“Now,” said Lord Attaby, his expression forbidding, “I can see we have yet another crisis to contain. I take it this isn’t a mere trained talking bird?”
“Far from it,” said Sir Alec. His voice and face were impassive but there was a definite gleam in his chilly gray eyes. “In fact, my lord, upon a closer examination, I think you’ll find this isn’t a bird at all.”
Lord Attaby stared at him. “Not a bird? What are you talking about man, it’s got feathers. And a beak.”
“True,” said Sir Alec. “But appearances can be deceiving-can’t they, Your Majesty?”
With a puffing effort Reg wrenched herself free of Monk’s grip and flapped onto the oak conference table. Head tipped to one side, she gazed gimlet-eyed at him.
“Speaking from experience, are we, sunshine?”
“Something like that,” said Sir Alec, dry as a desert. “And when this current crisis is resolved I’m sure it will be most edifying to compare notes. But in the meantime-” He turned. “My lord, the bird might well prove useful to our cause. I suggest it accompanies us down to Priority Monitoring.”
Lord Attaby’s jaw dropped. “You suggest-” And then he shook his head. “Very well, Sir Alec. There’s no time for a lengthy debate-and Saint Snodgrass knows your instincts have proven sound in the past. But you can stand surety for its trustworthiness.”
Melissande held out her arm. “Come on, Reg. Let’s go.”
So Reg hopped onto her arm and from there to her shoulder and they all trooped down into the bowels of the Department of Thaumaturgy building, a stiff-backed Lord Attaby leading the way. The Priority Monitoring station was a small, windowless cubbyhole buried beneath floors and floors of less-secret government divisions. Almost every square foot was crammed full of cluttered desks and rickety chairs and extraordinary machines sprouting gauges and thaumostats and wiggly, jiggly thaumatographs. Some of them had indeed melted to goo.
“Everybody out,” Lord Attaby ordered, sweeping his goggle-eyed minions with a glare guaranteed to petrify wood. “In fact, go home. You’re relieved of duty until tomorrow. And not a word about any of this, do I make myself clear? Consider yourselves bound by the Official Secrets Act.”
A chorus of obedient Yes, sirs, and then the four astonished wizards, including Juby, departed before their superior could change his mind about the early mark.
“Right then,” said Lord Attaby, once they were alone. “Get on with it, Mr. Markham.”
As Monk stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, and Lord Attaby withdrew to quietly confer with Sir Alec and Sir Ralph, Melissande let Rupert tug her sideways for their own private conference.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly, smoothing a lock of hair behind her ear.
“No, of course I’m not,” she said, feeling snappish. Refusing to be charmed by his sweet, caring gesture. “Rupert, what’s going on? What’s happened to you?”
Rupert looked at Reg. “Do you mind?”
“Huh,” Reg said, sniffing. “All these public displays of affection. Not what I’d call royal, ducky.”
“Nobody asked you, Reg,” she said, and twitched her shoulder. “Get off. I want to hug my brother.”
“I don’t know,” Reg grumbled, and hopped onto the back of the nearest empty chair. “No decorum. That’s your problem, ducky. You’ve got no bloody decorum.”
Folded hard to Rupert’s skinny chest, surprised by the sudden wiry strength in his arms, she rested her cheek against his velvet coat and sighed.
“You knew all along there was something the matter with Lional, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid I did, yes, Melly,” said Rupert, his voice aching with regret. “Since I was a boy. Sorry. It wasn’t safe to tell you.”
There was so much she could have said. But what was the point? It wouldn’t change a single thing that had happened.
“Oh, Mel,” Rupert sighed. “I knew he was bad, and probably mad, but I never dreamed about the wizards.”
She tightened her embrace. “Oh, Rupes. None of this is your fault. And it’s not mine, either. This is Lional’s doing, all of it.”
“Mel…”
She could feel the tears crowding thickly in her throat. “I know,” she said, choking. “He has to be stopped. And if he won’t surrender willingly-”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Of course they could hope-but hope wasn’t exactly a fearsome weapon, was it? “What d’you suppose has happened back home?” she whispered. “D’you think it’s possible Gerald’s managed to-to kill him?”
Rupert shook his head. “I don’t know. Is Gerald the kind of chap who could bring himself to kill?”
Shamelessly eavesdropping, Reg snorted. “Blimey bloody Charlie. You won’t last five minutes as king with that kind of noddy thinking, Butterfly Boy. Every man jack in the world has got at least one murder in him. Justified or not, in cold blood or in hot. And after what your charming brother did to my Gerald-”
Melissande pulled out of her brother’s arms. Felt herself shudder, remembering what Gerald had told them in the cave. Seeing Rupert’s confusion, she patted his cheek.
“I’ll explain later, Rupes.”
Over at one of the terribly complicated thaumaturgical monitoring stations that hadn’t melted to goo, Monk sat back with a relieved sigh. “All right. The information’s still here.” He held up a small crystal. “I’ve copied it.”
“Very well,” said Lord Attaby, tight-lipped and tense. “What now?”
“Now, sir?” Monk wiped a shirt-sleeve across his sweaty face. “Now I figure out what the hell is going on in New Ottosland. I hope.”
CHAPTER FIVE
They were all staring at him: Melissande, Reg, New Ottosland’s unlikely-looking next king, Uncle Ralph, Lord Attaby-and Sir Alec.
Of them all, Sir Alec’s stare was the worst.
Sir Alec was one of those wizards often whispered about in dark corridors. Lots of rumor, very little fact. Once or twice Uncle Ralph, after partaking of his brother’s fine post-prandial brandy, had dropped mildly inebriated hints about the man’s secret, shadowy doings. Alluded to feats of thaumaturgical espionage and derring-do that could never be discussed in the cold light of day.
“There are some things, Monk my boy, you’ll be happier not knowing,” Uncle Ralph liked to say, waving a fat, confiding cigar for emphasis. “Truth be told, I wish I didn’t know ’em. Truth be told, between you and me, I don’t know how Alec sleeps at night.”
Because he was a Markham on his father’s side and a Thackeray on his mother’s he’d long ago lost count of how many pies his family’s fingers dabbled in, one way or another, but the upshot was that he knew a little something about the seamy underbelly of wizarding. He didn’t need details to guess the kind of nastiness his uncle hinted at. Especially if he let himself meet Sir Alec’s measured, steady gaze.
Which he didn’t. The man’s guarded gray eyes were far too disconcerting. Especially now, watching him prepare for a little thaumaturgical sleight-of-hand which-in theory-shouldn’t be possible.
But that’s what I do, isn’t it? I turn theory into fact. Even when-especially when-I’m not supposed to.
And to think his family had found it amusing when he was a child.
Feeling the wintry weight of Sir Alec’s regard, he tucked the small crystal containing an imprint of Gerald’s unauthorized Level Twelve transmog into his pocket and looked up.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
Sir Alec’s light brown eyebrows lifted. “I doubt it.”
Yeah? Well, Sir Alec, how’s this for size? “You’re thinking-the government’s thinking-that Gerald’s some kind of loose cannon. That he’s a menace. A danger to society-or even the world.” He scowled. “But you’re wrong. Gerald Dunwoody’s the most harmless wizard I ever knew. And the most decent.”
“In my experience,” said Sir Alec, not arguing, just observational, “decent, harmless wizards don’t turn
