And that earned him another look, even less patient. “Yes, Mr. Markham. Since under the circumstances it seems unlikely you’ll be able to sit side by side.”
Bloody hell, Dunnywood. The things I do for you…
He helped Sir Alec wrangle the other Monk’s body until it was lying in reverse on one side of the bed, then gritted his teeth and arranged himself beside it, his head where his feet should go. He kept his gaze pinned to the ceiling and tried to pretend he was somewhere-anywhere-else. Outwardly composed, Sir Alec knelt at the foot of the bed. But underneath his self-contained exterior there was anxiety. Definitely some doubt. And that wasn’t something to fill a wizard with confidence-even if said wizard was rumored to have genius-like qualities.
“Right,” said Sir Alec. “Deep breath, Mr. Markham, and remain as relaxed as you can.”
At first he felt nothing except Sir Alec’s hand on his head, lightly pressing. But then, after a few moments, he felt a stirring in the ether. A low, ominous tremble that raised his thaumaturgic hackles. His skin goosebumped again, unpleasantly. His teeth jittered on edge. He could feel the body, too close beside him, begin its own discomfiting shudder. A tainted tang in the back of his throat promised worse to come.
“Steady, now, steady,” Sir Alec murmured. “Lower those defenses, Mr. Markham. Don’t fight what’s happening. Almost there… almost there…”
Oh, hell. Oh, bloody hell. This is going to hurt.
The skill required to lift the shadbolt off the dead Monk and place it on him was shocking. The pain of its attachment was a hundred times worse. He heard himself scream as its thaumic claws sank into his etheretic aura. Even damaged, the shadbolt knew its job. Frantically scraping at his face he rolled off the bed and hit the floor hard. The temptation to bash his head on the carpeted floorboards overtook him. But it didn’t change anything. The shadbolt wouldn’t let go.
Bibbie-Bibbie-no wonder you screamed.
Cursing, Sir Alec scrambled beside him. “Mr. Markham, stop it. Monk, that’s enough! ”
With his hands imprisoned and a knee planted on his chest, he stared up at Sir Alec. “I can’t-this won’t work-I can’t-please, God, get it off! ”
“Give it a moment,” said Sir Alec. His eyes were pitiless now. “Give it a moment, Mr. Markham. You can do this. You’re strong enough. If the other one stood it, then so by God can you.”
The other one. The other Monk, who’d borne this for months. The shamed thought helped him steady his breathing. Helped him not to howl again, but instead sit up like a sane man.
“Bloody hell,” he said, shuddering. “It’s like-I’m being watched.”
“And so you are, in a manner of speaking,” said Sir Alec. “But we don’t have time for a shadbolt tutorial. Take a good look at the thing, Mr. Markham. Can you see the gaps? Can you fill them in sufficiently so that our target’s suspicions won’t be aroused?”
Our target. The other Gerald. The man he wants me to kill. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling so sick. “I’ll try.”
He tried and succeeded, more or less, but the effort gave him a nosebleed and stirred his headache to skull-exploding point. The other Monk hadn’t been able to stop himself from examining and identifying the incants used to imprison him. Thaumaturgical curiosity, both Monks’ besetting sin-and praise Saint Snodgrass for it. And he’d managed to retrieve enough of those memories so that now he could cobble together the damaged shadbolt. Mask his hasty thaumaturgy with Gerald’s familiar signature, which he then muddled and muddied to look more like the other Gerald’s.
Bloody hell, this is rough, mate. You’d better be able to help me fix it when I finally track you down.
“That’s it,” he said at last, panting. “That’s the best I can do.”
“Then let’s hope your best is sufficient,” said Sir Alec. “Right. On your feet. It’s nearly time to go.”
He let Sir Alec help him up. Needed the assistance, though he’d never admit it. “Where’s the portal opener? Do you have it?”
Sir Alec nodded. “But first you need to complete your transformation.”
It took him a moment to twig. But when he did-“Oh-no. No, I’ll hex my own clothes to look like his. I am not dressing up in a dead man’s underpants! He’s dead, Sir Alec. Dying-it’s messy.”
“I’ll see to the… details,” said Sir Alec, obdurate. “But there’s a detectable etheretic variation at the thaumic sublevel of his clothing, Mr. Markham. It’s as good as a dimensional fingerprint for anyone who thinks to look. You can’t fake it in your own clothing, so quickly-strip off.”
“If there’s an imprint in the clothing, doesn’t that mean there’s an imprint in him, too?”
“Yes,” said Sir Alec. “But if the clothing is genuine, then-”
“Then that might be enough to discourage a deeper look,” he said, and sighed.
Wonderful. Bloody brilliant. For all our sakes you’d better be right.
Hating Sir Alec, he did as he was told as Sir Alec, without ceremony, divested the corpse of its clothes. Cleaned them with casual competence then handed them over.
When he was dressed again, his flesh shrinking and crawling, he held out his hand. “The portal opener?”
Sir Alec pulled the small, innocent-looking stone from a pocket. “You’re clear on how this works?”
“Yes.”
“And you remember where he was when he operated it? Where it will return you to, and what you’re supposed to be doing there?”
“Yes. I remember. You’re sure it’ll be the same time there as it is here?”
“As sure as I can be.” Sir Alec hesitated, then handed him the portal. “So. Mr. Markham. The moment of truth. Are you confident you can do this? The enemy wears your friend’s face.”
I don’t know… I don’t know… “Yes. I can do it.”
“Good. Then go.”
He made himself look at the dead, naked man on the bed, who’d given his life to save two worlds.
“I don’t-I can’t-” He took a deep, steadying breath. “The girls. I can’t-will you tell them I’ll see them soon? Please?”
Sir Alec nodded, very proper, very formal. No unseemly emotions on display. “Of course. Good luck.”
He activated the portal opener. Watched in wonder as a patch of air in the bedroom began to shimmer, sparkling with blue and red lights. Shivering, he felt the ether twist in answer. The patch widened-widened-nearly big enough-almost Oh, God. Oh, Gerald. I’m not ready for this.
The portal opened in a silent flash of cobalt and crimson. Sweating, trembling, he started towards it. He could feel the wild thaumic currents churning in his blood. But as he took his first step towards the unknown a feathered whirlwind hurtled into the bedroom through the forgotten open window, shrieking.
“Are you out of your mind, sunshine? You aren’t going anywhere without me!”
Reg.
Oh, bloody hell.
But before he could grab her… the portal swallowed them both alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Abandoned in Government House’s swanky Cabinet dining room, Gerald stared at the ornate clock on the wall. Just over five hours had passed since he’d first opened his eyes in this place. Five of the worst hours of his life-which was an alarming commentary on the state of his life, these days.
I really should’ve been a tailor. If I’d just followed in my father’s footsteps instead of chasing a dream…
Lunch sat in his belly like a lump of ice. Not because the food hadn’t been spectacular. This was Government House, of course it was spectacular. But digestion, it seemed, was beyond him at the moment. Breathing evenly and not screaming-that was about all he could manage right now.
Of course, I could run. I wonder how far I’d get before he found me? For God’s sake, he found me in a portal in an entirely different world. And then he pulled me out of it, with about as much effort as hooking a fish from a lake. What can’t he do, I wonder? What won’t he do in his mad pursuit of power?
Someone must be looking for him by now, surely. Sir Alec had to know he’d never reached Grande Splotze.
