“Good,” said Monk. “I’m happy to hear it.”
“Really?” he said, considering his friend closely. “Because you don’t look happy. You look like a cat that lost the canary. You’re not still bothered about the thaumaturgic limit, are you? Because that’ll be lifted in no time, Monk. The whole bloody thing’s a storm in a teacup anyway. It’s politics. Face-saving. If you weren’t a Markham I’ll bet nobody would’ve said boo.”
“I know,” said Monk. “It’s not that. And anyway, I’ve fiddled a way around the bloody limiting, haven’t I? Because I am a Markham and we never say die.” He pulled a face. “We might say ouch a lot while they’re trying to beat us to a bloody pulp but the fateful word die doth never pass our lips.”
“Then what is it?” he asked. “If it’s not the bureaucrats playing silly buggers-what’s the matter?”
Monk rolled his head on the armchair and stared into the fireplace. The flames’ warm, reddish glow cast deep shadows and remolded his face. He looked much older all of a sudden, solemn and serious and nothing like himself.
“Plummer wants me to make him a new shadbolt-breaker.”
Odd. Given Monk’s work in R amp;D, that didn’t seem to be an unreasonable or even an unusual request. At least not unreasonable or unusual enough to explain his friend’s out-of-character low spirits.
He frowned. “Plummer?”
“You don’t know him?” said Monk, eyebrows lifting. “Huh. I thought you knew him. He’s Errol’s new boss.”
Errol. Gerald felt his nerves twitch. Bloody Errol Haythwaite. I could live the rest of my life quite happily never hearing that name again. “We don’t mix with the domestic agency, you know that. Besides, I’m under strict instructions to stay well away from him. As far as I’m concerned, Errol Haythwaite’s dead.”
“I know,” said Monk, and shifted his somber gaze back to the flames. “Still. I thought you might’ve-ah-”
“What? Ignored a point-blank order and be keeping tabs on him under the table?” He shook his head. “No, Monk. You’re the one who likes living dangerously. I’m the one trying to keep his nose clean.”
Monk’s half-smile acknowledged the hit. “He’s doing pretty well, actually. Our old chum Errol. Flying through the domestic agency’s training program like a witch on a broom.”
And that made him smile. “I wouldn’t use language like that where Melissande or Reg can hear you. Not unless you want to get poked in the unmentionables. And what the devil are you doing, Monk, spying on Errol? Are you a glutton for punishment? Do you want to get suspended, or worse?”
“Hey,” said Monk, with a trace of his usual energy. “Nobody ordered me to pretend Errol’s dead. And I don’t trust that smarmy bugger. The way he weaseled out of what happened with the portal network-”
Oh lord, not again. “Monk, he wasn’t responsible for what happened with the portal network.”
Monk stared in outraged disbelief. “How can you say that, Gerald? He practically colluded with that bastard Haf Rottlezinder!”
“No, he didn’t. And can we please change the subject? Defending Errol Haythwaite makes me want to throw up.”
“Ha! Then don’t defend him!”
“ Monk…”
“Fine, all right, sorry,” Monk muttered, slumping again. “But you’re bloody unbelievable, Dunnywood. Is there a vacancy in the Pantheon of Saints or something?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Now, about this Plummer and the shadbolt-breaker he wants you to whip up for him. What’s that about? I was under the impression the Department’s awash with shadbolt-breaking incants.”
Monk nodded, morose. “It is. At least, we have plenty that’ll break an ordinary shadbolt. But-”
“I won’t breathe a word,” he said, as Monk hesitated. “If this is classified. But if you’d rather not risk it that’s fine. No offense taken.”
“Idiot,” said Monk, giving him a look. “I’m just… ordering my thoughts. The thing is, Plummer’s people brought someone in for questioning but he’s shadbolted to the eyebrows and they can’t unbind the bloody thing without killing him. Everybody who’s anybody in Plummer’s outfit has had a crack at it-and they’ve all failed. Seems the wizard who designed it is the same nasty bastard who helped Permelia Wycliffe with her black market magics. The wizard in custody’s one of his minions. And since Permelia’s completely off her trolley and there’s no sign of her climbing back onto it any time soon, that means she can’t tell us anything about him. And since Plummer’s only lead to him is this shadbolted lackey, well-they’re in a pickle.”
