'Nothing spectacular!' said Mr Scunthorpe, darkly. 'Something simple. Noncombustible.' He nodded at the painting on the wall beside him, an insipid rendition of the first opening of Parliament in 1142.'Animate that.'
He swallowed a protest. Animation might be noncombustible but it was hardly simple. All right, for a First Grade wizard it was child's play and for a Second it was unlikely to cause a sweat. For a Third Grade wizard, though, animation required a command of etheretic balances that tended to induce piles in the unprepared.
Scunthorpe bared his teeth in a smile. 'I take it you do know an appropriate incantation?'
Sarcastic bugger. Yes. As it happened he knew all kinds of high-level incantations, and not all of them entirely… legal. Reg had insisted on teaching him dozens, even though his cherrywood staff was totally inadequate when it came to channelling them. Even though he, apparently, was equally inadequate. Learn them, she'd insisted. You never know when one might come in handy.
Maybe she'd been right after all. Maybe this was one of those times. And anyway, what did he have to lose?
He held out his hand for Scunthorpe's staff. Reluctantly Scunthorpe gave it to him. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to centre himself. To rummage through his collection of interesting but hitherto irrelevant charms and incantations until he found the one that would rescue him from his current predicament.
'Hurry up, Dunwoody,' said Scunthorpe. 'I've an appointment to see Lord Attaby. Somehow I've got to explain all this.'
'Yes, sir,' he said, still rummaging. Then he recalled a small but effective binding that would set the picture's painted crowd politely clapping.
The silver-chased staff in his hands felt heavy and cool. He couldn't detect the smallest sense of latent power from it. When was the last time Scunthorpe had used it? Or sent it out to be thaumically recharged? God help him if the damned thing had a flat battery -
'Hurry up, Dunwoody!' snapped Scunthorpe. 'I'm running out of patience!'
'Right,' he said, and settled his shoulders. Extended the staff until its tip touched the painting's frame, closed his eyes and in the privacy of his mind uttered the animation binding.
Nothing happened. No burning surge of power through the staff, no giddy-making roil of First Grade thaumic energy in his veins or repeat of that strange torqueing tearing sensation he'd felt in Stuttley's factory. Not even his usual Third Grade tingling. And no sound of tiny painted hands, clapping. No sound at all except for Scunthorpe's stertorous breathing.
He cleared his throat. 'Um. Why don't I just try that again?'
Before Scunthorpe could refuse he attempted to animate the painting a second time. Nothing. A third time. Nothing. A fourth ti-
'Forget it!' shouted Scunthorpe, and snatched back his precious silver-filigreed staff. 'You're a fraud, Dunwoody! After a performance like that I'm at a loss to understand how you even got your Third Grade licence! My Aunt Hildegarde's geriatric cat has more wizarding talent than you!'
Stunned, Gerald stared at the uncooperative painting. Then he fished inside his overcoat and pulled out his slightly singed cherrywood staff. Turning, he snatched the broken pencil pieces from Scunthorpe's desk, tapped them with his staff and uttered a joining incant, a task so simple it wasn't even included in the Third Grade examination. The pencil stayed stubbornly broken.
Oh God. 'I don't understand it,' he muttered. 'I've got nothing. Nothing. How can that be? Unless — ' Horrified, he stared at Scunthorpe. 'Do you think I burned myself out when I short-circuited the inversion? Do you think channelling all that raw thaumic energy through those First Grade staffs somehow used up all my power?'
'All what power?' roared Scunthorpe. 'You don't have any power, Dunwoody! You're the worst excuse for a wizard I ever met! I must've been mad the day I took pity and gave you a job! I must've been ravingl Get out! You're fired!'
Gerald felt his throat close. Fired. Again. His stomach heaved.'Mr Scunthorpe, I protest. I didn't do anything wrong. Harold Stuttley's the criminal here, not me. I don't care what he says, I contained that thaumic inversion, I didn't cause it. The resulting explosion was unfortunate but — '
'Unfortunate'?' Scunthorpe wheezed. 'You mean catastrophic! Are you really this naive, Dunwoody? Stuttley's is demanding a parliamentary enquiry! They're threatening to sue the government! They want this entire Department disbanded!' 'But — but that's ridiculous — '
'Of course it's ridiculous!' snapped Scunthorpe. 'But that's not the point! The point is that if your head's not rolling down the Department staircase in the next five minutes we will lose control of this situation!'
