by K. E. Mills
“Damn you, Dunwoody,” said Errol, and ran.
Methven bolted after him, and Gerald, first hastily deactivating the prototype altogether and leaving it to plunge willy-nilly to the laboratory floor, hustled in their wake.
Wycliffe’s lofty-ceilinged Research and Development laboratory was laid out like a horse-barn, two long rows of individual labs separated by a wide aisle, which was crammed full of desks and chairs and benches and sinks. At one end of the building was Mister Ambrose Wycliffe’s office, and at its opposite end was the Emergency Pit, where thaumaturgically compromised articles were thrown for later, carefully supervised disposal.
Shouting at the top of his lungs Errol ran full pelt for the Pit, blue-hazed staff raised above his head.
“Get out of my way-shift your bloody arse, you fool-move-move-move- move! Don’t just stand there, get the Pit open, now!”
Startled wizards scattered before him. Someone made a dive for the Pit’s double doors and hauled them open. Errol turned sideways as he ran… adopted the lanky, long-legged lope of a javelin thrower… threw back his head on a roar of pain… and speared his staff down into the Pit.
“Shut the bloody doors, you fool!” he bellowed at the helpful wizard-Monaghan, one of Wycliffe’s Second Graders.
Monaghan obeyed. As the doors slammed shut Errol triggered their protective shielding hex then staggered to a halt.
“Good job, I say, good job,” Methven was panting, shoving his way through the stunned crowd of wizards. “Well done, Err-Mister Haythwaite! Are you all right, old ch-sir?”
Gerald, his heart stuttering, prudently hung back. Errol had dropped to his knees, the fingers of his left hand gripping his right wrist very tightly, his pale, sweaty face a grimacing mask of fury. He held up his right hand, and the other wizards gasped to see the livid, blood-filled blisters on its palm and fingers.
“Do I look all right to you, Methven?” he snarled. “Where the hell is Dunnywood, I’m going to-”
And then the floor heaved under their feet and the Pit’s hexed doors buckled and the air beneath the high roof of the R amp;D division shivered, as Errol’s caged First Grade staff surrendered to metaphysical inevitability and exploded.
“ Where is he?” shouted Errol, lurching to his feet. “Show your bloody face, Dunwoody, if you dare!”
Reluctantly abandoning the shelter of his muttering, whispering colleagues, Gerald shuffled into view. Oh dear. Oh no. I don’t think this is what Sir Alec meant by keeping a low profile.
“I’m here, Mister Haythwaite.”
“And why is that, Dunwoody?” Errol ground out, his eyes slitted. “ Why are you here? Why are you anywhere? First you blow up Stuttley’s. Then your new employer breaks his neck hunting. And now here you are trying to wreck Wycliffe’s. You’re a menace! You’re a one-man walking disaster! Everything you touch turns to shit!”
“Ah-actually, Mister Haythwaite, that’s not quite-” Methven started to say.
“Did I ask you, Robert, you-you turtle?” said Errol, turning on him. “Did I invite you to express your ignorant opinion? Did I-”
“What in the name of all things thaumaturgical is going on here?” demanded an unimpressed baritone voice from the back of the crowd. “Would someone kindly explain this fracas?”
Mister Ambrose Wycliffe, lured out of his den by all the excitement.
Gerald and his colleagues turned towards the man Sir Alec had characterised as decent enough, but not a patch on his father — and nearly fell over. Because hovering behind Mister Ambrose Wycliffe, the very image of sober prosperity in his black three-piece worsted morning suit, was-was Melissande?
What? What? What was she doing here?
Melissande seemed just as shocked to see him as he was to see her. Mouth dropped, she slid her prim glasses down her nose and stared at him over their rims, dumbfounded. Clutched to her black-bloused chest-lord, that was an ugly outfit! — was a pile of buff-coloured folders.
Then her expression changed to a warning, which gave him just enough time to duck aside as Errol Haythwaite thrust his way past to confront Mister Ambrose Wycliffe.
“What’s going on, sir, is that you’ve hired the most useless, incompetent and downright dangerous Third Grade idiot in the country… if not the entire world. If you’ll accept my recommendation, sir, you’ll get rid of him. Right now.”
