lizards into dragons at the behest of insanely despotic tyrants.”
Bastard. “That isn’t what happened!”
Mysterious Sir Alec breathed out a whispery sigh. “Your loyalty is admirable, Mr. Markham, but we both know it’s precisely what happened.”
With an effort he kept his fingers from fisting. Made himself not look at Melissande and Reg. “There were mitigating circumstances.”
“Which will be discussed in full once Mr. Dunwoody has returned to Ottosland,” said Lord Attaby, at his most repressive. “And most likely taken into account. But that is a discussion for another day, Mr. Markham.”
Yes. Right. In other words Get on with it.
And Lord Attaby had a point. Even now Gerald could be locked in a desperate battle for his life. Waiting for him. Relying on him.
I never should’ve let him talk me into leaving.
Standing adrift amidst the Department’s sea of thaumaturgical monitoring equipment, he took a deep breath to steady his thumping heart. “Have we got a recording of the event on a machine that hasn’t been melted?”
Sir Alec swept his keen gaze around the cramped, crowded room then nodded. “Try that one.”
That one was probably the oldest thaumatograph still in use anywhere in the Department-or possibly the civilized wizarding world. Oversized and clunky, its plain copper wiring antiquated, it hulked in the corner, largely overlooked these days. The latest-model thaumatographs employed wiring composed mostly of brinbindium, newly discovered in the darkest jungles of Ramatoosh. Highly etheretically conductive, a little temperamental, prone to spontaneous reverse thaumaturgic fluctuations, yes-but terrifically sensitive to the most minuscule of etheretic fluctuations.
Which is possibly why the new monitors tossed in the towel once they picked up the goings-on in New Ottosland.
“Well, Mr. Markham?” said Lord Attaby, shifted from repressive to impatient. “Can you do this or can’t you? Time is fast slipping through our fingers, you know!”
“Sorry, sorry, my lord, yes, I do know,” he muttered, and wriggled his way between the crammed-in desks and gooified modern thaumatographs to the aged pile of copper wiring, circuits and gears that was the Abercrombie Eleven Etheretic Thaumatograph (1843 Patent Pending). “If you’d give me a moment-”
“There are no moments remaining, Monk,” said Uncle Ralph, sounding tense. “Now prove yourself a Markham and get the job done! We need to know what’s going on in New Ottosland!”
He risked a single glance at Melissande, defiantly ramrod straight beside her odd brother. She slayed him. Tart-tongued and bossy and horrifyingly self-sufficient. Everything a well-bred girl wasn’t supposed to be. Her eyes met his and his heart banged like a hammer.
I’m going to save her kingdom for her.
With a loud flustering of wings Reg joined him at the thaumatograph. “So, Mr. Clever Clogs, can you really do this or are you just flapping your lips for the exercise?”
Offended, he looked down his nose at her. “What do you think?”
“I think we’re all going to get terminal indigestion if you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, sunshine.”
Bloody hell. How did Gerald stand it? “D’you mind? I’m Monk Markham.”
“Oh, really?” Reg fixed him with a glittering stare. “And what else would you like engraved on your headstone if this doesn’t work and my Gerald ends up paying the price for your thoughtless meddling in his life?”
Oh, God. Gerald. He had to look away. Pretend interest in the old monitor before him. “He’s my best friend too, Reg. Don’t you know there’s nothing I won’t do to save him?”
Reg sniffed. “I never said your heart wasn’t in the right place, sunshine. But this?” She shook her head. “It’s never been done.”
“Well, you know what they say, Reg,” he retorted, flicking the Abercrombie’s switches to stand-by. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“And that includes blowing yourself to smithereens!” the dreadful bird retorted. “Which is a first and last time event, my boy.” She tipped her head and glared at him, dark eyes bright with irritated frustration. “Or hadn’t you thought of that, Mr. Genius?”
A betraying bead of sweat trickled down his temple. “Of course I’ve bloody thought of it, Reg. Now would you please be quiet? I need to concentrate.”
“Need your head examined’s more like it,” she snapped. “Now what can I do to help?”
He stared at her. “Gosh, Reg. I don’t know. Let me think. Hey, here’s an idea. Maybe you could shut up?”
“Mr. Markham…”
And that was Sir Alec, using his voice like a cattle prod.
“ Please, Reg,” he muttered. “Gerald’s life depends on me getting this right.”
And those were the magic words. The bloody bird shut up.
Everybody was staring at him again, waiting for him to pull a thaumaturgical miracle out of his… hat. The air in the small, closed room trembled with tension, the atmosphere taut like a thunderstorm waiting to break. Bloody hell, Dunnywood. The things I do for you. Willing his hand steady he selected an empty recording crystal from a tray on the table beside the Abercrombie and slotted it into place. The old thaumatograph beeped once and started to hum. That was his cue to bang his fist on the replay button, pass his hand over the recording crystal to activate it and then monitor the readout closely for signs of brewing trouble. Close to holding his breath, he watched the etheretic gauge’s needles jump and the ink squiggle on the paper and the etheretic transducer crystals flash orange, then red, then a brighter red until they glowed like the heart of an overheated sun. The ’graph’s blank and colorless recording crystal began to shimmer, then blush. Pale pink. Dark pink. Now shading to bright red. To crimson.
He could feel the build up of energy within the crystal’s confines, feel the rising stresses on its matrix. The Department used only the best recording crystals, but even so…
His long hair started to stir, prickles of thaumic energy nipping over his skin. Deep in his bones he felt an answering thrum. In his blood, a growing incandescence.
“Oy,” said Reg, feathers nervously rustling. “Mr. Clever Clogs. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
And neither did he, but there was no turning back. The air around the old thaumatograph shivered as the invisible ether started to dance. Then the recording crystal began to vibrate, protesting the speed and density of information being funneled into it. He heard a thin high note of stress, a diamond chip scraping glass.
“Mr. Markham-”
“Almost there, Lord Attaby,” he said, lifting one hand. “Just a few more seconds.”
“We might not have a few more seconds, Monk!” Uncle Ralph retorted. “Now shut the damn thing off before-”
“I can’t,” he said, as the recording crystal continued to protest. “I need every scrap of information on the event that the monitor captured.”
“But-”
“It’s all right, Uncle Ralph. Don’t lose your nerve now.”
Uncle Ralph spluttered. “Lose my nerve? Lose my nerve? You arrogant young whippersnapper, who d’you think you are, talking to me like I’m some-”
“Mr. Markham.”
He nearly leaped clean out of his shoes. How did Sir Alec do that? Creep so close without so much as stirring the air? What was it, some kind of secret thaumaturgical stealth enhancement?
And where can I get one? Or maybe I could whip up a version of it for myself…
“Oy, bugalugs,” said Reg, always so helpful. “Don’t look now but your recording crystal’s about to go kablooey.”
Ignoring the bird and the disconcerting Sir Alec, he turned back to the thaumatograph. Reg was right, damn her eyes. The recording crystal was edging towards black now, rattling in its slot on the shuddering machine. The etheretic gauge’s inky needles skewed wildly across the unspooling paper, scrawling a terrifying warning of things gone madly awry half way around the world.
