by K. E. Mills
As the lorry passed through the gates into the ceremonial parade ground, Monk looked up and saw Lional’s transfixed dragon.
“Bloody hell!”
The other Gerald stared at him. “What is wrong with you? Anyone’d think you’d never seen it before—let alone helped me get it up there!”
“What?” said Monk faintly. “I mean, sorry. No. It’s just—it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I—I forgot what an impression it makes.”
The other Gerald glowered. “One more uninvited word out of you, Monk, and I’ll give that bloody dragon a jockey, I swear.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way.
“So,” said the other Gerald, as the lorry finally ground to a halt. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stand with me on the dais, both of you, with my machine. You’re going to monitor its status while I begin phase one of my plan. If I don’t like the way either of you so much as blinks—the bird dies. Melissande dies. And if it comes to that, Monk, your sister dies too.” He smiled. “She’s not the only pretty blonde witch in the world.”
“You mean—” Monk had to moisten his lips and try again. “Melissande’s here?”
“No. She’s at home,” said the other Gerald, straightening his lapels. “But believe me, old chum. It makes no difference. I can kill her with a thought from a hundred miles away.”
Gasping, Monk dropped to the lorry floor, eyes wide, chest heaving.
“You see? Just like that.” A wide smile. “Saint Snodgrass’s bunions. I love a good shadbolt.”
Gerald set the other Reg on his shoulder then risked touching his counterpart on the arm. “Don’t be a fool, Gerald. You need him.”
“For the machine, yes,” his counterpart snapped. “But for precious little else, believe me! So if he wants to go on living he’ll watch his bloody step!”
Released, breathing harshly, Monk shakily sat up.
“Now come along,” said the other Gerald, leading the way out of the lorry. “I want this over and done with before Viceroy Gonegal and his pathetic armed airships get here.”
There was indeed a dais. It had been assembled in the middle of the ceremonial parade ground. Crowded onto it were the elected government and appointed senior civil servants of Ottosland, every last one of them still shadbolted to the hilt. He could see Lord Attaby, but not Monk’s Uncle Ralph. The rest of the walled enclosure was crammed full of unshadbolted witches and wizards, their potentias stirring thickly in the agitated ether. Bibbie was there too, at the very front of the dais, resplendent in swathes of vibrant pink silk, pouting because she’d been left alone for so long.
All the smoky half-domes had been removed, revealing the obscene and terrifying exhibits this world’s Gerald had so assiduously collected.
“Monk,” Gerald said under his breath, as they guided the etheretic wave enhancer on its trolley down the lorry’s portable ramp. His friend was walking backwards, bracing it, keeping it straight. “Monk, listen. When you turn around you’re going to see some things. Whatever you do, mate, don’t react.”
Puzzled, Monk blinked at him. “Yeah? All right. Whatever you say.”
But then they hit the bottom of the ramp and the trolley rolled over the flagstones and Monk had to wrestle it a bit—and he turned.
There was Sir Alec, still dying, dressed in flames. There was Lional, ripped and slashed and pinned to the ground. There was the witch whose name he didn’t know, wrapped in a blanket made of her own flayed skin. And wait—there was a new one—he hadn’t seen that one the last time. It was—it was—
Monk staggered. “Oh my God. That’s Uncle Ralph.”
“Oh, yes,” said the other Gerald, turning. “Stubborn old coot. Y’know, even with a shadbolt he kept on answering back. I didn’t want to lose him, I really didn’t. A First Grade Markham wizard isn’t something you throw away lightly. But—he was setting a bad example. He didn’t give me a choice.”
Uncle Ralph was front and center, directly in line with the dais. Probably the other Gerald had ordered him set there just so Sir Ralph’s former colleagues were reminded to hold their busy tongues. Compared to some of the others here he’d been granted an easy death: a swift impalement on a long, thin, sharpened stake.
“Monk, don’t,” said Gerald, and grabbed his friend’s arm. “Remember Melissande. And Reg. And Bibbie.”
Dazed, Monk shook him free. “Yeah. Yeah. Right.”
