by K. E. Mills
'Stop shouting! For all we know it's the middle of the night in New Ottosland!' 'It's not.' 'How do you know?'
'Because it's night-time here,' said Monk, triumphant. 'They're halfway round the world, so it's daytime there. More or less.'
'More or less? That's your idea of accuracy? And they call you a thaumatological genius?'
'They'll be calling me a homicidal maniac if you don't make that bloody call.'
He picked up the Orb again and re-read the ad. 'Fondness for butterflies?What does that mean?' Monk shrugged. 'Search me. Call and ask.' 'The position's probably filled by now.'
'Yeah? Know a lot of inexperienced wizards in love with insects, do you?'
He almost smiled at that but stopped himself just in time. The last thing Monk needed was encouragement. The man was a runaway tram with a brake problem. 'And what about this?' he said, returning to the advertisement. '"Personality more important than pedigree." What does that mean?'
His friend hooted. 'It means they've had a bellyful of honking old wizards who blather on and on about their illustrious ancestors and demand ten times the going rate on the strength of'em.'
'And that's another thing. There's no mention of the salary'
'Gerald,' Monk sighed, 'right now you're unemployed. Your salary is nothing. So whatever old King Lional's willing to cough up, you win. Now make the bloody call. You know you want to.'
Ha. What he wanted was to snap his fingers, turn back time and do the last week over minus the exploding staff factory and Reg flying off in a huff, never to return. Reg. He felt his guts twist.
'Well, what about this "apply by crystal ball" business?' he said, belligerent, distracting himself from that disaster. 'If they've got someone on staff who can use a crystal ball what do they need a wizard for?'
'Now you're being ridiculous,' said Monk. 'Lots of civilians have enough sparkle to use a ball. That stopped being part of the aptitude test years ago and you know it.' 'Yes, but — '
Monk sat back in his chair, disgusted. 'Look, mate. Just call them. Or don't. Go back to Nether Wallop and spend your life as a pin cushion. Makes no difference to me. Just make sure to warn me before you tell Reg you passed up this chance so that / can get out of the country' He looked away. 'Reg is gone. She left me.' ' WliatV 'We had a fight, she — '
'Oh, like that's never happened before,' said Monk. 'Don't worry, Gerald. She'll come back. She always does.' 'No. No.This time was different.'
Monk rolled his eyes. 'Look, Gerald. All external evidence to the contrary she's a woman. And you know what women are like.'
Yes, but Reg was no ordinary woman. 'Look, I'm worried about her, Monk, all right? It's a big bad world out there and — '
'And she's survived in it for a long, long time,' said Monk, and slapped the table. 'Reg can take care of herself. You're the one in trouble at the moment. You need to make a decision. The wild adventure and solemn glory of wizardry… or slaving for your cousins in Nether Wallop where the most exciting thing you'll see in a month is a pair of men's polka-dot underpants.'
Yes, well, when you put it like that… Heart uncomfortably thudding, Gerald retrieved the Orb. Stared at the address listed at the end of the advertisement. Ever helpful, Monk lifted his crystal ball from the windowsill and plonked it on the table.
'Go on. Quick. Before somebody else gets the job.' He made the call.
CHAPTER FIVE
As he waited for the etheretic vibrations to connect, Gerald frowned at Monk. 'You know, if this doesn't work I won't have a choice. I'll have to go back to the Wallop and start tailoring. Maybe I should rethink this prejudice against polka-dots, they — '
'Excuse me,' said a harried young female voice from the crystal ball.'Sorry if I'm interrupting your sartorial crisis but you're the one who called me.'
Waving 'shut up' at Monk's snorting laughter he stared into the depths of the crystal ball. Due to the voluminous black veil draped over her face it was impossible to tell what the speaker looked like. Her voice, however, left very little to the imagination. It was crisp and educated and very unamused. 'Yes! Sorry. Yes, 1 did call you! You're right." The shrouded woman nodded. 'More often than not. About the job?' His mind went blank.'What job?'
Across the table Monk had his hand around an invisible noose and was industriously hanging himself.
'Oh, the job! he said, gathering his wits. 'You mean the position's still vacant?'
