. Because if traveling between worlds has fried your synapses, Professor, I’m going to be forced back to the drawing board. Again.”

  “Monk’s inventing something? What?”

  “I’m not telling you,” said the other Gerald, horrifyingly playful. “It’s a surprise. Now come on. Get dressed. It’s way past time for breakfast and I’m starving.”

  The old, ornate mahogany wardrobe opposite the window was identical to his own. But the clothes inside it…

  “I can’t wear these!” he protested, looking at the boldly colored velvets and silk brocades. “They’re not me. I’ll look like a bloody—”

  “Yes?” said the other Gerald, fingers caressing his black-and-gold silk lapel. “Like a bloody what, Professor?”

  “Idiot,” he said, feeling suddenly reckless. “You can wear what you like, Gerald. That’s your business. But I wear tweeds or twill or wool. And if you don’t like it, feel free to send me home.”

  The other Gerald tapped a finger against his chin. “Hmm. I wonder, does that petty little outburst mean you’re going to be difficult, Professor? I hope not, because I’ve enough on my plate without you getting temperamental on me.”

  “What d’you think?” he retorted. “Since you know me so well.”

  “I think you’re thinking there must be some way to—I don’t know—redeem me,” said the other Gerald, shrugging. “Because I remember that look. That stupid, soft, I need to save the world look. But you don’t have to, because that’s my job. And my way is much, much more effective. I’ve gone far beyond the notion of saving it one tedious compliance violation at a time.”

  He managed a smile of his own. “Funny you should say that, Gerald. So have I.”

  “Yes, well, whatever it is you’re doing these days, I can promise you it’ll pale into insignificance compared to my feats,” the other Gerald retorted. “So I suppose it’s only fitting that you wear tweeds or twill or wool.” With a great flourish he clapped his hands above his head. Power ripped through the ether, rattling the windowpanes and flapping the curtains. “There you go, Professor. Happy now?”

  He looked at the drab brown worsteds, the dull green tweeds, the gray twills and the definitely unsilky white shirts. Good, plain cotton.

  “Lovely. Thank you.”

  “Then get dressed,” snapped his counterpart. “We’ve got a very busy day ahead of us.”

  Since feeling awkward about dressing in front of himself was clearly ridiculous, he pretended he didn’t feel any such thing. Once he’d swapped the striped flannel nightshirt for underdrawers, a singlet, and a dull-as-dishwater worsted suit ensemble complete with braces, white cotton shirt, brown tie, brown socks and brown leather shoes, he lo
oked at his incredibly unlikely captor.

  “All done.”

  “Hideous,” said the other Gerald. “I can’t believe I used to dress like that. I like this so much better.”

  Another flourishing hand clap—another blast of thaumaturgic power—and the dressing-gown was gone, replaced by a supremely elegant royal blue silk suit and a white silk shirt so dazzling it looked like a snowfield at noon on a cloudless day. The ruby rings were gone too, replaced by diamonds and sapphires.

  “You see, Professor? One can be elegant and stylish without being pretentious,” said the other Gerald, severely. “You of all people, a tailor’s son, should know that. I mean, if Father could see you now he’d roll in his grave.”

  He felt the blood drain from his face. “That’s—you’re not—roll in his grave, that’s just a figure of—”

  “’Fraid not,” said the other Gerald, pulling a face. “In my world we’re orphans, Professor. Mother and Father’s round-the-world trip? In hindsight, the little detour to Ling-Ling wasn’t such a good idea.” He sighed. “Tragic, isn’t it? Now for pity’s sake, come on. Breakfast’s going to be cold! And we both know how I feel about cold bacon and eggs.”

  There was an even nastier shock waiting for him in the kitchen. Their kitchen, his and Bibbie’s and Monk’s and Reg’s. Well, Monk’s mostly, but his careless, anarchic friend did love to share. This one was exactly the same, old and cozy and comfortable, right down to the scarred wooden table that only moments ago, it seemed, he and she and Monk and Reg had sat around, laughing and eating pancakes, while Melissande stood at the old-fashioned cooking range whipping up yet another bowlful of batter and pretending their compliments meant nothing at all.