Ambrose Wycliffe frowned, making his untrimmed bushy gingery grey eyebrows bristle. He looked a lot like a middle-aged basset-hound: sagging jowls, a wrinkled brow, and deeply dark brown, mournful eyes. “What? Who? Who are you talking about, Haythwaite?”
Gerald exchanged looks with Melissande, sighed, and raised his hand. “He’s talking about me, sir,” he said, as his colleagues prudently retreated from the direct line of fire. “Gerald Dunwoody.”
Ambrose Wycliffe squinted. “Never heard of you. Never laid eyes on you before, have I? How long have you been here?”
“Three weeks, sir. I was sent by Truscott’s, sir.”
“The locum agency?” Ambrose Wycliffe chewed at his lip. “They sent you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ambrose looked at Errol. “You must be mistaken, Mister Haythwaite. He can’t be that bad. Not if Truscott’s sent him.”
Errol seemed nonplussed. “You use a locum agency, Mister Wycliffe?”
“For the unimportant staff, yes,” said Ambrose Wycliffe. “I only hand-pick the important people, like you. Don’t have time to waste on functionaries. Leave that to Truscott’s.”
“Oh,” said Errol. “Well, sir, did Truscott’s happen to mention that this functionary is the man who blew up Stuttley’s last year?”
Ambrose Wycliffe blinked, then took a step forward, squinting again. His extravagant ginger muttonchop whiskers quivered. “ What? That was you, Mister Dunwoody?”
Gerald managed not to look at Errol. Managed to keep his lowly Third Grade obsequiousness intact. Just. Damn, Sir Alec. I told you this would happen.
“The investigation did exonerate me, Mister Wycliffe,” he murmured humbly. “Mister Harold Stuttley was found culpable on a number of regulatory violations. The official government conclusion was that the unfortunate destruction of the factory wasn’t my fault.”
“I see,” said Ambrose Wycliffe. He laced his pudgy fingers over his substantial belly and frowned more deeply, rocking slightly on his heels. “Still. That doesn’t explain what’s going on now. And what is going on now? I’m still waiting for someone to tell me. What the devil was that explosion?”
“ That,” said Errol, teeth glittering in a sabre smile, “was Mister Dunwoody destroying yet another of my First Grade staffs. He seems to think I have an unlimited supply. And I can I assure him that I don’t. Not of staffs… and not of patience, or tolerance for unmitigated incompetence. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mister Wycliffe, but he’s managed to wreck the latest Ambrose Mark VI prototype as well.”
A cry of dismay went up from their audience of goggling wizards. The Mark VI was their latest, greatest project. A great many hopes and dreams-not to mention jobs-were pinned to its experimental fuselage and propulsion design.
Ambrose Wycliffe’s florid face paled, dramatically. “Is that true, Mister Dunwoody? Have you wrecked the Mark VI prototype?”
“No, he hasn’t, Mister Wycliffe,” said Robert Methven. “I’m sorry, Mister Haythwaite,” he added, coming forward. “I don’t mean to disrespect you or contradict you or interfere in any way. It’s just that Mister Dunwoody wasn’t working on the Mark VI. I was, as per Mister Haythwaite’s request. I just asked Mister Dunwoody to step in and read off the gauges on the etheretic quantifier while I fired the new engine up for a burst. That’s all. I swear, he didn’t lay so much as a finger on the airship prototype.”
“Maybe not,” muttered Errol. “But he looked at it. And that’s more than enough where Dunnywood’s concerned.”
“Now, now, Mister Haythwaite,” said Ambrose Wycliffe, indulgently. “I can see that what we
have here is an unfortunate clash of personalities. But since it’s been proven by an official government investigation that Mister Dunwoody here didn’t blow up Stuttley’s, and our Mister Methven has manfully owned up to his part in this unfortunate business and exculpated Mister Dunwoody, I don’t think it’s fair to sack the chap. Not when he comes with a Truscott guarantee and I won’t get a refund on my deposit.”
“It’s your decision, sir, of course,” said Errol, his voice dangerously clipped. He turned on Methven. “So you’re saying I’m responsible? The Mark VI is my ship. I designed it. I invented the new thaumic conversion matrix. So if there is a problem with the engine the fault is mine? Is that what you’re saying?”