'If I say yes,' said the mystery woman in the crystal ball, after a considering moment, 'will I regret it?'
'Possibly. But then again so might I. Really, employing someone, being employed — it's all a bit like a blind date, isn't it, when you get right down to it?'
'Is it? I wouldn't know,' said the woman. 'What's your name?' 'Gerald Dunwoody. Professor Gerald Dunwoody' 'And you're a wizard, are you?'
She sounded sceptical. 'Yes,' he said firmly. 'I am. May I ask with whom I'm speaking?'
'Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande,' said the veiled woman. 'Prime Minister of New Ottosland. I take it, Mr Dunwoody, that you've all the proper qualifications and credentials? Diplomas with fancy seals on them and so forth? Proof, in other words, of your exalted wizarding status?'
'Yes, indeed, Your Highness. Or should that be Madam Prime Minister?'
From under the veil came an inelegant snort. 'Your Highness will suffice. Now tell me, Mr Dunwoody. Why should you be given the honour of serving my brother the king as New Ottosland's royal court wizard?'
He risked a glance at Monk, who nodded and made little 'go on, go on' gestures like a stage mother at her child's school play.
'Well,' he said, on a deep breath, 'because I have loads of personality, no pedigree whatsoever, practically no experience and after working in the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy the mucking out of any substances at all won't be a problem.'
Another snort. 'It was mucking in, actually, but never mind. How do you feel about butterflies?'
'Honestly, Your Highness? I can take them or leave them.'
'So can I,' said the princess mordantly. 'And you're from Ottosland, you say? Hmm. We've already had a — ' She stopped, as from somewhere beyond the crystal ball's field of focus came a bang, the sound of books crashing to the floor and an anguished cry of pain. Her veiled face turned sharply. 'RupertV
From more or less the same direction a plaintive male voice cried,'Sorry! Sorry! I didn't think — '
'You never do, that's the problem! Don't expect me to divert limited portal access to you again if this — '
'Never again, Melly, never again, I promise! Look, just hire the poor chap and come help me, would you? They're getting awfully stroppy and you know how delicate vampire butterflies are, not to mention expensive. And I simply can't catch them all by myself, I'll get bitten to death!' Princess Melissande sighed. 'Excuse me, Mr Dunwoody. My other brother Prince Rupert has just received a new delivery of butterflies and he's very excited about it.' She looked again in the direction of the complainer. 'Yes, all right, Rupert, I'm coming Honestly, I don't know why you had to ignore the packing instructions and open the box now in the first place! And in my office!
Neither did Gerald. Vampire butterflies? Accosted by a vision of pretty flying insects with fangs and a penchant for haemoglobin, he stared at Monk. Monk shook his head vehemently and crossed his eyes, one pointed finger spinning circles round his temple.
And of course Monk was right. Prince Rupert did sound mad. The whole set-up sounded mad. Not the kind of place in which to serve out a hopefully brief exile. Bad enough he had to leave home. The least he deserved was a place where the natives weren't stark staring cuckoo. On the other hand…
Across the table, Monk was shaking his head so hard it looked in danger of falling off, and waving his arms in giant 'Stop! No! Go back!' semaphore signals.
He bit his lip. How did the cliches go? Beggars can't be choosers? If wishes were horses, beggars would ride? The word 'beggar' was distressingly prominent. How long before it could reas
onably be applied to him? His savings were negligible, his chances of re-employment here nil…
'Your Highness,' he said, 'if I ask you something will you answer me honestly?'
Her veiled chin shot up. 'I am a princess, sir. We are always honest.'
That wasn't what Reg had told him but this wasn't the time to quibble. 'How many other wizards do you have in the running?' 'Why?'
Because if he had stiff competition for the post he'd retire gracefully from the field. He didn't have time to waste on round-robin interviewing. He needed a new job fast. 'Oh,' he said. 'You know. Just curious.'
A long silence, punctuated by yelps and squeals in the background. Then: 'None. You're the only one.' 'I see.'
Now Monk had an invisible knife in one hand, a neck-stretching bunch of hair in the other, and was busily cutting his own throat.
