Lional laughed, softly mocking. “The true test of honesty is what a man says to himself when no-one else can hear the words. Remember the cave? I know you, Gerald. Better than any man alive. Or dead.”
The cave. He took another step back. “You don’t know anything. You’re not real.”
“I’m real enough to know you resent that ridiculous etheretic shield,” said Lional, with a nonchalant shrug. “I know you’re tired of being restrained. After all, what’s the point of having power if you never get to use it? And they won’t let you use it, you know. Sir Alec and his minions. They’re so frightened of you, Gerald, they can hardly spit.”
“That’s not true.”
Lional smiled. “Isn’t it?”
Sickened, Gerald stared at him… forced at last to confront what he’d been trying for weeks now to deny. Lional was right. They were afraid of him. All that poking and prodding. All those tests. All those questions. Always someone watching when he ran through his selected, approved repertoire of incants. Watching. Measuring. Taking careful notes. As though they didn’t trust him. As though they thought that if they turned their backs he’d do something crazy… like make another dragon. Or turn them all into stoats.
“The real question, Gerald,” said Lional, “is what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” he retorted. “They’ve got good reason to fear.”
I’ve got good reason. I need to be watched.
“ Do you know what I think, Gerald?” said Lional, considering him carefully. “ I think you’ve let them bamboozle you. You’ve let them turn you inside out and upside down. Got you convinced there’s something wrong with who you are. What you are.”
Gerald folded his arms. “And what am I, Lional?”
“Whatever you desire to be, of course.”
“Which makes you what-my conscience?” He snorted. “Thanks, but I’ve already got one of those. Her name’s Reg. And one is more than enough.”
Lional laughed, mocking again. “One is one too many, Gerald. No man can fly with a millstone round his neck. Genius requires freedom. Morality is for the weak. Compassion is-”
“If you think that argument’s going to convince me I made a mistake when I killed you, I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment.”
Lional’s cerulean eyes opened wide. “Oh, no, Gerald. I know you don’t regret killing me. I know you think you did the world a favour. I’m merely stating my position, that’s all.”
He shook his head. “Then why — ”
“Because I want you to believe me,” said Lional, simply. “I want you to believe yourself. I want you to be perfectly clear on the facts. You’re convinced you did the right thing in New Ottosland. You do repine. You know they’re afraid of you… and even while a part of you shares that fear, another part-a much bigger part than you’re willing to admit-resents them for holding you back.”
Gerald stared at him, silenced. This isn’t fair. Murderous madmen who tortured you to the brink of insanity aren’t supposed to tell the truth.
Lional yawned. “Was there anything you wanted to add?”
“Just this,” he said quietly. Are you listening, Sir Alec? “I do know I did the right thing, Lional. But when you claim I don’t regret it… that’s where you’re wrong. I regret I wasn’t able to save you.”
“Oh, Gerald, Gerald,” said Lional, and wagged a roguish finger. “Such an arrogant young man. Whatever makes you think I wanted to be saved?”
He shrugged. “I never said you wanted it. I only know you needed it.”
Lional laughed again, a soft, shivering sound. “Well, well. Fancy that. It seems, my dear Gerald, there’s hope for you yet.”
Okay. That’s it. Enough is enough. If I wanted mental therapy I’d have kept my second appointment with the Department’s brain boffin.
“Look,” he said. “It’s getting late and I have a test to pass. Whatever game this is, I’m tired of playing it.” He turned on his heel and started walking. “Goodbye, Lional. Or whoever you are.”
“Oh, you know who I am, Gerald,” Lional called after him. “And you know where to find me. I’m never far away.”
Right. Fine. Gerald hunched his shoulders, feeling the gravel scrunch under his feet. Feeling his belly churn. What the hell was Sir Alec playing at? They’d already talked about Lional. Spent days and days dredging through the sorry escapade in New Ottosland. There was nothing new for Sir Alec to learn. Lional was dead. Literally and metaphorically. And the dead should stay buried.
He stopped walking, struck by a horrible thought.
Unless, of course, this has nothing to do with Sir Alec. Unless it’s not even happening. What if I’m still in bed, back in Nettleworth, dreaming this is my final test? Because this is impossible. The hexed gates, the wall, Lional. It’s crazy, all of it, just like a dream.
Profoundly unsettled, he swung about. The driveway behind him was empty. Lional had gone.
Yes, but was he ever there? Am I here? Or am I going to wake up in the next five minutes with my alarm clock dinging and drool on my chin?
Feeling like an idiot he slapped his own face, hard. Ow. The stinging in his cheek and palm seemed to suggest that yes, he was here.
But does that mean I’ve spent the last twenty minutes talking to myself? Because if I have there’s a good chance I’ve gone mad. On the other hand, if Lional really was here that means I’ve been talking to a ghost and that means, hello, there’s a good chance I’ve gone mad.
“ Bloody hell, Reg,” he said to the empty sky. “Why aren’t you ever around when I need you?”
He spun on his heel again and stamped the rest of the way up to the house.
It was an old place, two storeyed and rambling, built from weathered yellow sandstone. Thick green ivy crept up the walls in search of a better life. There were five timber-framed windows, all crooked, all with sun- bleached curtains blocking the glass. A long time ago the front door had been painted fire-engine red. Now it was faded, its brass gargoyle knocker and round doorknob desperate for attention. An ivy-covered archway protected anyone forced to bang on it in the rain.
Gerald hesitated, just for a moment, then marched right up, rapped the gargoyle knocker emphatically, twice, and waited.
No answer.
He pressed his hand flat to the door’s dulled red paint, expecting to feel some kind of incant or hex. Nothing. He banged the gargoyle knocker again, hearing a faint suggestion of hollow echoes deep within the house. Still no answer.
“Well, bugger this for a boatload of monkeys,” he said at last, grabbed the doorknob and turned it. The door opened without protest, a conservative inch. So he took a deep breath, pushed it wide, and stepped over the threshold…
… into Sir Alec’s austere office at Department headquarters, Nettleworth.
Seated behind his polished teak desk, neat and tidy as always, Sir Alec made a note in an open file then looked up. His unremarkable face was expressionless, but in his cool eyes lurked the merest hint of approval.
“At last, Mister Dunwoody,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if we’d see you again.” He nodded at the discouraging wooden visitor’s chair. “Have a seat. Just a few formalities, then we can discuss your first assignment.”
Stunned, Gerald sat. “My first-you mean-that’s it? That was the test? And I passed?”
Sir Alec was the least casual man he’d ever met. Sir Alec never slouched. He never slumped. He never leaned against anything. And if he was weary he never ever showed it. There was nothing whatsoever restful about him. His wintry smile appeared, briefly.
“Mister Dunwoody, the testing of your janitorial suitability started from the moment you arrived here. Surely you knew that? Or at least suspected it?”
“No. Well. Sort of. Maybe. At least-I thought-I wondered-” He slewed round in the wooden chair and stared at the office door. “Ah-Sir Alec-if you don’t mind me asking-um-how did I get here? I mean, was that a portal? The door at the haunt-the establishment? Because it didn’t feel like a portal. At least not like any portal I’ve ever travelled through.”