Gerald cleared his throat. “No, Mister Haythwaite, I think what Mister Meth-”
Errol seared him with such a look he actually stepped back. “ Shut up, Dunwoody,” Errol hissed. “Didn’t you get the memo? Third Grade wizards should be seen and not heard.”
A ripple of unease ran through the gaggle of watching wizards, and as though Errol’s vicious retort was some kind of signal-or warning-they began to drift away to their desks and benches and labs.
Ambrose Wycliffe unlaced his fingers from his belly and stepped to Errol’s side. Sliding an arm around his shoulders he harumphed, understandingly. “Mister Haythwaite, your distress does you credit. We all know how dedicated you are to the success of the Ambrose Mark VI. But you must not allow yourself to become overturned. We are still in the experimental stages, are we not? These little setbacks are bound to happen.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir,” said Errol, stiffly. “I appreciate your understanding.”
Ambrose Wycliffe shook his head. “Not at all, not at all. Why, I could tell you stories of prototype disasters in my late father’s day that make this look like a mere peccadillo. Don’t forget, Mister Haythwaite, that this grand laboratory was my childhood playpen. I grew up with airships and I can assure you, when it comes to design teething troubles there is nothing new under the sun.”
Errol grimaced. “Keep Dunwoody around, sir, and I promise you’ll see it.”
“Ah, you’re a witty man, Mister Haythwaite!” said Ambrose Wycliffe, jowls jiggling. “And I do so enjoy the company of witty men. But I’m bound to remind you, sir, that I lost the Ambroses Marks II through V long before Mister Dunwoody arrived on the scene.”
“Yes, sir,” said Errol. “Which is why you hired me, and why I’m determined we’ll not lose the Mark VI as well. The future of Wycliffe’s is riding on this airship and I’ll do whatever I must to makes sure it succeeds.”
Ambrose Wycliffe’s basset-hound eyes went moist. “Dear boy,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “Come. Let’s inspect the prototype, shall we, and see what’s to be done about salvaging it. And then you’d better have some ointment put on those blisters. Very nasty. Mister Methven-”
Robert Methven, who’d been hovering uncertainly on the sidelines, jumped. “Mister Wycliffe?”
“You’d best accompany us. Perhaps you can shed some light on precisely what happened, and how we can avoid an encore performance.”
Swallowing convulsively, Methven shoved his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Yes, Mister Wycliffe,” he whispered.
As Ambrose Wycliffe and Errol took a step towards the Mark VI lab, Melissande squeaked. “Ah, sir?”
He swung round. “Eh? What? Oh, it’s you. Permelia’s gel. What did you want?”
Gerald wondered if Ambrose Wycliffe knew how close he was to having his toes stamped on. “Miss Wycliffe requests that you read and authorise these purchase orders, Mister Wycliffe,” she said in the most alarmingly and uncharacteristic self-effacing murmur.
“What?” said Ambrose Wycliffe and held out his hand. Melissande passed him the first folder, which he flipped open. “What’s the woman fussing at me now for?” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Pen!”
Robert Methven snatched up a pen and inkpot from a nearby bench. “Here you are, sir.”
Without even bothering to read what he was authorising, Ambrose Wycliffe dashed his signature at the bottom of all seven purchase orders.
“There you are, gel,” he said, vaguely staring past Melissande’s left ear. “And tell Permelia not to send you back here again. If she wants me to sign things, tell her to send that office-boy. She knows I don’t allow gels in the lab. They interfere with the thaumaturgical ether. I expect when we look into it we’ll find it’s your presence that caused the Mark VI prototype to fail. Oh yes-and tell Permelia I’ll not be in for dinner tonight. I’m dining with Calthrop at the Club.”
Melissande thawed just enough to nod. “Yes, Mister Wycliffe. I shall do that, Mister Wycliffe. Thank you, Mister Wycliffe.”
As Ambrose Wycliffe swept a still icily furious Errol away to the other end of the building, Robert Methven took a moment to replace the inkpot and pen on the bench. Gerald waggled his eyebrows at Melissande then touched the First Grade wizard’s elbow, very deferential.
“Ah, sir? Thank you for speaking up on my behalf.”
Methven gave him a distracted look of intense dislike. “Wasn’t personal, Dunwoody. I’d sack you too, for damned cheek. But it’s not good form to blame an inferior who can’t defend himself. Now get back to work. Find some filing or something. Don’t touch anything remotely thaumaturgical, is that clear?”
