by Wycliffe’s other three First Graders. The seven Second Graders weren’t long behind them. That just left Errol. And of course Ambrose Wycliffe, shut uncharacteristically late in his office.
Gerald was ready with an explanation if anyone asked why he was still working when the other Third Grade wizards had bolted. Making up for the time he took earlier, he intended to say. But nobody asked. Nobody gave a toss about Dunnywood or what he was up to. Not a single wizard was stupid enough to risk Errol’s wrath by showing any interest in a man their superior so openly despised.
When Ambrose Wycliffe finally emerged from his office into the complex, florid and preoccupied, Gerald ducked into one of the small labs so he wouldn’t be seen. He heard Ambrose exhort Errol not to kill himself on the Mark VI prototype. Things were looking up. The market would wait a little longer for the greatest airship in history. Errol’s reply wasn’t loud enough to be heard. Shortly after that, Ambrose bid Errol goodnight, dimmed the main lights to a mere glow and departed. Silence descended, full of unsolved mysteries.
Risking discovery, Gerald looked through the small lab’s almost-closed door. Where was Errol? What was he doing?
Please, please, let me catch him in a treacherous act. I want this bloody assignment to be over.
A moment later Errol stamped out of his own lab, swearing and muttering under his breath. In the subdued lighting his face was a portrait of furious indecision as he half-paced, half-dithered in the complex’s wide aisle. He looked like a man attached to invisible strings tugging him first this way, then that. The fingers of one elegant hand dragged through and through his disordered dark hair. His jaw was set hard, and shadowed with stubble. He was a far cry from the urbane, polished and sophisticated Errol Haythwaite who’d paraded himself for obsequious admiration at the Wizards’ Club and through the pages of newspapers and thaumaturgical publications alike.
“ Dammit,” Errol said at last, furious. “I’ll have to chance it. I’ll have to. Dammit.”
Spinning on his heel he headed back to his office, which was tucked between the Ambrose Mark VI lab and the complex’s outer wall. Breath hard-held, Gerald watched him go in-and couldn’t believe his luck. Errol left his office door open, which meant the thaumaturgic soundproofing wouldn’t work. It was a gift… and a hint. Time to spy. But with the lab complex so quiet and empty of all other wizards, there was a chance he’d be heard. And even if he wasn’t, Errol would undoubtedly sense his presence. Unless… unless…
What if he threw out an obfuscation hex to cover any inadvertent sound he might make and mask his thaumic signature completely? It was a neat solution, except I’d need to drop my shield. Will Errol feel it disengage? Will he feel me cast the hex? I may hate his guts but I can’t deny the truth: he is a phenomenal wizard. Dare I risk it? Is he upset enough to be sufficiently distracted?
Sadly, there was only one way to find out.
As softly and gently as he knew how, he switched off his shield-incant then held his breath again. Waited for Errol to storm out of his office, searching for the source of the strange surge in the ether.
No Errol. No storming. The lab remained as quiet as a tomb.
Not my tomb, please. I don’t feel like dying today.
Under his breath, Gerald whispered an obfuscation hex Reg had taught him years ago. Despite all of the new incants and hexes Sir Alec’s people had given him he hadn’t found one of theirs to beat it for flexibility. And he hadn’t shared it with them, either. It was important to keep safe some things from his old life.
Besides, as Reg liked to say, it never hurt to keep a trick or two stuffed down your knickers.
He crept out of the darkened lab, into the almost dark complex and along the aisle towards Errol’s office. Flattened himself against the wall beside the door and closed his eyes… hoping that would help him hear more clearly what was happening.
“-were right and I was wrong. See? I can admit it.”
Errol, sounding oddly subdued. Conciliatory. Almost… entreating. Speaking not on the telephone, but through a crystal ball. He could feel the connection vibrating the ether: yet another legacy of his roguish, barely- charted powers. If there was time, he could very likely trace that connection all the way back to its source, but there wasn’t.
Who the hell is he talking to? Please, let it be Rottlezinder. Come on, Errol, give yourself away.
The person on the other end of the conversation said something in reply. The crystal ball’s volume was turned down so low there was no hope of hearing it.
“Yes. And I’m sorry, Haf,” Errol replied. He actually sounded humble. Was he sickening for something? “I want to make it up to you, old friend. Please, can we meet? Tonight? We need to sort this out.”
Though he’d been hoping for it… expecting it… Gerald felt his muscles slacken with shock. Confirmation at last. Errol was in cahoots with Haf Rottlezinder. Even as a small, vindictive part of himself that he hated to admit even existed let out a glorious, gloating yell-he thought: damn.
Because Errol was one of Ottosland’s leading thaumaturgical lights. But to serve his own base ambitions he’d turned against his own people. Their blood was on his elegant hands. There was going to be such a scandal… and the people who tended to look sideways at wizards, who supported the nutty anti-thaumaturgical brigade, who eschewed lives that took advantage of thaumic advances… their blind prejudices would be reinforced and they’d end up with more converts to their short-sighted cause.
Dammit, Errol. How could you?
He realised Errol was talking again. “-know where that is, yes. It’s too early to risk coming now, so wait for me. If you don’t-please, Haf. Just make sure you’re there.”
There? Where was there? Damn, if only he’d been able to hear Rottlezinder’s half of the conversation, or had time to trace the etheretic connection between the crystal balls back to Errol’s partner in crime. Now he’d have to remain hidden here until Errol left the lab then follow him… a venture fraught with the very real chance of discovery and failure.
But never mind. At least we know Rottlezinder’s here in Ottosland. At least he’s within our reach, at last.
So, should he contact Sir Alec? Call for some more agents? No. That would only further complicate an already complicated situation. Besides, he’d had it drummed into him repeatedly during the last six months: nine times out of ten, janitors worked solo. They relied on themselves and nobody else. A janitor was a lone resourceful wolf.
Gerald slunk back to the shadows, prepared to wait for as long it took.
Lord. I wish Reg was here.
“You know, Bibbie,” said Monk, tucking his hands into his armpits. “I’m starting to have second thoughts about this.”
“Really?” said Bibbie brightly, wrapping a striped scarf around her neck. “I’m not.”
He stamped his feet. “Bibs, you’ve only had your driving certificate for five minutes.”
“Excuse me? It’s been almost three months, thank you.”
“Where you’re concerned that’s pretty much the same thing,” he retorted. “And it’s dark, Bibs. Worse, you don’t even know where you’re going! For all you know you could end up in a not-very-salubrious part of town. Truly, I think you need to reconsider.”
Bibbie pulled on a battered old pair of gauntlet-style driving gloves. “I don’t.”
“Then at least you should let me come with you.”
“ No.”
“I think it’s quite interesting,” said Melissande, “that you’re not showing the least bit of concern for my welfare.”
“Yes, well,” said Monk, harassed, “you’re not my sister.”
“And a good thing too,” said Reg. “Or things might be a bit awkward.”
They were standing in the rear court of Monk’s Chatterly Crescent establishment. Once upon a time, before the invention of the thaumic engine, the rear court had been the stable yard. But the stables had been converted to woodwormed storage sheds and a single falling-down garage, which housed the battered jalopy that Great-uncle Throgmorton had left behind when he died. All the house’s back lights were on, casting everything into varying shades of black and white. Reg sat on the jalopy’s bug-eyed left headlight, feathers plumped against the night’s chill.
Monk looked at Melissande, his gaze owlish with distraction. “Please, Mel, don’t take me the wrong way. It’s just that if anything happens to you my parents aren’t going to come after me with a shotgun.”
She smiled her very thinnest smile. “True. But my brother might well come after you with an army borrowed
