The Accidental Sorcerer

by K. E. Mills

  'Well,' he said, and crossed his legs. It was incredible. He actually looked elegant. 'You'd like an explanation, I imagine.'

  A headache was brewing behind his eyes. In a strange way he felt almost betrayed, though he and Rupert weren't actual real friends, I think I'm owed one. Don't you… Rupert?'

  Rupert nodded. 'You and many others, Gerald.'

  'So. Exactly how long did you know?'

  'That Lional was… unstable?' Rupert steepled his fingers. It was profoundly disconcerting, such an un-Rupert-like pose. 'Since I was six.'

  'What happened when you were six?'

  A flicker of pain twisted Rupert's face. 'Lional killed someone I cared for. Our nanny. He was ten.'

  Ten? 'How?'

  'A toy left carelessly on top of a staircase,' said Rupert. His gaze was unfocussed, lost in memory. 'Of course everyone said it was an accident. Lional wept. But as she lay dying Nanny asked to see me. Held me close to her poor broken body and whispered, it was murder. Never turn your back on your brother, lovey. Never let him see your true face. This poor kingdom will need you one day! Rupert shrugged. 'Nanny never lied to me. I believed her.'

  Gerald felt a cold shiver run through him. 'And so you invented… the other Rupert.'

  'Not all at once,' said Rupert, nodding. 'I didn't wish to arouse suspicions. Just day by day… one mannerism, one eccentricity at a time… until my true face was hidden, not just from Lional but from Melissande too. From the whole world.' He grimaced. 'From myself, in the end.'

  He tried to imagine it and couldn't. 'But you were only six. You were a child!

  'A child?' Rupert laughed; a dreadful sound. 'With Lional as my older brother? Oh, Gerald. I was never a child.'

  'But what about your parents?'

  'What about them? They doted on their kingdom's heir. Lional was… a beautiful boy. It was only later, as his nature refined itself, that they began to worry. I think, perhaps, to suspect. But by then it was far too late.'

  Reg cleared her throat. 'Silly buggers.'

  Rupert did a double take then smiled. 'I'm sorry. I confess I still find you a trifle hard to believe…'

  'Ha,' said Reg. 'This from the man with a pet butterfly named Esmerelda.' She sniffed. 'How's the little Dumb Cluck doing, anyway?'

  'You mean she's not dead?' said Gerald. And why that would sting him with tears he couldn't begin to say…

  Rupert smiled sadly. 'No. She's the only survivor, though. I found her hiding under a rose bush. With Boris.'

  It was ridiculous but he felt comforted by the news. 'I'm glad.'

  'Believe it or not, so am I,' said Rupert. 'She really is very sweet.' His expression darkened. 'And after seeing the carnage at the stables… and elsewhere in the kingdom… I needed cheering up.'

  'I'm sorry,' Gerald said at last. His throat was hot and tight; it was hard to get the words out.

  'Not your fault,' said Rupert heavily. He looked ill. Years older.

  Did he believe that or just say it because it was expected? Because the wizard was half-blind now and needed careful handling? Gerald couldn't tell. But in staring at Rupert, trying to decide, he discovered a rising resentment.

  'You should've told me what you knew' The criticism came out more sharply than he intended, than perhaps was wise. But he was tired and newly aching and blind in one eye. 'Maybe if you'd told me—'

  'I couldn't!' said Rupert just as sharply. Then he sighed. 'It was too risky. I couldn't trust you'd not give me away. Not on purpose, perhaps, but even so. Lional was very… astute.'

  Astute. That was one word. 'He was mad, Rupert.'

  'Oh yes,' said Rupert softly. 'Above all else, he was mad.' He hesitated, then added, 'And of course it seemed for a while there you were in his pocket.'

  'Except I wasn't! I was only pretending so I could find out what the hell was going on! Melissande asked me to—'

  I know,' said Rupert, placating, it seems all of us were wearing masks, Gerald. Trying to protect each other or ourselves. I did the best I could, you know. I tried to put you on your guard. Steer you in the right direction. I just couldn't afford to be explicit. If I had been, you can be sure I'd have met with an accident too.'

  Although resentment lingered he had to smile. 'You should've been an actor, Rupert. I never dreamed there was a brain inside that ninny head of yours.'

  Rupert grinned. 'Thank you. I think.'

