regard still intent. “I’m not a compliance officer. I only want to know because it’s likely we’ll soon be engaging in some… questionable… thaumaturgics. Given the delicacy of our situation I’m concerned we don’t inadvertently mix our etheretic messages. The last thing we need tonight is a complication of consequences.”
Questionable thaumaturgics? What did that mean? “Oh. Right. Well, I’ve got a few things percolating at the moment, as it happens, but only one big project.” He swallowed. “A multi-dimensional etheretic wavelength expander.”
Sir Alec stared at him. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“A multi-dimensional expander.”
“Yes.”
“And you thought that was a good idea, did you? In some fevered flight of deranged fancy you thought that tampering with the etheretic boundaries between dimensions was a productive use of your time? Is that it?”
Oh, bugger. “I don’t know if I’d put it quite like that, sir, but-yes.”
“Why?”
“What?” he said, blinking.
“Why did you think it was a good idea, Mr. Markham?”
There was another flower pot handy and he really wanted to sit on it, but he didn’t dare. The look in Sir Alec’s eyes had him sweating.
“Sir Alec-it’s what I do,” he said, feeling helpless. “I make improbable things probable. I-think outside what’s known and accepted. That’s what Research and Development is. And when I ended up disproving Herbert and Lowe’s notion that sprites are just another postulation of theoretical thaumaturgical metaphysics, well, it got me thinking and-”
“I’m sorry, said Sir Alec, one finger raised. “You proved the existence of sprites?”
He swallowed again. “Well, yes. But not on purpose.”
Sir Alec took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. His cigarette, forgotten, slowly burned itself to death. “No. Of course not. And tell me, Mr. Markham, whose cherished theory were you intending to accidentally disprove with this wavelength expander of yours?”
“Nobody’s,” he said warily. “I just thought it might be a good idea to get a stronger grasp of interdimensional thaumaturgics. You know. What with the sprite, and everything.”
“Yes,” Sir Alec mused. “I find it’s the and everything part that has me pissing my pants.”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But-well-it’s not like anybody’s been hurt. And anyway, this is about exploration, Sir Alec. Exploration is always risky.”
Sir Alec nodded. “That’s true. But what is also true, Mr. Markham, is that you walk a fine line between bold and reckless. Genius is not infallible. Brilliance does not guarantee success.”
As if he didn’t know that. “So. Sir. Are you going to tell Uncle Ralph?”
“Perhaps,” said Sir Alec. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“I don’t know yet. Tell me, Mr. Markham… would you have done what your alternative self did? Fiddle with your portal opener until you hit the right etheretic harmonics in the right sequence at the right time to punch a hole between this metaphysical reality and the next?”
“Honestly?” He scuffed his heel to the cobblestones. “I can’t say. I might’ve done. Maybe not deliberately. Just-thinking about it, and jiggering. I might have.”
Sir Alec looked away. “As I said, Mr. Markham-you are a dangerous young man.”
“Not as dangerous as the Gerald next door, I promise you.”
Silence, as Sir Alec contemplatively smoked what was left of his cigarette. When it was consumed he stubbed the butt against the flower pot’s rim. “I imagine it was… disconcerting… to watch yourself die.”
That was one word for it. He felt the broken bits inside him shift, and stab. “A bit.”
“You’re all right?”
And that wasn’t a question he’d been expecting. Taken aback, he stared at his best friend’s unfathomable superior. “Yes. No. I will be. I’ll be fine once Gerald’s home. Sir Alec-”
Sir Alec stood. By his best guess there were some thirty years between them, if a calendar was used. But looking at the man’s face in the mud-room’s washing lamplight he realized, with a sickening swoop in his guts, that when it came to experience-and disconcerting experiences-the two of them were more like centuries apart. There was a grim endurance in Sir Alec that he’d never noticed before. And beneath that, a thin blade of sorrow that never lost its edge.
“Sir Alec,” he said again, and didn’t care how young and frightened he sounded. “What are we going to do?”
“What do you think we should do, Mr. Markham?”
He wanted to shout and stamp and wave his arms around.
Me? Me? Why are you asking me? You’re the one who cloak-and-daggers his way through life and takes afternoon tea with Lord Attaby and Uncle Ralph and is on a first-name basis with at least ten world leaders. Don’t ask me! I’m terrified and I don’t have a bloody clue!
But since he obviously couldn’t shout or stamp or wave his arms or say any of that, he pulled a face. “I think we need to find out what the Gerald next door has up his sleeve. Only short of actually going next door, I don’t see how we can. And I don’t see Lord Attaby giving us the nod to go sight-seeing around a parallel world. But even if he does give us a green light and we go-if I go-and it has to be me, since I won’t meet myself there-Sir Alec, it’s a bloody huge risk. I could get taken and if I get taken I’ll get used. That shadbolt…” He shivered. “Only how can I not go? We’ve got to get Gerald back. But if I am going I’d be mad to go in blind. Somehow we have to find out what I’d be walking into. Only I don’t have the first idea how.”
Another brief, dry smile. “A largely incoherent but not inaccurate assessment, Mr. Markham.”
“Thank you, sir.” I think. “So… you agree with me? You think I should-”
But Sir Alec wasn’t listening. “There’s something I need. I don’t have it with me. I must go and fetch it. While I’m gone, Mr. Markham, I suggest you study that other Monk Markham’s portable portal. Familiarize yourself with its incant matrix but under no circumstance attempt to activate it. The life of your friend-and perhaps the fate of our world-is absolutely depending on you controlling yourself. Is that clear?”
Chilled, he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Also, you might like to refresh your memory on the construction of shadbolts,” Sir Alec added. “If you’re tempted to twiddle your thumbs before I return.”
Shadbolts? Why shadbolts? “Yes, sir. Um-Sir Alec-we are going to rescue Gerald, aren’t we?”
Sir Alec looked at him. “Yes. If it’s warranted.”
“If it’s warranted?” he said, incredulous. “And what the hell is that supposed to-”
“It means, Mr. Markham, that my job is frequently distasteful.”
“But Sir Alec-”
“Mr. Markham,” said Sir Alec, his cold eyes abruptly weary. “Save your breath. We both know Mr. Dunwoody will never again spare himself at the expense of other, innocent lives. You must come to terms with the notion we might not get a happy ending this time.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly four a.m. How many hours has it been since your visitor expired?”
Stunned and dismayed, he had to think for a moment. “Ah-about five.”
Sir Alec frowned. “That’s cutting it fine but we should be all right. Back inside with you, Mr. Markham. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Well?” Reg demanded as he walked into the kitchen. “You were gone long enough. What’s going on? When do we go after Gerald? I hope you know I’m coming with you. You’ll need a good pair of eyes, and the wings’ll come in handy too. A flying spy, that’s what I’ll be.” She peered behind him. “Where’s that manky Sir Alec got to? What are you playing at, Mr. Markham?”
Abruptly exhausted, Monk dropped into the nearest chair. The other Monk’s portable portal was in his coat pocket, weighing him down. “Reg, I’m not playing at anything,” he said, around a face-splitting yawn. “I’m following orders.”
“What orders?” said Bibbie, still sitting at the table with her head propped in her hands. The long night was telling on her too, purplish shadows shading under her tired eyes. But at least she’d stopped weeping. He