He nodded. “Yes, Mister Methven.”
“ Pssst!” said Melissande, crept up behind him. “Gerald, what the-”
“No, no, not here,” he muttered, keeping an eye on the other wizards who’d returned to their own tasks. They hadn’t noticed anything but that wouldn’t last long. Robert Methven, scuttling to catch up with Errol and Ambrose Wycliffe, was looking back over his shoulder, his expression still unfriendly. “Employee garden. Lunch at one.”
“But my lunch is at-”
“Then change it. Goodbye.”
And he hurried off before Melissande could try arguing with him. Because she would, he just knew it. He was convinced the first word she ever spoke was “but.”
He spent the next two and half hours trying not to speculate on the reason for Melissande’s presence at Wycliffe’s, and collecting test result sheets from the other labs and the wizards working on various projects at their benches, and filing them. Well, surreptitiously reading them and then filing them, making mental notes of anything that might even remotely have to do with his reason for being undercover at Wycliffe’s in the first place.
He paid particular attention to Errol’s results. Errol, who’d joined Wycliffe’s not quite a month after the Stuttley’s debacle. Who’d taken one look at him, his first day at the firm, and simply… erased him from the landscape. It had actually been a little frightening: the contempt. The desire for him to disappear. To not exist. Today had been the first time Errol had acknowledged his presence.
Which is fine. It’s quite suited me, really, all things considered. Only-why did his bloody staff have to explode?
Monaghan and another Second Grader-Phipps-were cleaning out the Pit now, decontaminating it and neutralising the overcharged thaumic particles. He sighed. It was a shame he’d not get the chance to inspect what was left of Errol’s staff, or the stricken experimental Ambrose Mark VI. He’d rather like to know why the prototype engine had exploded. From what he could tell it was sound… and ingenious. No two ways about it, Errol had a definite flair. And then the clock struck one and he stopped filing. He’d have to think some more about that later. Now it was time to meet Melissande for lunch.
Doing his best to appear nonchalant, he entered the employee garden and found an empty bench to sit on, located a convenient distance from the other dozen or so staff who’d been allotted a one o’clock lunch. Luckily there was a goodly amount of conversation going on that would cover nicely anything he and Melissande had to say to each other. Pretending interest in his packed lunch of fish-paste sandwich, iced cupcake and an apple, he kept a sideways eye out for her arrival.
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br /> And there she was, tit-tupping along in that dreadful long black skirt- lord, that was a hideous outfit! — looking so regal, so self-possessed, so Melissande, it brought a lump to his throat. Six months and more since he’d seen her? It felt like six years… and at the same time, six minutes. She was Monk Markham’s young lady and, after the events of New Ottosland, the next-best thing he had to a sister.
Disdainfully she wandered by him, ever-so-artfully letting the book she was carrying with her lunchbox slip to the grass. He dived for it and held it up.
“Excuse me, Miss! Oh, Miss? I think you dropped this.”
Turning, she looked over her glasses-rims and down her nose at him. Just the way she’d looked when he stepped out of the portal in her brother’s palace. It was all he could do not to smile like a loon.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, deliciously snooty. “Did you address me, sir?”
He stood. “Yes. Yes. Gerald Dunwoody at your service, Miss. You dropped this,” he said, thrusting the book towards her.
As she reached out to take it from him he heard a soft, muffled thud close by. And then one of Permelia Wycliffe’s other gels shrieked and pointed.
“Oh! Oh! How awful! A bird just dropped dead, right out of that tree!”
Melissande whipped round, book in hand, and stiffened. “Oh, blimey,” she muttered. “Don’t look now, but Reg just fainted.”
Reg? Reg was here? He turned and yes, there she was, his very own Reg, toes turned up on the mulched garden bed beneath an ornamental fig-tree.
Reg.
“Don’t worry, Miss!” he said to the horrified gel, now being supported by two of her equally horrified friends. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t you distress yourself, or come any closer. For all we know it could be diseased.”
“ Gerald — ”
He pulled a hush-up face at Melissande and rushed over to the garden bed where Reg lay unmoving. Heart thudding so hard he felt sick, he dropped to his knees beside her and stroked a fingertip down her limp wing.
A cold cave. A dead bird. A cruel hoax that he’d believed.