  He winced. 'Sorry'

  'Don't be,' said Rupert, amusement fading, I'm the one who should be apologising. I've hardly slept since . . .' He cleared his throat. 'Hindsight is an unkind thing. Could I have stopped him? One minute I'm convinced I couldn't, the next I'm sure if I'd just confided in you or Greenfeather, if I'd gone for help, persuaded Melissande to leave, raised the alarm, fled to Zazoor—'

  It seems to me,' said Reg, hopping onto the bedrail and fixing them with a stern dark gaze, 'there's not one of us not wishing right now we'd done something different. That's called second-guessing yourself, that is, and if you ask me it's a load of mouldy old bollocks. If only—I wish—what if —' She snorted, I'm telling you, Rupert, and you too, Gerald, and you can pass it along to Princess Pushy when she gets back: you'll drive yourselves as mad as that mad bugger Lional if you start down that road. We can't undo what's happened. The dead are buried and we can't unbury them. All we can do is live what's left of our lives in a way that won't shame their memories. And make sure nothing like this ever happens again.'

  'Indeed,' said Rupert after a prickly silence.

  Gerald nodded. 'I suppose.' He just had no idea how. 'So. What happens now?'

  'Now?' Rupert frowned, considering. 'Now I appoint a new privy council and get on with the business of governing the kingdom. New Ottosland is hurt, and as her king it's my job to heal her wounds.'

  'And what about the Kallarapi? Are they still hanging around, or have you sent them packing?'

  Rupert's face was lit by a sudden smile. Achingly, fleetingly it held an echo of Lional. 'No, they've gone home. But their visit proved most agreeable. The army, you know, pitched in and helped all over the place, picking up the pieces that dragon left behind. Wonderful chaps. Not very talkative but good God, their stamina! And I had a wonderful meeting with Sultan Zazoor. Everything I remembered about him from boarding school was right. He was an excellent cricket captain and I'm sure he'll do an equally fine job as sultan. We've worked out a schedule for repayments of the outstanding debt and there are some ideas for a possible renegotiation of the original treaty, as well as future collaborative enterprises. It's very exciting.'

  Certainly Rupert looked excited; the shadows were chased from his eyes and he looked young again. 'That sounds great, Rupert. But… what about Shugat?'

  'Ah. Yes,' said Rupert thoughtfully. 'Well of course he saved your life, so I'm bound to look on him favourably. But you know, Gerald, just between you and me and the window… I wasn't sorry to wave him goodbye. A most… uncomfortable… fellow'

  Uncomfortable was one word. 'You're sure there are no hard feelings after everything Lional tried to do?'

  Rupert shrugged. 'Apparently not. So it's full steam ahead. Tradition with a capital T is about to make way for Progress with a capital P. And not before time.'

  'And what about Melissande? Is she going to remain your prime minister?'

  'Dear Melly' Rupert smiled. 'No. It's time my sister had a life of her own. I've had a good long talk with your Department of Thaumaturgy, and with Markham, and since she appears to have some thaumaturgical aptitude she's to be enrolled in Madam Olliphant's Witches' Academy. I understand Markham's sister Emmerabiblia was very happy there.'

  Good for Melissande. At last she had the brother she deserved. 'Oh, yes, Monk's sister had a great time at the academy. Really enjoyed it. Well. Except for the uniform.' When Rupert looked at him, puzzled, he added: 'Bibbie's very call and thin and the academic uniform is green and silver. She says it made her look like a frostbitten asparagus.'

  Reg chortled. 'Saint Snodgrass
alone knows what Miss Ex-Prime Minister's going to look like. Frozen squashed cabbage probably'

  'Reg….'

  'And as for the poor bloody staff, they're going to go bonkers trying to unteach her everything she's learned from that charlatan Madam Rinky Tinky! Poor buggers.'

  Rupert eyed Reg askance. 'I'm sure it'll all work out fine. I mean, I know Mel doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve but I'm her brother and I can tell: inside, she's very excited.'

  'That's nothing to what the academy's going to be when it finds out madam can't tell the difference between an etheretic transductor and her own right foot!'

  Gerald gave up and shoved her under the blankets. 'Well, Rupert,' he said. 'Is that it? We just... go on?'

  Rupert ignored the strangled squawking emanating from under the bedclothes and nodded gently. 'Yes. We do. After all, my friend… what other choice is there?'

  He stared at the foot of the bed, feeling… suspended. As though he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. 'So,' he said, almost to himself. 'It's over.'

