“I’m earning a living,” he said, meeting Errol’s savage stare calmly. “Just like you.”
Errol ignored that. “What really happened in New Ottosland, Dunwoody? The truth. Because I don’t for a moment believe King Lional broke his neck hunting. Not if you were anywhere around.”
Damn. Trust Errol to let his petty vindictiveness spoil everything. They’d been doing such a good job of avoiding each other, too. And now the time had come for him to lie through his teeth.
Please, please, let me be a good liar.
“ I’m sorry you feel that way, Errol,” he said carefully. “But there’s nothing more I can tell you. King Lional’s death was a horrible accident. One in which I was not involved. And I’m back in Ottosland because the new king didn’t want a royal wizard. That’s the truth, but whether you choose to believe it or not is entirely up to you.”
Errol was staring at him, his contempt mixed with-with confusion? “There’s something… different about you, Dunnywood. I don’t know what-I can’t put my finger on it-but it’s there. I can feel it. And I’ll work out what it is, I promise you that.”
Oh, really damn. Errol wasn’t supposed to be able to sense anything through the anti-thaumic shield. He really is a bloody good wizard. “ I’m sorry, Errol. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, I need to get back to work.”
“ Work.” Errol fairly spat the word. “You’re a waste of space, Dunwoody. Truscott’s must have a screw loose, sending you somewhere like this.” He leaned close again. “Ambrose is too stupid to see that you’re a menace. A bloody great disaster waiting to happen. He won’t sack you. At least not yet. But until he does you stay away from me and my projects. I don’t want you so much as sharpening one of my pencils, is that clear? And if I catch you even looking at the next Mark VI prototype I will tear you limb from limb. Is that clear? Do you believe me? Gerald?”
Without waiting for an answer, Errol stalked away.
Gerald looked after him, shocked to realise he was actually shaken. Errol was positively overflowing with venomous hatred. He didn’t understand it.
At least he could wait till I’ve proven he’s the traitor Sir Alec’s looking for.
“ Mister Dunwoody!” called Robert Methven, standing beside a crowded lab bench. “If you’ve quite finished wasting Mister Wycliffe’s time, there are several pieces of apparatus here that need to be cleaned.”
Gerald closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rearranged his expression into the epitome of suitably Third Grade submission.
“Yes, Mister Methven,” he said. “Coming, Mister Methven.” And he hurried forward to do Robert Methven’s bidding.
This bloody assignment can’t end fast enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Blimey,” said Monk, standing at his open front door. “ Gerald?”
“Oy,” said Gerald, glancing over his shoulder at the late night emptiness of Chatterly Crescent. “Not so loud. Voices carry. Can I come in?”
“Come in?” said Monk, still staring. “Oh! Of course, mate. Sorry.”
As Monk retreated he stepped over the dilapidated but still stately house’s threshold into the old-fashioned vestibule, which was-to put it very kindly-sadly shabby.
“What are you doing, Markham, answering your own door?” he demanded. “Isn’t a place like this meant to come with a butler?”
“It did, but-well. Long story,” said Monk, pushing the front door closed again. “And anyway, I don’t really need ancient retainers hobbling about the place. They just get in the way. Gerald, I can’t believe you’re standing in my vestibule.”
Grinning, he accepted Monk’s back-slapping embrace. “Neither can I. Mind you, I can’t believe you’ve got a vestibule. Two vestibules. Greedy sod.”
“How did you hear about that?” said Monk, stepping back. His eyes widened in alarm. “Gerald, are you telling me Sir Alec’s got-”
‘Don’t be stupid. Melissande told me.”
Monk frowned. “Melissande? When did you run into Melissande?”
“She hasn’t said?”
“I haven’t seen her. Or heard from her,” said Monk. “She, Bibs and Reg are up to their eyeballs in a job.”
He pulled a face. “I know. At the Wycliffe Airship Company. That’s where we bumped into each other.”
“ You’re at Wycliffe’s?” said Monk, eyebrows shooting up. “Since when?”
“Look, I’ll tell you what I can,” he said, shrugging out of his overcoat, “but isn’t there somewhere we can talk in comfort?”
“Sure, sure,” said Monk, then took the coat and slung it onto the vestibule’s coat stand. “Sorry. Come into the parlour.”
Gerald followed Monk down the creaky-floorboarded hallway into another shabby room made cheerfully warm by a leaping fire in the fireplace. A laden drinks trolley stood beside the curtained window and a lopsided table took up half of one wall. Two overstuffed armchairs were angled to take comfortable advantage of the warmth. The armchairs were both so elderly their leather had crazed and cracked, leaving tufts of horsehair stuffing poking out like bristles on a caterpillar. A faded, cosy two-seater sofa completed the room’s furnishings.
“What?” he said, looking around. “No experiments all over the floor? Don’t tell me you’ve reformed.”
Grinning, Monk collapsed into the nearest armchair. “Who, me? Perish the thought. No, they’re all over the attic.”
He grinned back at his friend and sat himself in the matching chair. “Of course they are.” Typical Markham. “It’s good to see you, Monk.”
“And you. I notice that colour-incant’s worn off. How’s it working out?”
He rubbed his silver eye. “Good. It’s good. I had to tweak it a bit-I’m putting in a ten-hour at Wycliffe’s. Can’t afford it fading at an embarrassing moment.”
Monk sat up. “You what? You tweaked one of my incants? Oooh, Gerald, you shouldn’t have done that. You might explode your eyeball.”
“Ah… no,” he said, gently smiling. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh,” said Monk, slumping again. “You know, for a moment there I forgot.” He shook his head, bemused. “Huh. You tweaked one of my incants. There’s a turn-up for the books.”
Was he jealous? No. Not Monk. There wasn’t a jealous bone in his friend’s lanky body. He was just… adjusting.
And he isn’t the only one. I’m still not used to it and I’ve spent the last six months finding out what I can do.
“ It’d be good if you could tweak it a bit more, though,” he added. “Whatever I did to it makes my eye itch.”
“Sure,” said Monk. “Remind me to take care of it before you leave. So. If you’re at Wycliffe’s, that means…”
“Yeah. I’m in the field. My first assignment.”
A slow smile spread over Monk’s thin, anarchic face. “You passed the final test.”
“Well, I didn’t fail.”
“Eh? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me and we’ll both know,” he said wryly. “Hey, I don’t suppose the bar’s open, is it?”
“Been one of those days?” said Monk, sympathetic.
“You have no idea.”
Monk uncoiled from his armchair. “Brandy all right?”
“Bless you, my son,” he said, letting his head fall back. “Brandy is perfect.”
