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 shitl' 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.'
Sir Alec frowned, it would appear the condition remains dormant until something triggers it.'
Ah. And that would be the sound of the third shoe dropping.'You mean something like Stuttley's?' 'Exactly'
Meanly, viciously, he felt vindicated. 'So if that prig Scunthorpe hadn't — '
'Mr Scunthorpe,' said Sir Alec repressively, 'is no longer your concern, Dunwoody. I'm here to discuss your aberrant potentia, not the decisions, prudent or otherwise, of your past supervisors.'
Aberrant. It was as good a word as any. Gerald thought about that for some time. About the implications of this aberrant, inconvenient condition. Its ramifications for himself and everyone who knew him.
At last he looked up. Sir Alec was watching him, still coiled inside like an overwound spring. 'All right, Sir Alec. We know what I am. But what does it mean?'
'Don't ask him,' Reg said sourly, as Sir Alec hesitated. 'He hasn't got a bloody clue. Accidents like you are so rare you're nothing more than a footnote in a mouldering textbook in the back room of the Department's basement library. Isn't that right, mate?'
Incredibly Sir Alec looked faintly discomfited. 'I'm afraid so.'
A footnote? He was a footnote? Practically a myth? 'Then… what's going to happen to me? Is there some way of switching off this — this — aberrant potentia? Can I go back to being a common or garden variety Third Grade wizard?'
The question appeared to take Sir Alec by surprise. 'You'd do that? Surrender all your power? Mister Dunwoody, do you know what you're saying? Do you have any idea how strong you are?'
I'm strong enough to make two dragons. Strong enough to survive the sympathetica. Strong enough to get ninety-seven innocent souls killed.
But not strong enough to stop any of it happening.
Sir Alec leaned forward. 'Princess Melissande tells me her brother tortured you for many days. With curses from texts listed on the Internationally Proscribed Index. One of them was Grummen's Lexicon which I'm pleased to say is now safely dismembered and under lock and key' Again, that grimness in Sir Alec's face. 'Mister Dunwoody, I'm not sure you understand. No other wizard I know — or have ever heard of- could have survived an ordeal like that. If the physical stresses of such brutality didn't prove fatal then prior evidence indicates the mind of the tortured wizard would simply… snap. But you didn't die and your mind appears intact. And then of course there's the matter of Lional being unable to steal your potentia. Don't you see? At the risk of sounding melodramatic… you are something of a miracle!
He made himself meet Sir Alec's gaze, i don't want to be a miracle.' Sir Alec snorted. 'What sane man would?' 'Then can't you — '
'No,' said Sir Alec. 'I'm afraid that's not possible. I'm aware of no incant or potion capable of undoing whatever the accident at Stuttley's did to you. You are what you've become, Professor, and will remain like that till the day you die. I am very sorry, but there's no going back.'
Was that pity in Sir Alec's grey eyes? If so he didn't want it. Above him on the bedrail he could feel Reg's consternation. She'd been unnaturally quiet through all of this; he wasn't sure what that meant.
'Then I'll stay here,' he said. 'As a private citizen. I'm sure King Rupert will have no objections. I'll dedicate the rest of my life to making up for the damage I did to his people.'
Sir Alec sighed. 'Again, I'm sorry, but no. That's not possible either.'
'You're not leaving him too many options, sunshine,' said Reg. 'There's wheels and wheels turning behind your eyes. What is it you're thinking? What have you got planned for Gerald?'
He lifted his hand to touch fingertips to her wing. 'I already know what he's thinking, Reg,' he said, not taking his gaze from Sir Alec's watchful waiting face. 'He's thinking I'm a problem. He's thinking how best to… resolve me. Aren't you, Sir Alec? Isn't that your plan?'
Reg let out a furious squawk. 'Resolve? You mean assassinate! Over my dead body, mate! Raise so much as an eyebrow to this boy and I'll be wearing your eyeballs for earrings! Gerald, we're leaving. All of a sudden the decor in here is getting right up my sinuses. When I give the word, you head for the door. I'll keep Sir Stooge here occupied while you — '
'Really, Dulcetta,' Sir Alec said, bored. 'Now who's being melodramatic? Mister Dunwoody, please. I'm not here to assassinate you. Or coerce you. Or do anything contrary to the oath I took, as you did, when I became a wizard.'
Bleakly, Gerald looked at him. 'Yes, but oaths are more fragile than you might think, Sir Alec. I broke mine and people died. Perhaps you should… resolve… me. Perhaps the world would be a better place if you did.'
Sir Alec nodded.'It's certainly one solution. And I won't deny it was suggested. It was. Quite vigorously, in some quarters.'
How odd to know that people he'd never met had argued for his murder. He felt almost… academic. As though he were a student again, discussing hypotheticals in a classroom. 'Suggested by you?'
'No,' said Sir Alec. 'Although I certainly considered the notion. In the end I decided eliminating you would be… wasteful.'
Wasteful. He didn't know which was more outrageous… the word or the idea that Sir Alec would calmly admit he'd contemplated killing him. 'Might I ask what you do want to do with me?'
Sir Alec sat back in the armchair. Steepled his fingers and considered him thoughtfully. 'Offer you a job, I think.'
And he hadn't been expecting that. 'A job,' he repeated blankly.
' Work, Mister Dunwoody. Gainful employment. You've already had four positions, you must be familiar with the concept by now'
'Bloody hell,' said Reg. 'Whatever it is don't take it, Gerald.'
He eased himself against his pillows. So. This must be what Monk was hinting at. 'A job where? Doing what?'
A faint crease appeared between Sir Alec's pale brown eyebrows, in the Department, of course. Working for me. As a janitor.'
'A what? Images of buckets and mops danced across his inner eye. 'Look, all this cryptic crap might be meat and drink to you, Sir Alec, but I'm tired and in case you hadn't noticed, I'm also blind in one eye. So why don't you stop playing your stupid bloody games and tell me what you mean, straight out, no riddles.'
Sir Alec smiled, his gaze intent. 'Certainly. Janitors are very important people, Mister Dunwoody. They go about their business with a dustpan and brush, sweeping up all the little messes other people leave behind.