  Rupert stood. 'Ah… well… I wouldn't precisely say over, Gerald. Not quite yet.'

  He crossed to the bedroom door and opened it. On the other side stood a man. Average height. Average build. Average hair of an unremarkable brown. His nose was neither thin nor fat, straight nor aquiline. It merely occupied the centre of his face. His eyes were a nondescript shade of grey. His suit was plain. His shirt was cotton. He was bland. Ordinary. Average. He looked like a shopkeeper.

  'Good morning, Mr Dunwoody' he said in a clipped, precise voice. 'My name is Sir Alec… and we need to talk.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  As the mysterious Sir Alec entered and Rupert left, closing the bedroom door behind him, Reg erupted shrieking from under the blankets.

  'Gerald Dunwoody! Just what do you think you're—' She saw the stranger and stopped. 'Oh for the love of Saint Snodgrass. Not you again. I thought we'd ditched you back at the Department.'

  Gerald could've wrung her neck. 'Would Polly like a cracker, then?' he said, teeth gritted.

  It's all right, Mr Dunwoody,' Sir Alec said calmly. 'Reg and I have met.'

  'Yes we have, mores the pity,' said Reg, glowering. 'Gerald, pay no attention to him. He's nothing but a stooge.'

  Ignoring Reg, he looked at Sir Alec. 'You work for the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy?'

  Sir Alec nodded, I do.'

  Something about the man's beige blandness was getting on his nerves. Thinking of Monk and his undeserved disgrace; of himself, and how Scunthorpe's cowardice had started all this; and no longer caring about his career, he sneered. 'As a stooge?'

  Sir Alec's expression underwent a slow alchemy. Grew older. Colder. The nondescript blandness melted like wax, revealing the true face beneath. Hard, with lines suggesting experiences beyond those found in an ordinary life.

  Staring at the man with his one good eye Gerald felt an answering chill. Felt his own face remould and reveal, starkly, the fingerprints left behind by the last few weeks.

  So long as he lived, he would never be bullied again.

  Sir Alec nodded, a salute like the one fencing opponents gave each other before crossing swords, and the air around him crackled with a ferocious leashed power.

  So. The man was a First Grade wizard. And a sneaky one to boot.

  Well, I can be sneaky too, Sir Alec from the Department. I can do a lot of things. I think I might surprise you.

  With a blink, Sir Alec calmed his thaumic aura. 'As I said, Mr Dunwoody, we need to talk. It won't take long, I do realise you're convalescent… and in any case I am needed elsewhere. You've kicked up some dust both at home and abroad; ruffled feathers require tactful soothing.'

  Gerald considered him. 'Maybe they wouldn't if you lot had been doing your jobs. Five minutes after I made Lional his dragon you and your counterparts from the UMN should've been crawling all over New Ottosland. Why weren't you?'

  Sir Alec's pale eyes were cold and calculating, the brain behind them summing him up… . I'm sorry if you felt… abandoned, but I'm afraid politics both domestic and international raised their ugly heads at precisely the wrong moment. Valuable resources were… diverted. May I sit down?'

  If you must,' said Reg, before he could answer, and relocated to the bedrail behind the pillows. 'But don't get too comfy. Gerald's been through a terrible ordeal so talk fast and leave faster, sunshine, because—'

  One hand raised, Sir Alec moved towards the bed, a thin smile curving his lips. 'Yes, yes, Reg. Or should I say: Your Majesty? Seeing as you are, beneath that quaint disguise, Queen Duketta of Lalapmda, born in the year 1216, only daughter of King Treve and Queen Amyrl, who ascended the Lalapindian throne in 1234, foolishly married the warlock Vertain in 1235 and apparently drowned soon thereafter. In reality Vertain ensorcelled you, trapping your soul in the body of a bird and dooming you to wander the world ever after… provided the enchantment placed upon you is not touched.' He cleared his throat. 'Did I leave anything out?'

  Reg closed her gaping beak with a click. 'You nosey bugger! How did you find out?'

  Another sardonic smile, it's part of my job description.'

  'And what job is that?' said Gerald. He wasn't at all sure he liked where this was heading…

  Sir Alec seated himself in the armchair by the bed. 'All in good time, Mister Dunwoody.'

  So. Here was the other shoe dropping with a vengeance. Gerald scowled. 'That's Professor Dunwoody to you.'