  Oh, she was there, this world’s Melissande. Short and stocky and red-haired and aproned. But she wasn’t laughing and trading quips with Monk and Reg. Instead she was braced against the bench under the window, eyes closed behind her spectacles, head slightly turned away… from Bibbie. Bibbie in her scarlet dress, laughing as she plucked whole eggs from the empty air and tossed them at Melissande with a careless cruelty that stopped his heart. Egg yolk and albumen dripped down Mel’s face, dragging bits of eggshell with them. The conjured eggs were rotten, their stench thickening the kitchen’s air, painting over the proper breakfast smells of bacon and coffee and hot bread and fresh eggs nicely fried.

  Worst of all, Melissande was wearing a shadbolt.

  “Bibbie!” snapped the other Gerald as he led the way into the kitchen. “If you’ve started playing before she’s finished cooking—”

  The other Bibbie’s laughter stopped. “No, Gerald. Of course not.”

  Unappeased, the other Gerald scorched her with a look. “Honestly, did the eggs have to be rotten?”

  “Well, yes,” said Bibbie. “It’s not nearly as much fun otherwise, is it?” Pouting, she crossed to him and stroked a teasing finger down his nose. “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport. You get to punish naughty people. Why can’t I?”

  The other Gerald caught her finger in his mouth and sucked on it, his gaze burning into her eyes. She laughed again, in her throat, and pressed up against him. Plucked her finger from his mouth and brushed it over his lips.

  “Was she naughty, Bibs?” the other Gerald murmured. “Why? What did she do?”

  Gerald didn’t want to know. Shaken, he walked past them straight to Melissande, who hadn’t moved or made any attempt to clean herself. Behind the egg-fouled spectacles her eyes were still tight shut. This close to her the stink was overwhelming. If there’d been food in his stomach he’d be heaving it all out. But the stink wasn’t important.

  “Hey,” he said gently. “Melissande—”

  At the sound of his voice she flinched and whimpered. Melissande, whimpering? Oh, Saint Snodgrass. This is so wrong. “Melissande,” he said again, and risked a light touch to her arm. “Please. It’s all right. Open your eyes.”

  She obeyed him, instantly. As though disobedience was too dreadful to contemplate. And seeing him, she sucked in a small and shocked gasp of air.

  “What? What? I don’t—Who are you? Where did you come from? How can—”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s a bugger, isn’t it? But you’re not dreaming. It’s real. I’m real.” Hesitating, he glanced behind him but the other Gerald and his Bibbie were still lost in each other, stroking and murmuring and laughing under their breaths. He looked back and lowered his voice. “And Mel? Here’s the thing you need to believe. I’m not him. All right? I’m a Gerald who never read Uffitzi’s grimoires. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes,” she said, choking, her fingers twisting in her ruined apron. “Well, no. Not entirely. But if you say so. Only… what does that mean?”

  Even in her worst moments, in the cave, when she finally realized what her mad brother had become, she’d not sounded like this: beaten down and hopeless and shackled to fear. But then, in the cave, she’d not been wearing a shadbolt. He didn’t dare tamper with it, or even look too closely. A cursory examination showed him it was brutal, though. No wonder she’d not tried to defend herself from the eggs.

  “Mel, where’s Monk gone? Do you know? And Reg? Is Reg all right? He said she was around, but—”

  “Please don’t,” she whispered. “You mustn’t ask me any questions. I’m not allowed to talk to anyone but them.”

  Tears had started leaking from her green, haunted eyes. Her nose was running too. They’d broken her to pieces.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said quickly. “All right. I won’t.”

  Any moment now he’d start weeping himself.

  He did this? How could he do this? Is this all because of the grimoires, or was it in him all along? Oh, God. Is it in me? Am I capable of this?