“And they want you to unpickle them? Well. It’s a compliment, I suppose.”
Monk snorted. “Some compliment.” With a flourish he finished his brandy. “You won’t have heard, Plummer and his lot are playing their cards close to their chests, but whoever this black market wizard is? Seems he’s not pussyfooting around. That tycoon the other day-Manizetto?”
He had to think for a moment. “I don’t-no, wait. Yes, I do. The man who tripped and fell in front of the bus in Central Ott?”
“The man who appeared to trip,” Monk said darkly. “Turns out he was hexed, courtesy of our mystery wizard-and you did not hear that from me. I’m telling you, mate, whoever this bastard is he’s got to be stopped. Which means I’ve got to unbind the shadbolt on Plummer’s prisoner without harming a greasy hair on his head.”
Gerald whistled. “You’re right. I take it back. It wasn’t a compliment. What are you going to do?”
“Well…” Monk tossed his emptied brandy glass from hand to hand, frowning. “As luck would have it the weasely little minion was carrying a spare shadbolt on him-of course, he won’t say why-but the only way to unravel the incant’s matrix is to muck about with it while it’s active. And as hard as this might be to believe, I couldn’t find anyone who was willing to let me shadbolt them so I could play.”
Even though this wasn’t funny, he still had to chuckle. “No, really? Mr. Markham, I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked.”
“Yeah, well,” said Monk, and pulled a face. “Smart ass.”
They grinned at each other, and for a moment the shadows seemed to lift.
“So,” he said, spuriously casual, “I don’t suppose you brought the spare shadbolt home with you?”
Monk contrived to look outraged. “Mr. Dunwoody, how can you even suggest such a thing? Removing a sensitive piece of evidence from Department premises would be against the rules! ” He put down the empty glass and slid out of the chair. “Don’t move. I’ll just nip upstairs and fetch it.”
But he did move, to the drinks trolley, and splashed a little more brandy into each of their glasses. Monk returned to the parlor soon after, carrying a small, innocuous-looking wooden box.
“Blimey,” he said, still holding the brandy glasses, as Monk unlocked and opened it. A sick, protesting surge in the ether churned echoes in his gut. “That’s nasty.”
“Told you,” said Monk, staring at the shadbolt-crystal nestled in a cradle of old lamb’s wool. “Have a read of it, Gerald, and tell me what you think.”
But before he could put down the glasses and take the small box, the parlor door flew open and Bibbie rushed in. “What is that? Monk, what the devil are you playing with?”
“Oh,” said Monk, blankly. “Bibbie. I thought you were mucking about with your silly ethergenics.”
Bibbie had changed out of her lovely peach-colored muslin day dress into a shapeless green cotton shirt and baggy tweed trews- curse you, Melissande- and had covered up most of both with a stained and slightly charred thaumaturgist’s apron. Her long golden hair was bundled haphazardly into a scarf.
“Forget it, Monk,” she snapped, her glorious sapphire eyes alight with temper. “You’re not going to distract me with a cheap shot like that.” She pointed at the hex box. “Powerful witch, remember? Etheretic sensitivity rating right off the charts? Now what is that abomination doing in this house?”
Monk dragged his fingers through his floppy hair. “Rats,” he muttered. “Bibbie-go back upstairs, would you? Please? And forget you ever saw this.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” she said, folding her arms. “Perhaps if you’d been a little less sarky about my ethergenics-”
“ Please, Bibbie!” said Monk, alarmingly close to desperate. “This isn’t a joke. It’s bloody dangerous. I can’t have you-”
“You’re telling me it’s bloody dangerous,” Bibbie snapped. Nose delightfully wrinkled, she stepped closer to the hex-box and stared at the hazelnut-sized black crystal inside it. “And more than that it’s familiar.” She looked up. “This was made by the same wizard who made Permelia Wycliffe those fake jewels and the hex she used to