'And then what? Harold Stuttley gets off scot-free?'
'Never you mind about Harold Stuttley! Forget you ever heard of Harold Stuttley! This isn't about Harold Stuttley, Dunwoody, it's about you. Don't you understand? You've embarrassed the Department and disgraced your staff. You're finished, do you hear me? Finisliedl So don't stand there staring like a poleaxed bullock! Get out of my office. Get out of the building. So that when Lord Attaby demands the privilege of personally kicking you into the street I can put my hand on my heart and say I don't know where you are!' Gerald shook his head. 'This isn't right. I'm not going to take this lying down, Mr Scunthorpe. I'm going to — '
'What?' sneered Scunthorpe. 'Demand an enquiry of your own? Go on record claiming you're a better wizard than the likes of Lord Attaby himself? You: A correspondence course Third Grader? Well, I suppose you can. If you insist. But you'll never work as a wizard again, Dunwoody. That much I can promise you.'
Stung, he looked at his red-faced superior. 'I thought I was already finished!'
Abruptly Scunthorpe's manner softened. 'You are, son. At least around here. But if you go quietly, no fuss, no indignant, outlandish claims and accusations, lay low for a while, well, I'm sure once the dust has settled, in a few months, a year maybe, some little locum agency somewhere will take you on.'
'A year?' He almost laughed. 'And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?'
Scunthorpe shook his head. 'Sorry. That's not my problem. You should have thought of that before you blew up Stuttley's. Now if I could just have your official badge…'
Fingers numb, Gerald pulled his identification wallet out of his pocket and handed it over. In a final act of petulant defiance, he undid his official tie and thrust that at Scunthorpe as well. Then, with as much dignity as his tattered pride could muster, he turned on his heel and marched out of Mr Scunthorpe's pokey office.
Mr Scunthorpe slammed the door closed behind him.
Braving the gauntlet of eyes beyond it, the secretaries and the other inspectors, the visiting bodies from elsewhere in the DoT, he felt as insignificant as a beetle and as conspicuous as an elephant. Not one of his former colleagues said a word, just watched him walk past desk after desk to the lifts in hot, humiliating silence.
Life in the street outside the DoT building continued in blissful ignorance of his latest wizarding debacle. Well-dressed, affluent citizens of the city were smiling, laughing even, as they bustled about their lives, the insensitive bastards. How could they? Didn't they know his lifelong dream had just gone up in smoke right along with Stuttley's bloody staff factory?
No. They didn't. And even if they did, would they care? Probably not. Nobody cared. Not even Reg. She'd flown off and left him. He was all alone. Alone, disgraced and unemployed.
Stop snivelling, Dunwoody, he told himself derisively. Self-pity doesn't suit you.
Maybe not, but wasn't he entitled? After three failed attempts at wizarding hadn't he earned himself at least one small snivel?
All I wanted was to be a wizard. Is that so damned much to ask? Yes. Apparently it was.
The motor he'd driven out to Stuttley's belonged to the DoT carpool.When he wasn't on official business he caught the bus. Well, he couldn't afford to do that any more. He'd have to watch every last penny now until he somehow managed to find another job. Street-sweeping, probably, if he decided he really couldn't face his revolting cousins and the tailor shop his father had loved and toiled in for most of his working life.
With his spirits sloshing about his ankles he headed for home, the Wizards' Club, where he rented a room. But for how much longer he had no idea. At the time of its official opening — October 19, 1274, according to the tarnished plaque by the front doors — the Wizards' Club had been brand spanking new. The wrought iron gates were shiny and silent, the brass-bound front doors undented and scratchless, the windows unwarped, the roof tiles gleaming, and its sandstone bricks clean and creamy white like newly churned butter.
But down the long centuries the club's pale sandstone bricks had acquired a patina of soot and ivy; exotic weeds began a ceaseless war for equal squatting rights amongst the flowerbeds; and a tangled jungle of briars,
