by K. E. Mills
“Gerald…” he whispered.
“Actually,” said the other Gerald, “to avoid confusion, I’m calling him Professor. Your sister’s calling him Gerry. You can call him whatever you like—but I’m the only Gerald here. Understood?”
“What?” said the other Monk. He shook himself like a wet dog. “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Sorry.”
The small, windowless laboratory stank of discharged thaumaturgics and the ether quivered with echoes of thaumic activity. A table shoved against the right-hand wall was littered with dirty plates and cutlery. Crowded with discarded mugs. There was a single gas ring in the corner unlit, and an icebox beside it. A narrow door in the left-hand wall offered a glimpse of bathroom. Along the same wall was a bedroll, a pillow and a heap of blankets. How long did Bibbie say this Monk had been here? Three days and counting? The lab was a cage.
“So,” said the other Gerald, as his Monk Markham continued to stare. “How have you been getting on, old chap?”
Monk blinked. “Getting on?”
“Don’t play the idiot, Monk,” Bibbie snapped. “Because you know what happens when you play the idiot. Gerald gets cranky, you get punished and I’m the one who has to listen to you scream. So if you love me like a big brother’s supposed to, just answer the bloody question.”
“Bibbie,” said the other Monk. And now he was staring like he’d never seen her before. Reg, in her horrible cage, banged her beak against the bars. Monk flinched. “Yes. Of course I love you, Bibs.” He looked at his Gerald. “I’m sorry. It’s not finished.”
“Not finished?” said the other Gerald, his voice silky with displeasure. “Why not? Monk, you told me all you needed was a few more days in absolute solitude, so you could focus. You swore to me that in a few more days it would be done. So why isn’t it done? You know the timetable. You know what’s expected. Monk, I can’t tell you how disappointed I am. Bibbie—”
Bibbie looked at him. “Yes, Gerald?”
“Now would be a good time to stick your fingers in your ears.”
As Bibbie turned away, clapping her hands to the sides of her head, the other Gerald snapped his fingers. And Monk—the other Monk—dropped howling to the floor.
“Stop it!” Gerald shouted, lunging at his counterpart. “Bloody hell, Gerald. Stop it! He’s your friend!”
“Mind your own business, Professor,” the other Gerald retorted, and clenched his fist.
The ether surged and he flew through the air to smack into the nearest bit of wall, flicked aside as though he were a pestering fly. He struck the plastered brick so hard bright lights burst before his good eye and all the stale lab air was punched out of his lungs. He fell to his hands and knees, gasping, and watched himself watch Monk’s suffering with no sympathy at all.
Reg was banging her head against the cage.
And then Bibbie tugged at the other Gerald’s arm. “That’s enough. If you need him you can’t keep hurting him like this.”
The other Gerald spared her an irritated glance then snapped his fingers again. Monk stopped howling.
“You’re a bloody idiot, mate,” the other Gerald said, sounding weary. “When you know what that shadbolt can do, why the hell did you have to go and disappoint me?”
Sheet-white, the other Monk staggered to his feet. “You think I wanted to?” he said raggedly. “I’ve been working non-stop, Gerald. I’ve been slaving around the clock. I need help. This bloody contraption—I don’t have what it takes to get the job done. You’re the only wizard in the world with the potentia to make this work. You’ll have to stay and help me. It’s the only way you’ll have it in time.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” said the other Gerald, frowning. “I’ve got about a million things to do, Monk.”
Bracing himself, the other Monk lifted his chin. “Then you’ll have to stay disappointed, mate. Because I’m officially at the end of the thaumaturgical road.”
The other Gerald laughed. “No, you’re not, Monk. You should’ve let me finish. Why d’you think I brought you a visitor? I can’t stay here and help you—but he can.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Me?” Gerald stepped back. “Ah—no. No, I don’t think so. For one thing I don’t have a clue what he’s—your Monk’s—working on, and for another—you may have completely abandoned your principles, Gerald, but I haven’t.”
“Oh,” said the other Gerald. “D’you know, Professor, that hurts. I mean, you abandoned them for Lional.”
