scared of you and your little box of tricks? Your charter and your rules mean bugger all to me. So why don’t you stop huffing and puffing and making threats we both know you can’t keep and get your nose out of my private business!”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Gonegal, after a long and frigid silence. “But I don’t believe you and I have been formally introduced.”
“We haven’t been formally anythinged,” said the other Gerald. “But who cares? It doesn’t matter who I am. All that matters is what I want. And what I want, Viceroy, is for you to bugger off. I’m expecting an important communication and you’re getting in the way. Don’t call again unless it’s to discuss how you and the rest of the UMN are going to serve Ottosland’s interests.”
Gerald, trying hard not to swallow his tongue, watched his counterpart disconnect from Viceroy Gonegal with a snap of his fingers, then sweep Bibbie into his embrace for an extravagant kiss. Far from being embarrassed by such intimacy in front of practically an entire government, and only one of them family, Bibbie laughed and wound her arms enthusiastically around his neck.
Attaby closed his eyes and waited, like a brutally trained dog.
Turning away, because while he did want Bibbie he did not want that, Gerald thrust his fisted hands into his pockets and crossed to the window. He could feel the shadbolted men’s hungry, disbelieving gazes follow him.
For pity’s sake, don’t look at me like that. I can’t help you. I’m sorry.
Letting his sweat-damp forehead come to rest against the window’s cool glass, he stared down into Government Street many stories below. He knew it was Government Street because he could see the Treasury Building, with its distinctive red and blue sandstone bricks and enormous, imposing brass-bound front door. If not for that, though, he’d have been hard-pressed to name it. Government Street was one of Ott’s main thoroughfares; he was used to seeing it chockful of cars and carriages and businessmen and civil servants and government officials and messenger-boys racing up and down on foot and pushbike, tending to weighty matters of state. Even on working days the foot paths were clogged with sightseers ooohing and aaaahing and pointing excited fingers. But this Ott’s Government Street was eerily empty. Three carriages, one black car, a handful of scuttling pedestrians-and no sightseers. Was it his imagination or even so high up, and inside this impotent Cabinet room, could he feel the city’s ambient fear? He thought he could. He thought that if he closed his eyes and listened hard he’d be able to hear the weeping and the stifled gasps of terror.
Another armed airship ghosted by, its shadow blotting out the fitful sun.
How long has it been since New Ottosland, and Lional? Just over a year? How could so much go so wrong in a year? Are we truly so fragile? Do peace and safety really dangle by such a brittle thread?
Apparently, they did.
Behind him he heard Bibbie utter a deep, petulant sigh. “Gerald, I’m hungry,” she complained. “It’s past lunch time, you know. Government House has a dining room, doesn’t it? Why can’t they feed us? They really should feed us.”
“Bibbie, don’t be a nuisance,” said the other Gerald, impatient. “Weren’t you listening? I’m expecting a call from President Damooj!”
Another sigh. “Yes, Gerald, I know you are. Only have you forgotten it’s practically midnight in Babishkia? President Damooj will be fast asleep.”
The ether trembled with the other Gerald’s displeasure. “He’s got no bloody business sleeping. Not when I’m here waiting for his oath of fealty.”
His what? Gerald turned around. “You’re expecting Babishkia to cede its sovereignty to you?”
The other Gerald smiled. “Actually, I’m expecting a lot of things, Professor. But yes, that would be one of them.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Well, let’s hope for their sake that they don’t,” said the other Gerald. Then he looked at Bibbie. “You’re really hungry, Bibs?”
Bibbie pouted. “ Famished. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“Oh dear,” said the other Gerald, grinning. “We can’t have that, can we? All right. We’ll go to the dining room and they can feed us an extravagant lunch. You, me and the Professor. But if after that President Damooj still hasn’t called?” Another ominous tremble in the ether. “Well. All I can say is I’ll be glad that I don’t live in Babishkia.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, Professor. We’re going to eat.”
The thought of food was revolting, but there was no question of refusal. Silent and nauseous, not looking at Ottosland’s shadbolted government, Gerald followed them out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Because they didn’t know what else to do with him, they’d put the other Monk in Gerald’s bedroom, on his bed, covered him head to toe with a respectful sheet and closed the door. Then they’d gone back downstairs to the kitchen, where Melissande made tea and buttered toast and they sat around not drinking or eating and waited for Sir Alec to tell them what to do next.
Brooding over his cold, greasy bread, Monk made himself not stare at the kitchen ceiling.
I’m dead. I’m dead up there. That’s not right. He didn’t come all this way just to die. He came so I could save him. But I didn’t. I think I killed him.
“Oy,” said Reg, slumpingly perched on the back of the chair beside him. “Don’t you dare start with that nonsense, sunshine.”
He blinked at her. “How could you possibly know what-”
“Don’t make me laugh,” the wretched bird retorted. “I can read your face with my eyes closed, can’t I?”
“She’s right,” said Bibbie, quiet and composed with tears running and running and running down her face. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Yes, it was,” said Melissande, beside her. “It was the other Gerald’s fault.”
Oh, God. Gerald. Midnight was hours behind them. It would be dawn in a while. The sun was going to rise on a world without Gerald Dunwoody in it.
Reg hiccuped, hunched and feather-fluffed. “My poor boy. I always said he never should’ve got himself mixed up with that government stooge. Didn’t I always say it? Didn’t I say nothing good would come of him gallivanting around the world sticking his nose into other people’s nefarious business?”
“Yes, Reg, and you keep on saying it, but that’s not what happened, is it?” said Bibbie. Did she know she was crying? It didn’t seem that she did. “At least, we don’t know for sure. I mean, it’s not like you’ve any proof this is Sir Alec’s fault.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Oh. Right. Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve decided to go sweet on him, have you, ducky? The dashing and mysterious older man mistake.” She sniffed. “And here’s me thinking you were smarter than that.”
“ What? ” said Bibbie, outraged, and threw a discarded teaspoon across the table at her. “Sweet on Sir Alec? Are you out of your mind?”
“Oh, don’t even start! ” snapped Melissande. “Put a sock in it, the pair of you! It’s bad enough we don’t know what’s happened to Gerald. But if you two are going to carry on like children you can bloody well go to your rooms!”
As Bibbie opened her mouth to argue, Monk raised a challenging eyebrow at her. Pulling a face she gave up, and slumped a little deeper into her chair.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m thinking it can’t be a coincidence that the other me turned up here around the same time Gerald disappeared on the way to Grande Splotze. Especially since everything points to him not being in our world any more.”
“So what are you saying?” said Bibbie. “That their Monk crossed over here-and our Gerald crossed over there?”
“I think it’s absolutely possible, yes.”
“But how?” said Melissande. “The other you jiggered his portable portal opener to get here. Exactly how