He took a deep breath. Crazy or not, escapologist vampire butterflies or not, it was a wizarding position. It was out of the country. And there was a very good chance that as a royal court wizard he'd never lay eyes on a pair of polka-dot underpants. What had Reg shrieked at him during their most recent, calamitous argument? You're too timid, Gerald. You're unadventurous and unwilling to take a chance. You're always talking the talk hut you never walk the walk.
'All right, Your Highness,' he said.'I'm in. I'll be your new court wizard.'
Monk threw up his arms in despair. In the crystal ball, New Ottosland's prime minister jumped as though she'd just been bitten by a butterfly. 'You will? I mean, excellent. How soon can you start?'
'Soon. Within a couple of days, I should think. Just a few loose ends to sort out.'
'Really? How fortuitous. Er… do you have portal access?*
Good question. Surely Mr Scunthorpe wouldn't be so petty as to have revoked his portal privileges? He crossed his fingers.'Yes, Your Highness.'
'Excellent. I'm sending you our coordinates… now. Have you received them?'
The green recording crystal in the ball's base was blinking.'Yes, Your Highness.'
'Then on behalf of His Majesty King Lional the Forty-third, allow me to congratulate you on your appointment. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to have you join him in implementing his plans for the kingdom.'
'And please inform His Majesty that I'm thrilled to — ' He stopped. An enormous red and black butterfly had landed on the princess's veiled face. 'Er — Your Highness? There's a vampire butterfly on your nose.'
'Yes,' said the princess. 'I can see that, Professor.' She took a deep breath. 'RupertV
And then the connection was cut, and Monk's crystal ball was a lump of empty glass again. Bemused, Gerald sat back in his chair.
I'm still a wizard, hi fact I'm more than a wizard. I'm a royal court wizard. To a king. Take that, Scunthorpe!
'You're mad,' said Monk. 'Certifiable. You need your head examined. Vampire butterflies! Insane princes! A king with plans! Kings aren't supposed to have plans, Gerald, they're supposed to sit on their thrones and make new kings and that's all they're supposed to do. History is littered with the corpses of fools who got tangled up with kings who have plans'.'
He shrugged. 'History, maybe. But we live in the modern era, Monk. And anyway this was all your idea. You're the one who insisted I apply for the position.' 'Apply, yes! Accept, no!'
Strangely, he was feeling exhilarated. All his life he'd been sensible. Conservative. Hoping for great things but never quite believing they'd happen, at least not to him. Dreaming of grand achievements, heroic accomplishments, but always being brought back to reality with a shuddering thud by a seemingly inescapable fact: tailors' sons from Nether Wallop were not the cloth from which heroes are cut.
So. Perhaps he wasn't ever going to be a hero but he was about to become court wizard to a king. And that, at least, was a grand achievement. Of a sort. He smiled. 'Monk, I'll be fine.'
'You don't know that! And what about the salary? You didn't even ask how much they're paying you!'
'Like you said, the salary's not important. What's important is this job is my express ticket out of town. If I have to hang around here listening to Haythwaite and Co and everyone else going on and on about Stuttley's I think I will cut my throat. Don't you see? This is the answer to a prayer. And you were right: with Royal Court Wizard written on my resume nobody will care about Stuttley's. Not after I've been gone for a while, anyway. So thank you. I think we can officially say you've saved my bacon. Again.'
Monk shook his head. 'I'm not so sure. The court of New Ottosland looks more like a three-ring circus from where I'm sitting. And what about Reg?'
'If the court's a three-ringed circus she'll fit right in.' He sighed. 'Look. If she comes back before I leave, we'll talk about it. If she comes back after, will you tell her where I've gone? She can make up her own mind whether she wants to join me or not. And if she doesn't come back — ' 'I'll do everything I can to find her. But Gerald — ' 'No. I'm going. We both know it's my only choice.'
Reluctantly Monk nodded. 'Yeah. But I still think you should get yourself tested again. There has to be some explanation for what happened. Maybe in a couple of months, once you've settled in at court, you can portal back for a day and we'll see what the Department equipment has to say about you. The dust over Stuttley's will be settled by then. Deal?'
Gerald laughed, the gloom of recent events abruptly vanished. He felt light enough to fly. 'Deal! Now let's go back downstairs to the bar so I can buy you a drink.'
