ball, a telephone, an ink pot, a selection of pens and pencils and some drawing instruments: compass, slide rule, thaumic protractor and an etheretic plumb-bob. Beside the desk was an oversized filing cabinet, designed to house Errol’s top-secret airship and thaumic engine designs.
But before he explored that likely target for proof of theft, he took a moment to get the feel of the office’s etheretic ambience. Rather like a strong perfume, thaumic signatures lingered, sometimes for weeks, if their inherent strength was impressive enough. And the black market wizard who’d designed the hexes Permelia-or whoever was behind the thefts-had used to steal Errol’s work was no weakling Third Grader, that much he knew for certain.
He may be a genius but he’s a bloody menace, too. I wonder if Sir Alec will let me hunt him down when this is over? Unless of course it was Rottlezinder. In which case…
It was a possibility that hadn’t occurred to him. But it would make a kind of twisted sense… as well as provide more proof against Permelia.
Slowly, carefully, holding his breath in case he inadvertently set off one of the laboratory’s etheretic sensors, Gerald unfurled his potentia and let it taste the air.
Yes. There was Errol, sharp as snow on the wind, a bitter, biting essence of power. No warmth in his thaumic signature at all. Muddying all around it, the faint scents of other wizards who’d been summoned to his presence over the past week or two. Robert Methven, in particular. His potentia was tinged with anxiety… which wasn’t surprising. Being Errol’s direct underling would make anyone sweat.
Frowning lightly, Gerald pushed a little harder. There had to be a trace of the black market wizard in here. A hint of him… a suggestion… a shadow…
Yes. There it was. Subtle. Elusive. A potentia he’d never encountered before-which meant not Haf Rottlezinder. Damn. Nor did it belong to any of Wycliffe’s R amp;D wizards. He fished the fake diamonds out of his pocket, closed his fist around them and inhaled. Yes. There it was again. The same sour etheretic aftertaste. Powerful. Very powerful.
Raised voices in the lab beyond the office had him jumping. He leapt back to the door to see what was going on, but it was only another argument between Second Graders Spinkniz and Nye. Idiots. All those two had in common were a lab bench and a bad temper.
So he wasn’t unmasked. But he really had to get moving, before his precarious situation here deteriorated further. Time to check out Errol’s precious airship designs.
He risked one last check of the lab complex. Spinkniz and Nye had lapsed into sullen silence, and no-one at all was looking his way. Not even Japhet Morgan, who’d been a sort of, kind of, friend. A fellow sufferer in Third Grade adversity, anyway. Wasn’t that supposed to count for something?
Apparently not.
So, Wycliffe’s wizards were busily at work and Robert Methven was nowhere in sight. Hopefully he was up to his eyeballs in an experiment and had forgotten about the appalling Gerald Dunwoody.
Easing back from the door, Gerald turned and headed for Errol’s filing cabinet. Used one of his newly acquired incants to unhex it, slid the top drawer open, pulled out the first sheaf of blueprints and ran his fingers lightly across them. No. No. No. No. Yes. The same thaumic signature as he’d felt in the fake diamonds, almost too faint to detect. He triggered a recording incant, recited the design code number, then checked the last two designs.
Nothing.
Putting those designs back, he pulled out the next file’s worth. No. No. Yes. Yes. No. No.
Another pile. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. No.
And another. No. No. No. No.
Errol had certainly been busy. Six new airship designs, from small personal craft to enormous public carriers. And no less than three new engine designs, all building on the innovations he was trying out in the Ambrose Mark VI.
Blimey. If Errol managed to get even half of these to work, public transport would be revolutionised. Even if the portal network survived, and thrived, there was still a lot of potential in the designs.
Of course… there was even more potential for creating a truly formidable and terrifying military fleet.
Gerald swallowed. With designs like this in the hands of war-hungry Jandria, the world would be in mortal danger. The reminder was nasty: after the harmless fluffiness of Eudora Telford, a prick in the side with a smooth, cold knife.
This isn’t a game, Dunwoody. You’re a janitor. Get the job done.
Heart thudding just a little bit faster, he pulled out the last set of Errol’s drawings, and was amazed all over again to see the ideas that had sprung from Errol’s fertile imagination. Pillock or not, Haythwaite had enormous talent. So had the thief plundered these, too? No. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And this time the thaumic signature was practically buzzing. However Permelia Wycliffe had done it-and he was convinced Ambrose’s sister was behind this, no matter how far-fetched the idea-whatever copying incant or thaumic gizmo she’d managed to get made for her, it had been used on these drawings within the last twelve to fourteen hours. Which absolutely tied in with the period between his and Errol’s journey to South Ott, and their subsequent return.
Things weren’t looking too good for Ambrose’s sister.
He loaded the recording incant into one of Errol’s pencils and shoved it deep in his inside coat pocket for safekeeping. Then he crossed to the desk and stared at the crystal ball. A pity he didn’t know Errol’s password. Of course he could probably smash through it but that would likely set off the lab’s alarms. So-time to use Sir Alec’s very private phone number again.
“ Mister Dunwoody. How nice to hear from you at last.”
Oh, ouch. Sir Alec’s tone was so sharp it was a wonder there wasn’t blood dripping from his ear. “Sir Alec, I don’t have long. I’m sorry. Is Monk there?”
“ Yes.”
“And Miss Eudora Telford?”
“ Yes. Where are you, Mister Dunwoody? ”
“In Errol’s office. I’ve found the link between the stolen plans and the fake gemstones-um, do you know about the-”
“ Yes, Mister Dunwoody. I have been apprised of recent developments.”
And, making a wild guess, Sir Alec wasn’t thrilled. Bugger. “Oh. Good. Well, sir, everything ties together. The plans, the gemstones and Permelia Wyc-”
“Mister Dunwoody, what are you doing?” demanded a horrified voice.
Gerald spun round, swallowing a curse. Now? You had to choose now to see if we could be friends? “ Oh- Japhet-ah-I was just-”
“Mister Methven! Mister Methven!” shouted Japhet Morgan, backing out of the office. “You were right! Gerald Dunwoody is up to no good! He’s in here using Mister Haythwaite’s telephone!”
Gerald strangled a groan. “ Damn,” he said, and put the receiver back to his ear. “Sorry, Sir Alec. Things are about to get a little bit awkward. If you don’t mind, I’ll call you back.”
And he hung up before he learned whether Sir Alec agreed with that plan or not.
A moment later, Robert Methven stormed into Errol’s office. “ Right, Dunwoody, you snivelling incompetent toad! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Melissande stood in front of Miss Petterly’s desk and let the foaming waves of vitriol wash over her, unchecked. According to the clock on the office wall, Miss Petterly had been haranguing her for twenty minutes without a breath, and furthermore showed no sign whatsoever of running out of invective any time soon.
Silly cow. I could have caught up on half the work I’ve missed by now if she’d just shut up and let me get to my cubicle.
Behind her she could feel the avid, straining curiosity of all the other Wycliffe gels, who never failed to be entertained by someone else’s misfortune. Even the office boy had stopped trundling his squeaky-wheeled cart up and down the aisles between the horrible grey cubicles.
Behind Miss Petterly, in Permelia Wycliffe’s office, Permelia and her brother Ambrose were once again at odds. In fact, they were so much at odds that Permelia hadn’t closed her blinds properly. She could see bits of them railing at each other. The partially unshrouded glass and the depth of their mutual anger meant it was much easier this time to work out what they were fighting over… although Miss Petterly’s shrill shrieking did make
