Bloody hell, Gerald. What did you do?
“Shut it down, Mr. Markham,” Sir Alec said quietly. “It’s an old machine, and right now it’s the only reliable long distance thaumatograph we’ve got.”
“Yeah-yeah-in a second,” he said, not taking his eyes off the recording crystal. He was pushing, he knew he was pushing, but a partial recording of what had just happened in New Ottosland wasn’t enough. He needed to know the whole story. Without the whole story he might not be able to help Gerald. Besides, the recording was nearly finished. Just a bit more-a bit more “Mr. Markham.”
“Nearly, Sir Alec. Nearly. If I can just-”
But no, he couldn’t just. With a snap and a sizzle and a belch of choking smoke the Abercrombie Eleven Etheretic Thaumatograph (1843 Patent Pending) emitted a grinding groan and started dripping melted copper onto the floor.
Reg flapped cursing into the air. “You stark raving nutter, Monk! Now look what you’ve done!”
Oh bugger bugger bugger bugger Heedless of the gut-churning agitated ether, of splattering copper and acrid smoke and the risk of imminent explosion, of Lord Attaby’s protests and Uncle Ralph’s incoherent fury, seeing only the fleeting look of despair on Melissande’s face in the heartbeat before she managed to regain her self- control, he flung himself at the dangerously overburdened thaumatograph.
Sir Alec stared at him from the other side of the monitor, his nondescript face calm, his eyes narrowed and cold as mid-winter.
“We have less than two minutes in which to balance the etheretic energies, Mr. Markham,” he said, as though he was commenting on the weather. “And then there’s going to be a rather large explosion. So let’s not dally, shall we?”
Monk nodded. “Right. After you, Sir Alec.”
And on a blind leap of faith they plunged their potentias into the etheretic maelstrom engulfing the thaumatograph.
Heat and cold and bright, bright colors. The stink of burned ether and the emptiness of freezing thaumic particles. Dimly he felt Sir Alec’s presence as the senior wizard wrestled with the monitor’s etheretic balances, thrown so far off-kilter by whatever had happened in distant New Ottosland. Recognizing a superior discipline, if not exactly a superior potentia, he followed Sir Alec’s disciplined lead.
“ Ease back on the throttle a trifle, Mr. Markham,” Sir Alec’s ghostly voice whispered. “ Just because you have it is no reason to use it. ”
What? And then he realized he was pouring all of his potentia at the problem. Letting his fears overtake his good judgment.
“ Sorry,” he said, his own voice ghostly, and hastily readjusted his response.
“ Good,” said Sir Alec. “ Now let’s make a cradle, shall we? ”
It felt damn peculiar, linking his potentia with that of a wizard he knew only by mysterious reputation and had never even spoken to before today. This kind of intricate, complicated thaumic working was usually reserved for wizards who’d had time to familiarize themselves with the quirks and foibles of a colleague’s thaumic signature. Incautious collaborations could-and often did-lead to nasty accidents.
But he and Sir Alec didn’t have time for the thaumaturgic niceties.
A small, observing part of himself marveled at the other man’s icy control. He’d never felt anything like it. The precision of application, the razor-keen mastery of thaumic energies, the deftness of his touch as he honed and narrowed his focus, imposing his implacable will upon the machine that with luck held the key to the conundrum that was Gerald Dunwoody.
Mysterious Sir Alec had just become a whole lot mysteriouser.
With their potentias neatly melded, not a hint of incipient collapse or rejection, they eased the thaumic cradle they’d created around the damaged thaumatograph. Used their blended etheretic energies like glue, sealing the breaches that threatened to explode the vitally important monitor. Its copper wires stopped melting. Its innards stopped belching noxious smoke. The hysterical inked needles ceased their flailing and the recording crystal, undamaged, settled back in its slot.
With a final mechanical groan and a cooling plink plink plink, with scant seconds remaining, the roiled etheretic energies within and surrounding the thaumatograph smoothed out. A heartbeat later came an odd pulling sensation, like a knot coming untied, and their two linked potentias slithered apart.
Very slowly, panting, Monk unscrunched his eyes. “Did we do it? I think we did it. Didn’t we?”
“It would appear so,” said Sir Alec. The only hint that he’d just exerted himself was a slight roughness around the edges of his voice. He cleared his throat. “Nicely done, Mr. Markham.”
“Blimey bloody Charlie!” said Reg, perched on top of a nearby newer-fangled and now defunct monitor. “You cut that a bit close, didn’t you? What were you trying to do, give me a conniption?”
Ignoring the damn bird-how was it Gerald hadn’t throttled her by now? — Monk shook his head. “I think you did most if it, Sir Alec. I was pretty much just along for the ride.”
“Humility, Mr. Markham?” Sir Alec’s thin lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “You surprise me. I wasn’t under the impression you possessed any.”
Oh ha very ha. Fishing in his pocket for the recording of Gerald’s Level Twelve transmog, he risked a glance at Melissande. She was so pale all her freckles stood out like fallen leaves on a snowfield. Even without a magnifying glass he thought he could count every last one of them. Her peculiar brother had his arm about her shoulders, holding on tight. Another risky glance, this time at Uncle Ralph and Lord Attaby, made his heart thud uncomfortably hard. Identical frowns and clenched jaws held the promise of much astringent lecturing in his immediate future.
Not wanting to think about that he hurriedly paid attention to the old thaumatograph. Chancing burned fingers he plucked the recording crystal out of its slot. Ouch, yes, it was hot, but since he wasn’t bursting into flames… He closed his grip around it and took a quick surface reading. Oh yes, there was Gerald and his oddly altered thaumic signature.
How about that? I did it. The entire unprecedented catastrophic thaumaturgic event safely recorded for posterity. Ha! Monk Markham strikes again.
But his pleasure didn’t last long.
Bloody hell, Gerald. What did you do?
“Well?” Reg demanded. “What’s it say? Don’t just stand there gawping, sunshine! What’s Gerald done now?”
“ Reg- ” He pulled a face at her. “I don’t know yet. I don’t even know if Gerald’s behind what’s gone wrong.”
The lie was told before he knew it-but it didn’t much matter. The truth couldn’t be hidden. It was a stopgap. A way of catching his breath. Of giving him time to figure a way to save Gerald from the fallout. Or as much of the fallout as he could manage. He could feel Sir Alec and Uncle Ralph and Lord Attaby, all three of them sharply staring. Did they believe him?
Somehow… I think not.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Reg squawked, tail feathers rattling. “ Find out, you wretched boy!”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Melissande, “but I agree with the bird. Stop congratulating yourself, Mr. Markham, and read that bloody crystal! Or I swear I’ll forget I’m not the new Queen of New Ottosland and send out for an ax!”
Startled, he stared at her. Flinched and stepped back as insane King Lional’s sister, the unexpected love of his life, glared at him with the heat of a thousand newborn suns.
Oh. Right. So she’s not joking. Fine. I can take a hint when it’s threatening to cut my head off.
Feeling a colder regard, he shifted his gaze to Sir Alec. “What?”
Sir Alec came around the monitor to stand uncomfortably close. “Let’s stop this juvenile pretending, shall we, Mr. Markham? Either your friend has caused this catastrophic event or he’s been caught up in it. Either way he’s in dire trouble. Your friend, Mr. Markham, is what you might call an untidiness. A dangerous untidiness. I wonder-are you ready for what will likely happen next?”
Mouth dry, throat closing, he took another step back. “Next? What are you talking about? Are you implying Gerald’s in-that the government might-that he might-” Suddenly he remembered Uncle Ralph’s inebriated