'No, let's go back downstairs to the bar so I cm buy you a drink,' said Monk. 'With luck Haythwaite and his little friends will still be there. I really want to see their faces when I call for a toast to the next Royal Court Wizard of New Ottosland!'
Sadly, Haythwaite and Co had departed. But that didn't stop Gerald and Monk from downing a prodigious number of colourful and highly alcoholic drinks in honour of the occasion. By the time Upjohn the barkeep called 'Time!' they were definitely the worse for wear. Mr Pinchgut, gloomily inured to the excesses of young wizardry, helped them up the stairs, poured Monk into his bed then saw Gerald poured safely into his own.
'Good night, sir,' he said, just before pulling the bedsit door closed. 'I'll be sure to have the kitchen prepare a little something for your headache in the morning.'
Sprawled face-up on his slowly expiring mattress, Gerald listened to the latch click shut and watched the ceiling spin lazy circles overhead. He felt warm and fuzzy and delightfully disconnected. Stuttley's exploding staff factory was a long, long way away.
A feathered shadow swooped through the open window and landed with a click of nails on the ram skull above the bed. He struggled onto his elbows and squinted into the darkness. 'Reg? Is that you?'
'No,' said a snippy voice. 'It's your fairy godmother.'
He thudded back to the sagging bed. 'Thank God! Where have you been? I've been worried out of my mind!' 'Must have been a short trip.' 'Oh come on, don't be like that.'
'I'll be any way I like, thank you very much.' A censorious sniff. 'You're drunk.'
He folded his arms behind his head. 'And you're a bird, but I shall be sober in the morning.'
A short, sharp silence. Then, 'That was unkind,' said Reg, subdued. 'And true.'
A cosily familiar ruffling sound as she fluffed out all her feathers. 'I hear you blew up Stuttley's staff factory and lost your job,' she observed, rallying.'How enterprising of you.'
Of course she'd heard. Reg heard everything. It was one of her more irritating habits. 'Yes, I did. But that's not why I'm drunk.'
'Really? Don't tell me there's more. I'm an extremely senior citizen, Gerald, I'm not sure my heart can take it.'
Slowly, carefully, mindful of his spinning head, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. 'Look. I'm sorry about the other day. You said a lot of things I didn't want to hear and I lost my temper.'
Another feather-ruffling pause. 'Your apology's accepted, Gerald. I'm sure I don't like to be scathing with you but sometimes things need to be said no matter how uncomfor
table they are or how little one doesn't wish to hear them. I've only your best interests at heart, you know, and I — '
'Yes, Reg, I know. I do. Which is why I think you'll be pleased when you hear my news.' Reg heaved a sigh. 'What news?' 'I found another job.' 'Already?'
Sitting up was proving to be a bad idea. He lowered himself by inches back to the mattress and winced as another spring expired, stabbing his backside in its death throes. 'Yes.' 'When?'
'This evening. Over dinner, actually. With Monk.'
'Oh, yes, well, I might've known that young reprobate would be involved!'
'He's not a reprobate, he's a lifesaver. I was all set to give up and go back to Nether Wallop. Monk convinced me otherwise.'
More furious feather-rattling. 'I can't believe what I'm hearing, Gerald! You actually accepted another wizarding position? Without consulting me? After everything I said the other day?'
Another wince. 'Well, you weren't here to consult, Reg. You'd flown off in a huff, remember?'
With a great flapping of wings Reg launched herself from the ram skull and landed on his booted toes. Even through the polished leather he could feel her claws gripping.
'What job? With which organisation? Saint Snodgrass and all her children defend me! Didn't you hear a word I said, Gerald? It takes days to choose a position properly! You have to check your prospective employer's references, his bank balance, his social standing, his pedigree! I don't believe this, it's the Department debacle all over again!'
Gerald peered down the length of his body at her. In the starlight from the open window her dark eyes gleamed, and her long sharp beak. 'Actually it's not. It's about as far from the Department as you can get. Didn't you say it was time I took a chance? Started walking the walk, not just talking the talk? Well, I've done it. This is me, walking. Reg, you are sitting on the feet of the next Royal Court Wizard to Lional the Forty-third, King of New Ottosland.'