abacus across the room, she jumped to find Permelia Wycliffe standing beside her cubicle.
“Miss Wycliffe!”
“Miss Carstairs,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her tone indifferent. “As Miss Petterly has stepped away from her desk I wish you to take these files down to Mister Ambrose Wycliffe in Research and Development.” She held out a sheaf of buff-coloured folders. “Each one must be perused and initialled and returned to me, in person.”
Clever. Very clever. Wait for Petterly’s morning tea break and pounce. She took the folders. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe. At once, Miss Wycliffe.”
“Cor, aren’t you lucky!” whispered Delphinia Thatcher, as soon as Permelia Wycliffe was safely out of earshot. “Getting to go downstairs, Molly. All those handsome wizards. Have fun!”
Melissande swallowed a smile, just in case one of the other gels was watching. She did like Delphinia. The young woman was a bit like Bibbie-relentlessly cheerful. Determined not to let life squash her.
Blimey, I hope she’s not the thief. That would be awful.
“ What’s the matter?” said Delphinia. “You’re not interested in handsome wizards?”
Melissande took a moment to make sure her blouse was tucked in and her hair tidy in its horrible bun. “Oh. Well. I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured, and left the office quickly before Miss Petterly returned.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Well, Dunwoody? Are we set?”
Gerald looked up from the gauges on the etheretic quantifier and nodded. “Yes, Mister Methven. Gauges are reading at zero.”
Robert Methven, First Grade wizard, thirty-six years of age, graduate of Tenlowe’s Private School of Thaumaturgics, no criminal record, no question marks in his Department file, second most senior wizard at Wycliffe’s, turned back to the model prototype Ambrose Airship Mark VI and raised his hand.
“Very well then, Dunwoody. On three. One-two- three!”
As Methven pressed his thumb to the remote control for the prototype airship, Gerald flicked the switch on the etheretic quantifier. As he watched, the model quivered and began to gently bump up and down in its cradle. A moment later the needles on the quantifier began to flicker, reflecting the thaumic resonance within the prototype’s experimental engine chamber.
“Readings, Dunwoody!”
“Four thaums, Mister Methven. Five-eight-thirteen-oh, dear.” He looked up. “Twenty thaums, Mister Methven. Perhaps we ought to-”
“No, no,” said Methven, impatiently. “We’re still within the tolerances. There’s no point pussyfooting around, man. This is a test, not a tickle.”
Third Grade wizards did not argue with their betters. Third Grade wizards were the equivalent of-of clerks, at Wycliffe’s. They twiddled knobs and filed reports and fetched mugs of coffee for their superiors. They didn’t, if they wanted to keep their job, contradict a senior wizard. Not even when that wizard was making a very big mistake.
And especially not when they’re only pretending to be a Third Grade wizard and shouldn’t be able to sense the thaumic imbalance in the experimental engine’s central chamber.
Gerald held his breath and closed his eyes. Any second now. Any second. Three… two… one…
“ Damn!” cried Methven, as the lovingly constructed prototype of the Ambrose Airship Mark VI lurched free of its confining cradle and shot up to the rafters of the laboratory like a bullet.
“Yes, Mister Methven,” said Gerald, staring at what surely was about to become a very expensive pile of useless spare parts. “Ah-is it supposed to be spinning like that, Mister Methven?”
The prototype Mark VI, all twelve shiny feet of it, had begun to revolve, bow chasing its stern, and was picking up speed even as they gaped.
“No,” said Robert Methven, slowly. “No, I don’t believe it is, Dunwoody.”
The shiny silver airship was glowing like a lantern now, the thaumic emissions from the experimental engine spilling into its empty interior.
Gerald felt his skin crawling. The wretched thing was going to blow. It was going to spectacularly explode and take half the roof with it, and possibly half the laboratory as well. Which meant all of Gerald Dunwoody and Robert Methven, probably. Unless they made a run for it right now, or said Gerald Dun-woody dropped his etheretic shield and obliterated his carefully manufactured cover with a spectacular display of thaumaturgic skill not “ Bloody hell, Dunnywood! What have you done now?”
For the first time in his life Gerald was pleased to see Errol Haythwaite.
“Nothing, sir, nothing,” he said, taking the opportunity to grab Robert Methven by the arm and drag him to the very back of the lab, which was as far as they could get from the Airship Mark VI without actually leaving. “I was only-”
“Looking to repeat your demolition of Stuttley’s!” said Errol, flicking him a contemptuous glance. He was holding his gold-filigreed First Grade staff tightly against its jittery reaction to the airship engine’s over-charged thaumic particles. “You bloody cretin. Methven, what did I tell you about letting this imbecile within fifty feet of anything important?”
Methven pulled his arm free, and took a prudent step sideways. “Ah-well-I needed someone to-”
“Bugger up the test? Well, good job, Robert. You picked the perfect man!”
“Sorry, Haythwaite,” muttered Methven, and took another step sideways.
“That’s Mister Haythwaite to you, Methven,” snarled Errol, glaring up at the wildly spinning model airship. “Now shut your trap while I save the day.”
Gerald and Methven watched, hardly daring to blink, as Errol pointed his staff towards the madly gyrating airship.
“Good lord, what’s he doing?” muttered Methven.
“Trying to siphon off the excess tetrathaumicles created as a by-product of the engine’s overheating,” said Gerald, without thinking. And when Methven goggled at him added, weakly, “Um. Isn’t he?”
“Yes… yes, of course,” said Methven. He was sweating, great damp patches staining the armpits of his white lab coat, beads of moisture rolling down his blanched face. He had a receding chin, and it was trembling. “That’s exactly what he’s trying to do. Yes.”
And in fact not only trying, but succeeding. Amazing. There was so much randomly generated thaumic energy inside the airship now it was glowing like a brazier, angry and bright red. The gold filigree on Errol’s staff was glowing too, hotter and hotter. It had to be almost too hot to hold, it had to be on the point of scorching him, surely, and he wasn’t wearing gloves, but Errol didn’t let go. Instead he was using an incredibly complicated and hard-to-balance etheretic-reversal incant to suck the excess thaumic energy out of the airship and into the staff where it could be stored temporarily.
Gerald shook his head. Errol was loathsome, an arrogant, insufferable, nasty piece of work… but there was no denying it. He was also a bloody brilliant wizard.
The experimental airship’s spinning slowed. Slowed further. Its furious colour began to fade. Now sweat was pouring down Errol’s face, which was twisting with the pain of his efforts and his blistering hand.
“I say, Errol!” shouted Methven, entirely forgetting his manners. “You ought to stop now, that staff is going to implode!”
“It’s fine,” Errol grunted, his chiselled jaw clenched. “I know what I’m doing. And that’s Mister Haythwaite to you, pillock!”
Gerald held his breath again. Methven was right, not even the kind of First Grade staff the likes of Errol could afford was strong enough to absorb much more raw thaumic energy. Remembering what had happened at Stuttley’s, remembering the catastrophic devastation caused by those overcharged First Grade staffs, he stepped forward and tentatively touched Errol on the sleeve.
“Errol-Mister Haythwaite-it can’t take any more.”
Errol wrenched his head round to glare at him with bloodshot eyes. “Did I ask for your opinion, you little maggot?”