Still clinging to his shoulder, the other Reg was making angry noises in her throat. He patted the nearest bit of her that he could reach. “I know, Reg,” he muttered. “But we can’t help him now.”
The truck was retreating, chugging steadily away. The sky above the parade ground was clear of cloud but clogged with airships. The early morning sunshine turned their gun barrels bright silver. Some were pointed at the ground, covering the uneasily silent crowd of captive thaumaturgists; the rest were pointed outwards, waiting for the airships of the United Magical Nations.
When they got here—if they got here—there was going to be a bloodbath. There was going to be a bloodbath anyway, of a sorts. All these wizards and witches, waiting to be enslaved.
Sick to his stomach, Gerald turned to the man in crimson and gold who was wearing his face. He didn’t want to take this other Gerald back through the portable portal. The risk to Ottosland was too great. What if he and Sir Alec couldn’t contain him? What if this murderous madman got loose?
What was I thinking? I can’t risk it. He’s too dangerous. There has to be another way.
“Gerald, listen to me,” he said, cajoling. “You don’t have to do this. There’s still time to change your mind. Deep down I don’t think you want to do this. All these grand plans, enslaving wizards, taking over the world… it’s those grimoires talking. It’s not you. Let me help. Let me fix this. Someone has to know a way of getting that magic out of you. There’ll be questions—and yes, there’ll be a tribunal, you can’t avoid that—but I’ll—I’ll testify about how the grimoire magic changed you.”
Monk was staring at him. “What the—Gerald—”
“Be quiet, Monk.” Desperate, he looked at his counterpart, willing him to listen. “Not all of this is your fault, Gerald. The magics you gave me, in that hex crystal—hardly anything, and I can feel them inside me, changing my potentia. A teaspoon’s worth of grinwire magic, compared to what you took—and I’m twisted. Only a little bit, but I know the twist is there. I know what you went through. And I know why you did it. You did it to stop Lional, to save New Ottosland. You did the wrong thing for the right reason—and that has to count for something, Gerald. I think it counts.”
The look on his counterpart’s face shifted from bafflement to irritation. “Oh, my God, Professor. You’re as bad as the bloody bird. Now shut up before I shut you up. I might not be able to shadbolt you but I’ll bet I can find a gag.”
Swamped with despair, he shut up.
I’m a bloody idiot. Talking to him is like talking to Lional. He’s too far gone to reach.
And so, just like New Ottosland, this could only end one way. Except this time it wasn’t just him and one insane man getting ready to face each other in a thaumaturgic duel. This time there were hundreds of people who could—who would—get hurt in a confrontation. So this time, terribly, he had no other choice.
Oh, lord. Oh, Saint Snodgrass. I really have to take him home.
“Professor Dunwoody! Sir! Sir!”
As one, he and his counterpart turned. “Yes?”
It would have been funny if the situation weren’t so dire.
Some kind of junior government flunky was panting on a pushbike across the ceremonial parade ground towards them, brandishing a piece of paper. He was so upset he didn’t even notice the horrendous exhibits around him, or the fact that he was staring at two Professor Dunwoodys. Reaching them, he half-leaped, half-fell off the pushbike which clattered onto the flagstones, wheels spinning.
“Sir! Sir! They’ve been sighted, sir! Th
e UMN airships have crossed the border! Scores of them! And they’re heading this way, sir, at a right rate of knots!”
Gerald watched his counterpart’s face flush red, then drain dead white. The ether stirred dangerously, his warped potentia snarling. He snatched the piece of paper from the flunky’s hand and read it for himself. Crumpled it in his fist and threw it at the terrified young man.
“And what about the Jandrians?”
The flunky shook his head. “No sign of them, sir,” he whispered. “Looks like we’re on our own.”
Another threatening sizzle in the air. “Send word to the commander of our airship fleet,” the other Gerald snapped. “Engage the enemy at will. I don’t want to see a single UMN airship over this city, is that clear? And then send a message to Tambotan of Jandria. I want his airships here within the hour. If one Ottish citizen is harmed because he fails to keep his word, his streets will run with Jandrian blood and his head will take pride of place above my fireplace mantel. Tell him to tell his feckless allies the same applies to them. Well? Why are you still standing there? Start pedaling!”