“I did,” he said steadily. “To my everlasting shame.”
“Everlasting shame?” The other Gerald raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because it looks to me like you got over it all right. So what’s the problem?”
“That,” he said, “is a bloody stupid question, and you know it.”
“What I know, Professor,” said the other Gerald, prowling towards him, “is that Ottosland is on the brink of attack. Your country, your countrymen, are in terrible peril. If you don’t help me then the blood of countless innocents will run in the streets.”
“Not because of anything I’ve done,” he retorted. “From what I can tell, Gerald, you started this fight. And you can finish it by standing down. Besides. This isn’t my country.”
Halting, his counterpart smiled. “Well, if we’re going to talk about saying stupid things, Professor, you’d win a prize for that fatuous statement. You can’t fool me. You care. You care too much. It’s always been your greatest flaw.”
“I prefer to think of it as my saving grace.”
The other Gerald shrugged. “If I had time for semantics, Professor, I’d happily argue the point. But I don’t. So here’s the thing. I didn’t risk a temporal-dimensional implosion and give myself a skull-shattering headache bringing you here just so you could stand around carping at me like that bloody bird. I risked those things to make sure my plans come to fruition. You are going to help me. You aren’t going to argue. Because if you refuse to cooperate not only will your precious bloody Melissande get the chop, she’ll just be one of many victims you can chalk up to your short-sighted, sanctimonious pig-headed lack of cooperation.”
“Gerald!” said the other Monk, his voice rough. Close to breaking. “Please. Do what he says. He really will kill Melissande. And I love her, mate. She’s the only woman I’ll ever love. I’m begging you, Gerald. Don’t let her die.”
Oh, God. “I’m sorry,” he said at last, and made himself look at the stranger wearing Monk’s face. “But if your Melissande’s anything like mine, she wouldn’t want to be used like this. Whatever that machine is you’re making for this bastard? It’s not good, Monk. It’s going to hurt a lot of people. And I swore after Lional I’d never capitulate again. No matter what was done to me. No matter what was threatened.”
As the other Monk turned away, distraught, and Bibbie groaned, so sarcastic, the other Gerald laughed and sauntered to the birdcage. “How tediously bloody noble of you, Professor. I swear, I’m crying. Well, I’m crying on the inside. But that’s only so I don’t have to heave. Saint Snodgrass’s bunions! What a dreary pillock you’ve turned out to be!” A finger snap, and Reg’s hexed cage door sprang open. “And how bloody glad am I that I didn’t listen to this bitch’s nagging and face down Lional without some extra ammunition.” In a blur of motion he reached into the cage and snatched the other Reg out of it. Held her up by the throat, wings dangling, eyes rolling. “So how noble are you really, Professor?” he taunted. “Noble enough to watch me break the bird’s neck like a twig?”
“No, don’t hurt her!” the other Monk shouted, terrified. “Please, Gerald—don’t let him—God, you can’t—you can’t—”
But he had to. He had to make a stand. Make it clear to his mad other self that no matter what there’d be no cooperation. He closed his eyes. This wasn’t his Reg, but even so…
I’m sorry.
A stir in the ether and an agonized, strangled shout. And then, despite his cruel shadbolt, the other Monk was lashing out, tossing obfuscation
incants and slippy-finger hexes and anything else he could think of to make the other Gerald let go.
For all the good it did, he might as well have been spitting.
Laughing, the other Gerald deflected the thaumaturgical attack and retaliated with a brutal strike of his own. The other Monk hit the lab’s low ceiling then dropped to the floor with bone-rattling force. Shrieking, Bibbie threw herself under the nearest table. Captive Reg flapped her wings desperately, struggling to get free. And Monk—the other Monk—
The other Monk staggered to his feet, lurched around his lab bench and came straight for him, a mad light in his eyes. “You bastard! Bastard! Let Melissande die, would you? Let Reg die? Not while I’m still breathing, sunshine!”
The last thing he wanted to do was hurt this other Monk. He tried to dodge but the lab was crowded with benches and equipment. There was nowhere to run. As the man who looked like his best friend crashed him to the floor he caught a glimpse of the other Gerald laughing as he shoved his Reg back in the cage.