  In rejection, in revulsion, he summoned his power out of sleep. Stepped back from weeping, egg-soaked Melissande and undid what cruel, scarlet Bibbie had done. Even as the incant wiped away the rotten muck, cleaned her hair and face and spectacles and apron, sweetened her to roses and blanched the stink from the air, he felt a shiver in her shadbolt. A warped and darkened version of his own potentia had made the disgusting thing and now power called to power. A reflection in a mirror.

  “Well, Professor, aren’t you gallant,” said the other Gerald behind him. “Never mind. I’ll soon cure you of that. Still, I suppose it had to be done. That stench—I was about to lose my appetite.”

  With a last, reassuring glance at Melissande, he turned. “Glad to be of service, Gerald.”

  The other Gerald smiled, his arm tucked close around Bibbie. “That’s good to hear, Professor. Just the attitude I’m looking for. Now, shall we be seated so the uppity wench can serve us? I like to breakfast in the kitchen. It’s so cozy and unpretentious.”

  Could he eat, after this? He suspected not, but he’d have to try. For one thing he was going to need all his strength… and for another he just knew that to refuse this Gerald’s hospitality would be a very big mistake. So he took his place at the table, opposite this world’s dreadful Gerald and Bibs, and looked at his plate so he’d not have to look at them.

  Oh, God. What do I do now? How do I get out of this?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He’d thought that in the final analysis, dining with Lional would prove to be the worst culinary experience of his life—but apparently he was being far too optimistic.

  Breakfasting with himself was a hundred times worse.

  Melissande was so frightened, serving them, that she spilled coffee on the table. The other Gerald’s shadbolt punished her, driving her to the floor where she trembled with pain.

  “For pity’s sake, Gerald!” he protested. “What’s the matter with you? It’s only coffee. You’re not even splashed! Let her go!”

  The other Gerald considered him. “You’re being gallant again, Professor. How bloody tedious!” Then his eyes opened wide. “God, don’t tell me you and your Melissande are canoodling back in your world?”

  He stared. “What? No. We’re friends.
Good friends. But even if we weren’t I’d never do this to her. I’d never do this to anyone. Now let her go.”

  The other Gerald sighed. “Oh, all right. Just this once. Enough.” Melissande slumped, gasping. Sitting back in his chair, he reached for Bibbie and linked his fingers with hers. “As for thinking you’d not slap a naughty wrist, Professor, well, don’t be so sure. You and I might’ve taken different paths back in New Ottosland but as I’ve already said, we’re still the same man. Whatever I can do, believe me… you can do it too.”

  Released from punishment and clambered back to her feet, Melissande set about cleaning up the mess from the dropped coffee pot and the tiny trickle on the table. Gerald watched her closely, his stomach churning. He could still feel her pain, fading tremors in the ether. Then he locked gazes with his counterpart and shook his head.

  “You’re wrong, Gerald. I’m not the same as you. I never touched those grimoires. We’re two different men now.”

  His counterpart shrugged, unperturbed. “We’ll see. Now hurry up and finish eating. We’ve got things to do and places to go.”

  Ignoring his unquiet belly, he ate. Conversation languished. He had questions but he knew this Gerald wouldn’t answer them, so there was no point asking and he lacked the intestinal fortitude for idle, carefree chitchat. Besides, the other Gerald and his Bibbie were so busy canoodling he doubted they’d have heard him even if he tried. And talking to Melissande was out of the question. At least it was in front of them.

  The dreadful meal ended, eventually. As Melissande started to clear the table of plates and cutlery, the other Gerald gave Bibbie one last, lascivious look then stood. “Right. Run along upstairs, my dove, and make yourself beautiful. You know it’s important to dazzle the locals.”

  Bibbie blew him a kiss and sauntered out of the kitchen.

  “And as for you, Professor—”

  “I’m going to help Melissande with the dishes,” he said. “You can come and fetch me when it’s time to go wherever it is we’re going.”

  The other Gerald looked at him in stony silence, then abruptly smiled. “Fine. Suit yourself. Have a cozy chat. But she’s not going to tell you anything that could possibly hurt me.”