  Sir Alec nodded. 'Certainly. At least for the moment.'

  'All right, all right,' said Reg, rallying. 'That's enough with the cut glass repartee, sunshine. Why are you here?'

  'Why do you think, Reg? He wants to find out how I did it,' he said tiredly. 'How I made the dragons and all the rest of it.'

  'On the contrary,' said Sir Alec. 'I know precisely how you did it.'

  'So?'

  'So the question is: what are we going to do with you as a result?'

  He made himself meet Sir Alec's cold, grey gaze. Here we go. 'You're saying I'm dangerous.'

  Sir Alec smiled. 'Everyone is dangerous, Mister Dunwoody. In their own way, in their own time. All it takes is the right catalyst, the right circumstances. The perfect confluence of events.'

  He shook his head, rejecting the cynicism. 'No. Not—'

  'Everyone, Mister Dunwoody' Sir Alec flicked a speck of dust from his knee. 'Shall I tell you how you're feeling, sir? Yes, I think I shall. You're feeling… betrayed. As though the world has betrayed you. And do you know why you feel like that? It's because you've lost your innocence. Like the vast majority of people, Mister Dunwoody, until New Ottosland came into your life, you bumped along happily enough. Oh, you had dreams that didn't seem likely to come true, but they were comforting and you dreamed them. You'd had career disappointments, yes, but you trusted they were temporary. Your faith was a little battered, perhaps, but you still believed. You looked upon the world with a benevolent eye. Oh yes, of course you knew there were scoundrels among us, certain gentlemen whose company you preferred to avoid, but on the whole you found the world good. And then you came here. With the best of intentions—eager and anxious and so terribly naive. Without ever meaning to, you kicked over the rock of New Ottosland… and from under it crawled Lional.'

  Deep inside, Gerald felt himself shiver. 'You make me sound like a fool.'

  'A fool?' said Sir Alec thoughtfully. 'Not at all. Before this… adventure… you were no more foolish than any other ordinary man. You saw the sunlight, not the shadows. The trouble is, Mister Dunwoody, the shadows exist. And if we're not very careful, very vigilant, they will swallow us. And our good world will be plunged into darkness.'

  Gerald watched his fingers clench, his knuckles whiten. Sir Alec was right. And I hate it. I never, ever wanted to know this. 'All right. Say I agree with you. So what? What has any of that to do with me?'

  Another flick of manicured fingers, banishing dust. 'In the time that's passed since the incident with the two d
ragons and the late King Lional,' said Sir Alec, 'certain of my colleagues have been conducting an exhaustive search into your ancestry. Also your medical, educational and various employment records, the results of your original Thaumaturgical Aptitude test and several eyewitness accounts of what happened at Stuttley's.'

  'You really are a nosey bugger,' Reg grumbled.

  Sir Alec rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, apparently quite at ease. But a dynamo of tension hummed inside him, thrumming the invisible air. 'The technical term for your condition is "thaumaturgical distillation". The slang term is "rogue". In metaphysical parlance, Mister Dunwoody, it means you're a sport. An anomaly. It means you are irregular.' He sniffed. 'Highly irregular, if you must know. And as I said, it's causing no end of a stir in certain circles.'

  Gerald breathed out slowly. How did this happen? My dad's a tailor… . 'That sounds inconvenient.'

  'Let's just say you've added a new level of complexity to my already complicated life,' said Sir Alec, his tone extremely dry.

  'All right. So I'm thaumaturgically distilled. Is it fatal?'

  Sir Alec's smile was wintry. 'Only to other people.'

  'You miserable shit!' snapped Reg. 'That's not funny!'

  Sir Alec considered her for an arctic moment then nodded. 'Point taken. Forgive me, Mister Dunwoody. A macabre sense of humour is an unfortunate side effect in my line of work.'

  Ninety-seven dead. Twelve of them children. 'How does it happen?' said Gerald, when he could trust his voice again. 'This… distillation?'

  Sir Alec shrugged. 'Nobody's certain. We believe it's the result of no wizards being born to a particular bloodline for three or more generations. In your case, however, it appears to be more like fifteen.'

  Fifteen. That sounded… impressive. Or maybe inconvenient. 'Is the condition common?'

  'Quite the contrary. Many experts consider it something of a myth. No rogue has been born in the modern era.'

  'That you know of,' he pointed out. I mean I was tested, wasn't I, and classified Third Grade.'