Panting, the other Monk grabbed him by the hair and thudded his head onto the concrete. “I don’t know you! I don’t know you!”
“Markham—you idiot—get off me!” he grunted. “I don’t want to hurt you but I will if you don’t stop!”
“Hurt me?” shouted the other Monk. “As if you bloody could!”
So he lunged upright, using fists and elbows and knees to fight free. But this other Monk was desperate. Red-faced and sweating, he crushed him close in a suffocating bear hug.
And then that horribly familiar voice was whispering frantically in his ear.
“Bloody hell, Gerald, it’s me. The real me. Play along with him, for God’s sake. I’ve got a way out.”
Stunned, he went limp, as though the assault had overwhelmed him. Monk shoved him to one side and found his feet. Turned on the other Gerald, sucking great rasping mouthfuls of air into his lungs.
“I’ll make him help you! I swear it, all right? I’ll make him do whatever you want, Gerald. Just don’t hurt Melissande. Don’t hurt Reg. Please.”
Cautiously, Bibbie crawled out from under the bench. “I agree, actually,” she said, fastidiously smoothing the wrinkles from her Fandawandi silk ensemble. “It’s more fun if they’re alive. It won’t be the same if I have to throw rotten eggs at a stranger. And you know the bird’s harmless, Gerald. It just sits in the cage and moans.”
“What?” said Monk, startled. “What did you say, Bibs?”
Bibbie shot him a venomous look. “You can shut up. I don’t have to listen to you any more, big brother.”
Shaken, Gerald stared at the Markham siblings.
Monk? My Monk? How can that be my Monk? Bloody hell, I know he’s a genius but…
It couldn’t be him, surely. This had to be a trick. There was no proof that this man was who he said he was or that he had a way out of this mess.
Bloody hell. I’ll have to trust him. I can’t afford not to. Because if that is my Monk Markham—
He wasn’t going to think about how that made a difference. It just did. He’d worry about the ethics of it later, once they’d got themselves safely home.
If we can. If we don’t get ourselves and everyone else in this world killed trying.
The other Gerald, ignoring Monk’s staring disbelief and Bibbie’s bristling resentment, considered him with narrowed eyes. He stared straight back, making sure to still look shaken. It wasn’t much of an act.
But—but if this is my Monk Markham, what’s happened to the other one? Oh my God, don’t tell me he’s hiding in the bathroom!
It took all his strength not to look through the bathroom’s open door.
“Professor,” his counterpart said at last. “That was stupid. And I am—I used to be—a lot of things but really, stupid isn’t one of them. You’ve read my potentia. You know what I can do. You’ve seen what I will do. And you still refuse me? I’m embarrassed for both of us.”
He won’t believe me if I give in too easily.
“I think you are stupid, Gerald,” he snapped. “I’m the Dunwoody who didn’t lose his nerve, remember? The one who defeated Lional without resorting to Uffitzi’s filthy grimoires. In the only way that truly counts, I’m stronger than you. So go ahead. Do your worst. You won’t break me.”
“Really?” said his smiling counterpart. “You know, I wouldn’t bet on it.”
And with a snap of his fingers he dropped Monk back to the floor.
“You have to understand, Professor,” he said, sounding bored now, “that I can keep this going and going and he won’t actually die. He’ll want to die. He’ll beg to die. But he won’t. He’ll just suffer until you change your mind. Remember the cave? Just like that. Days and weeks and months and years of suffering. So the question is—how noble are you, Professor, when you get down to brass tacks? How noble is it to let someone else pay the price for your principles?”
Transfixed, Gerald stared at his keening, writhing friend. His Monk. From his world. The man who’d risked his career for him. Saved his life. Made him laugh. Paid for more than his fair share of Yok Tok takeaway.
I’m not an only child. I’ve got a brother, and his name’s Monk Markham.
Bibbie had walked away, as far as she could get, and was standing with her back to them with her close-cropped head lowered and her silk-covered arms folded tight. Beneath her ghastly new veneer she wasn’t entirely indifferent. Did that mean there was hope for her? Maybe. Maybe there was.