Almost gibbering with fear the flunky snatched up his pushbike and desperately pedaled away. Behind them, stranded on the crowded dais, Bibbie stamped her stylishly-shod foot.
“Gerald? Gerald! What’s going on? I’ve been waiting for ages. Are we going to do this or aren’t we?”
“In a minute, Bibbie!” The other Gerald raised an eyebrow. “Well, Professor? Are you ready? I hope so, for your sake. Because it’s only fair to tell you that if you and Monk, here, fail to deliver what you’ve promised? I’ll be looking for a bigger fireplace, with more room over the mantel.”
Gerald risked a glance at Monk, who nodded. He looked back. “Yes. We’re ready.”
“Then get my machine up to the dais. We’ve no time to waste.”
As the other Gerald wandered away to inspect his latest gruesome exhibit, Monk glanced at the sky. “I can’t see Reg,” he muttered. “What about you?”
Reg… He risked his own quick look around. “No. But she’ll be here.”
“She’d better,” said Monk. “We won’t have time to wait. Gerald—” Now he was staring at the cowering crowd of wizards and witches who’d been brought here for a group shadbolting. “I don’t get it. Why are they just standing there? Why are they letting him do this? He’s one man, Gerald. It’s crazy.”
He sighed. “Monk, he’s one man who’s managed to shadbolt an entire government. He’s one man who can rain fire upon their heads with a couple of words and the snap of his fingers. They’ve got families—and at least once a week they have to walk around here looking at what happens to people who put him in a bad mood. Now come on. I want to get out of here before the UMN fleet turns up. They’ve got no chance of beating him—which means things are going to get messy, fast.”
There was a ramp ready and waiting for them. With the other Reg clinging tight to his shoulder, her beak still tied shut, he helped his Monk wrangle the other Monk’s invention into position at the front of the dais. Bibbie watched them, arms folded, her beautiful, painted face set into deep lines of discontent. Would she be heartbroken to lose her Gerald, once they dragged him through the portal? It was hard to believe she could love a man who didn’t love her.
She’s not the only pretty blonde witch in the world.
He felt his heart break. Felt the burning sting of tears.
I’m so sorry, Bibs. I wish there’d been time to help you.
“What’s wrong?” Monk muttered as he checked the machines etheretic calibrations. “Bloody hell, Gerald. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”
“No, of course I’m not,” he muttered back. “Shut up. Is everything set?”
“Well, it’s set from my end,” said Monk, straightening. “But what about—”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control.”
Except of course he didn’t. How could he? This was an entirely unprecedented situation. Not a single hex or incant in his repertoire had been designed to do what he and Monk planned to do here. Not one lecture in his training at Nettleworth had encompassed this kind of mission. In all the history of janitoring there’d never been this kind of mission.
I’ll have to wing it. Just like I winged it with Hal Rottlezinder and his warding hexes. I did it then. I’ll do it now. Because I’m Gerald Dunwoody, janitor, and this is my job.
Overhead, the armed airships of Ott methodically criss-crossed the sky. And somewhere beyond the city were UMN airships, just as determined. This could all go ass over elbows in the blink of an eye.
“Right,” said the other Gerald, rubbing his hands together as he joined them on the dais. “I think I’ve waited long enough for this, don’t you?”
“I’ve certainly waited long enough,” said Bibbie, arms folded, toes tapping. “Honestly, Gerald—”
He silenced her with a look. Then he turned. “Professor, why are you still wearing that bloody bird on your shoulder? You look ridiculous. Put it down.”
Oh. Right. Poor thing. Poor Reg. “Is the dais railing acceptable, Gerald?” he said, nodding at it. “There aren’t any spare seats and if I put her on the ground she might get trodden on accidentally.”
“And wouldn’t that be a tragedy?” said his counterpart. Then he sighed. “Fine. The railing. Just hurry up.” He glanced at the sky. “We could have visitors any minute.”
