In other words, I know you’re a big fat liar, Mister Dunwoody, but for your sake I’m going to pretend I believe you.
Satisfied at last, Mister Jennings glanced at the small, bare room’s ceiling. “All set here, Sir Alec. Anything you wanted to say?”
“No,” came Sir Alec’s crystal-thinned voice. “You may proceed, Mister Jennings.”
Trying not to feel the trickle of sweat down his shirt-covered ribs, Gerald frowned.
What, Sir Alec? No last words of encouragement? Not even a feeble, half-hearted good luck? Miserable bastard.
Except that wasn’t true. Not really. Soothing platitudes just weren’t his chilly superior’s style-something he should be used to by now.
“Now then, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings, and patted his shoulder. “Breathe slow and deep and keep as still as you can. Mapping your potentia for the grimoire hexes shouldn’t be a problem, but once we start extracting them, well, there’ll be a bit of discomfort. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. But I’ll be right outside, keeping a nice close eye on you. Most important thing is, don’t fight what’s happening. You’ll want to, but you’ll only make things harder on yourself if you do.”
“I see,” he said, his mouth drier than the Kallarapi desert. “Ah-have you any idea how long this will take?”
Mister Jennings rubbed his chin. “Can’t say as I do, I’m afraid. This isn’t something as gets done on a regular basis, you know. And then every wizard’s different, isn’t he?”
The look in his eye added: And some of us are more different than others.
“Yes, of course,” Gerald muttered. “Thank you, Mister Jennings.”
As the small, bare room’s door closed quietly behind the thaumic technician, he made an effort to relax. It might have been easier had he not been strapped down on the padded table. Or if there’d been something soothing overhead to look at. The empty expanse of white ceiling was oddly intimidating, even if he could only see it through his one good eye. Intimidating too were the broad strips of battered leather Mister Jennings had secured across his chest, hips, thighs and ankles. Honestly, he felt like he’d been abandoned in one of the less savoury establishments certain politicians had recently been caught frequenting, with abruptly career-ending results.
The crystals on his forehead weighed heavier than lead.
“Right then, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings’s disembodied voice. “I’m activating the mapping hex now. You shouldn’t feel anything more than a slight tingle. Be sure to say something if that’s not the case. ”
He swallowed, wishing he’d thought to loosen his collar. “I certainly will, Mister Jennings. Thanks for the warning.”
Some time passed. Was that a tingle? He couldn’t tell. It was hard to feel anything beyond the heavy thudding of his heart against the wall of his chest. With his eyes closed he could almost hear the thick, red gushing of blood through his veins.
“Right then, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings. Beneath the deliberate cheer there sounded a note of caution. “All done.”
“Really?” Surprised, Gerald blinked. “That was fast. And I hardly felt a thing. Are you sure all those grimoire hexes are properly mapped?”
“He’s quite sure, Mister Dunwoody. Kindly refrain from telling the expert how to do his job.”
Oh. “Sorry, Sir Alec. No offence intended.”
“None taken,” said Mister Jennings. “Now, sir, we’ll start the extraction. I’ll have it over and done with soon as I can, I promise.”
And whatever Mister Jennings intended, that wasn’t the least bit reassuring at all.
“Thank you, Mister Jennings,” he croaked.
But there was no point complaining. He was the one who’d pushed to have the grimoire hexes his appalling alternate self had given him sucked out of his potentia, where general wisdom declared all acquired incants resided. Sir Alec, not at all keen on the idea, had counselled patience. When that didn’t work, Mister Jennings had been brought in to explain in stomach-turning detail the many and disgusting things that could go wrong with the extraction procedure. Not wanting to listen to either of them, he’d all but stuck his fingers in his ears.
“At least give the Department time to learn something of the effects of these hexes before you have them removed,” Sir Alec had said at last. “After all, Mister Dunwoody, you can’t overlook the fact that you’re in a unique position to further the sum of our thaumaturgical knowledge.”
Oh yes he bloody well could. He’d had more than enough of playing guinea pig for the Department. Besides, after enduring the grimoire hexes’ sickening taint for eleven days, he was starting to feel desperate.
To his surprise, even Monk, who’d seen what the other, terrible Gerald Dunwoody had done, the damage those dreadful hexes could inflict, hadn’t wanted him to do this.
“It’s too risky, mate,” he’d said, lanky dark hair flopped over his face. “Jennings’s procedure is practically experimental. What if something goes wrong?”
Trouble was, things were already going wrong. The other Gerald’s grimoire magic was giving him terrible dreams. Every night since his return from the other Ottosland he’d woken in a cold sweat, shaking, with those seductive grimoire hexes churning dread through his blood. In a terrible way they were alive… and they wanted to be used. But when he’d tried explaining that, all he got was blank stares. Monk shoved a bottle of brandy at him. Sir Alec told him it was his grief talking, and that as a janitor he could not afford to indulge in counterproductive and self-indulgent emotions.
The only person who took his fears seriously was the other Reg.
“You trust your instincts, sunshine,” she said, head tipped to one side, eyes bright. “You’re the one that bugger mucked up with the manky stuff, aren’t you? If you think his grimoire magic’s trouble, then it’s trouble. So don’t you go taking no for an answer from that beady-eyed Department stooge.”
Gerald still couldn’t decide if it helped or hurt, that her trenchant advice sounded so familiar. So right. As though it was really his Reg talking. Taking the advice, he’d dug in his heels and, for once recognising defeat, Sir Alec had relented.
So now here he was, strapped to a padded table in the bowels of the Department’s rambling, obscure Nettleworth headquarters, waiting to be doused with the thaumaturgical equivalent of paint stripper.
Who says I don’t know how to have a good time?
A hint of warmth in the crystals attached to his sweaty forehead stirred him out of thought. And then… no, it wasn’t his imagination. That was a definite tingle. A few booming heartbeats later, the tingle intensified. He felt his muscles twitch in protest, and heat surge through him like a tide of boiling water.
“Bloody hell!”
“Just relax there, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings, encouraging. “We don’t want you doing yourself a mischief, do we?”
No, they certainly didn’t. With an effort, Gerald uncramped his fingers. Willed his frantically beating heart to slow down. Took a deep breath and tried to relax his spasming body.
In vain.
The boiling water transmuted to thick, boiling molasses. He was being cooked alive from the inside out. Buried memories thrust themselves unwanted to the surface. This was his torment in Lional’s cave all over again, it was Actually, it was much, much worse.
“Mister Dunwoody, do you understand what you’re asking for?” Sir Alec had demanded, so severe. “The other Dunwoody’s grimoire magic will resist extraction. Vigorously. Are you prepared for that?”
Of course he’d said yes, he understood completely and was perfectly prepared-even though he knew he wasn’t. But he’d had no intention of letting that stop him.
Which, on reflection, might’ve been a mistake…
He could feel himself thrashing against the wide leather restraints. Everything hurt, but the worst of the pain was in his head, behind his eyes, where it threatened to shatter his skull. The small, bare room spun wildly around him. There was blood in his mouth, metallically tangy. He’d bitten his tongue.
“Steady on, Mister Dunwoody. You’re doing fine.”
Fine? Jennings was mad. Let them swap places and the Department’s best technician would soon realise this wasn’t fine. He wanted to shout out the pain, but he couldn’t. Sir Alec was watching and he had to prove his superior wrong. He had to bear this, no matter how bad it got, and deny Sir Alec the chance of saying I told you