And then he looked at his counterpart.
But there’s no hope for him.
“I might even put him on display in the parade ground,” said the other Gerald, still smiling. “Wouldn’t that be an exhibit to make folk sit up and blink? Imagine it, Professor—the five year old brought to witness your indifference today could be the grandfather forty years from now, showing his own grandson what happens when I don’t get what I want. On the other hand, I could lock you both in here and leave you. How would you like that? Just your best friend and his screams for company, year after year after year after messy, noisy year…”
Oh, lord. Eyes stinging, he looked down at Monk, his jaw clenched so hard he thought it might break. The shadbolt shackling his friend was the worst he’d ever felt. It made Melissande’s look like a diamond tiara. Even those he’d sensed on Attaby and the others, they endured nothing compared to this. The urge to rip Monk free had him shaking. But he couldn’t. He had to play this out, right to the bitter end. This other Gerald would never believe a swift surrender. And if he wasn’t convinced—if he suspected a trap—
Hang on, Monk. I’m sorry. Please. Hang on.
The other Gerald was watching him closely. He didn’t dare so much as a glance at this world’s Reg—but he could feel her looking at him, crammed in that dreadful cage with her long beak tied shut. On the floor, Monk started twitching. The sounds he was making were getting louder. Less bearable. And then he opened his eyes and looked straight at him.
“Gerald, come on,” he whispered.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. You know I can’t.”
“Yeah, you can. Come on.”
He closed his eyes, briefly. “No, Monk. I can’t.”
Monk sobbed once. “Thought you were my friend. Everything I’ve done for you.”
“You—” He had to fold his arms against the pain in his chest. “You haven’t done anything for me. I don’t know you. I know the Monk from my world. And he—he wouldn’t ask this. He knows what’s at stake.”
“Bugger that,” said Monk, choking. “We’re the same man in every way that matters, Gerald, and I’m asking…”
He didn’t know what to do. How long to let this play out. Sickened, and sickeningly aware of the other Gerald’s scrutiny, he half-turned away.
Monk’s anguished cry followed him. “Please, Gerald. Please!”
Right or wrong, he couldn’t do this any more. He let the plea break him.
“Fine!” he shouted, turning to the other Ger
ald. “You win! For God’s sake, that’s enough!”
“Not quite,” said his counterpart. “After all, I am trying to make a point.”
“You’ve made it!” he said, and dropped to his knees. “You’ve made it! You’ve got me, Gerald. All right? You win. I’ll do whatever you want.”
His counterpart laughed. “See, Bibbie? I told you. Soft as whipped cream.” And then the amusement vanished. “But Professor? Just in case this is a ruse, and you’re planning to pull a fast one? Well—just don’t.”
Monk shuddered once, with a terrible moan. Then the other Gerald snapped his fingers again and released him.
Bibbie turned around. Her eyes were dry but her face was chalk-white. “So are you finished now, Gerald? Can we go?”
The other Gerald glanced at her. “In a minute. Professor?”
He dragged his gaze away from silently shivering Monk. “What?”
“Catch,” said his counterpart, and tossed him a small, dark red crystal.
“And what’s this?” he said, feeling the acid of dark magics sizzle his cold fingers.
“A present,” said the other Gerald. “I made it especially for you.”
“Really?” He pushed to his feet. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, it was no trouble.”
He could feel his potentia stirring, reacting to the incants sunk into the red crystal. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You want me to swallow this?”
A genial nod. “If you’d be so kind.”
“Since it’s not a shadbolt,” he said, feeling his skin crawl, “d’you mind telling me what it is?”
“You don’t know?” The other Gerald pretended shock. “Gosh. Are you the world’s most powerful wizard or aren’t you?”
“I meant specifically, Gerald,” he said, glowering. “Under the circumstances rogue thaumaturgics is a little vague for my tastes.”
The other Gerald’s smile went nowhere near his eyes. “Don’t worry. There’s nothing in there that can hurt you, Professor. I’m just… giving you a boost, that’s all. So you can help me. Although, actually, when you think about it, you’re really helping yourself.”