As gently as he could, he plucked the other Reg from his shoulder and made sure she was settled safely on the dais railing. Her eyes warm with appreciation, she gave him a little nod. She even managed to rattle her tail.
The other Gerald snapped his fingers and a rain of rose petals fell from the sky. Then, ignoring Reg, he grasped the dais railing with both hands and swept his gaze around his frightened, captive audience.
“Look, everyone, I know you’re afraid,” he said, his voice clear and carrying. “I know in the last few months there have been many changes which you haven’t always understood. And some harsh measures have been taken that have caused some of you pain. I’m sorry about that. Truly. I wish there’d been time to tread lightly and kindly. To explain everything step-by-step. I wish there’d been time for committees and consultations and working parties and resolutions in the house. But there wasn’t. I had to act swiftly and I didn’t have time to argue every little thing. There are dangers in this world, my friends, terrible dangers. And whether it was by accident, or by some strange thaumaturgical design, I’m the wizard who was in the right place at the right time with the right resources to make us safe. Which is what I’m about to do now. I’m going to make every last one of us safe.”
Silence. The captive crowd of wizards and witches looked at each other, then looked back at the dais.
The other Gerald was frowning. “Well, y’know, I think a thank you would be nice. Bibbie.”
Smiling brightly, Bibbie started to clap. After a moment, behind them, Ottosland’s impotent Prime Minister Attaby clapped with her. One by one his fellow shadbolted ministers and senior civil servants joined in. Bibbie clapped harder. Ottosland’s government followed suit. And at last, grudgingly, the city’s captive thaumaturgists followed suit. Nobody in their right mind would call the applause enthusiastic, but it was loud enough to put a smile on the other Gerald’s face.
Reluctantly clapping, Gerald kept his own face blank and was careful not to look anywhere near Monk. Blimey, he really believes it. He believes everything he just said. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse. Trying to be inconspicuous, he stared around the ceremonial parade ground. There was still no sign of Reg. Where the devil was she? Surely not lost. Or—oh, God, was she trapped back in the Department of Thaumaturgy building? No, no, no. Don’t let it be that. Because once the etheretic enhancer was switched on there’d be no going back. She had to be here, ready and waiting.
Bloody hell, Reg. Don’t do this to me.
Thanks to Bibbie’s enthusiastic example the ragged applause showed no sig
n of dying down. The other Gerald raised his hands. “Oh, you’re welcome, you’re welcome,” he said, widely smiling. “It’s my pleasure. Honestly, my only interest is in serving you all. And right now I’m going to serve you by asking you to serve me. So everybody please relax. There’s no need to panic. You’re going to feel a little peculiar—and then everything will be fine. I promise. My word as a wizard.”
Bibbie stopped clapping, and immediately so did everyone else. With a final smile and a wave the other Gerald stepped up to his precious machine and started flipping switches. Moments later the ether began to stir, thaumaturgic currents agitating as the amplifier’s incants came alive. Gerald felt his own potentia stir in answer, shadowed eddies an unwelcome reminder of what had been given to him against his will. Felt what he’d have to purge from himself against its will, when this was done and he was home again, safe.
He looked at Monk, anxious. His friend would be feeling the machine’s effects too, along with every witch and wizard gathered in this horrible place. Monk was holding on, his face rigid with strain. He risked a glance at Bibbie. She was frowning, fingers tightly interlaced against the uncomfortable thaumaturgic roil.
But the other Gerald? His counterpart? He was revelling in it, grinning, drinking the ether’s agitation like fine wine. His perverted potentia was hungry, and fed on discord. Watching him, Gerald shuddered.
I don’t know why that isn’t me. I haven’t a clue why I was spared.
The etheretic pressure was slowly building to a crescendo. It was nearly time. They had one chance to do this—one chance to stop a madman and save two worlds, maybe more. He looked sideways at Monk, the only man in any world he wanted standing by his side. Poor Monk. Not a trained government agent, just an extraordinary theoretical thaumaturgist. Dragged into this disaster by the scruff of his neck. Condemned by his own brilliance to be the lynchpin of a deluded wizard’s megalomaniacal plans.