Witches Incorporated (5 page)

Sir Alec’s voice was so cold icicles were practically forming in the air.

“No, sir,” he said, close to shivering. “I didn’t say that, either.”

“Shall I tell you the consequences of this traitor’s actions should we fail to uncover the extent of his perfidy and the identity of every last foreign agent in receipt of his stolen information?”

“Yes. Please.”

“You’ve been out of the way here, Mister Dun-woody,” Sir Alec said, his voice clipped. Still chilly. “And fairly well occupied, so it’s not unreasonable you’re a trifle behind the times. Allow me, therefore, to bring you up to speed. There’s been a breakthrough in the application of artificially agitated thaumicals to certain non-thaumically sensitive items. It’s early days still, but should preliminary tests prove out, the patents will be worth a fortune. And before you ask, no, Mister Markham is not involved. I realise you’re a great champion of his talents but he has only eight fingers and two thumbs and we—the government—have a few more pies to dabble in than that.”

Gerald managed, barely, to keep his face straight. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Can you tell me any more about this breakthrough?”

“Once the process has been sufficiently refined and is applied,” Sir Alec continued, “it will have a significant impact on various sectors of the economy. Enormous benefits will accrue to both government and selected private enterprise—at the expense of several nations currently enjoying certain… monopolies. And that is as specific as I’m prepared to be. The point, Mister Dunwoody, is that should these nations be warned ahead of time as to our progress, or be given access to research on the patents, they could either attempt to usurp the process or take pre-emptive and punitive action that will severely damage our economy.”

Gerald thought about that. “But aren’t we trying to damage their economies?”

“
Trying
?” Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “Certainly not. We are striving to benefit our nation, the primary duty of any good government. I admit there will be some inevitable realignments in some foreign revenues. An adjustment to income for the nations in question. But that is the nature of international trade. Swings and roundabouts, Mister Dunwoody. A loss here, a gain there, and it all comes out in the wash. Eventually.”

Gerald nodded. “I see.”
And I’m getting a headache
. “So this is about money.”

“It is about sovereignty and security,” Sir Alec snapped. “And preventing a war.”

“
War
? How did we get to war? I thought we were talking about trade?”

“Trade is war,” said Sir Alec. “Or at least a close relative. Mister Dunwoody, you are not a stupid man. Ottosland has long been the envy of lesser thaumaturgically-gifted nations. To allow the envious to use our own gifts against us would be to encourage their predations. To give the impression that we are an easy target, disinclined to stand our ground. And as history so amply demonstrates, to give that impression to one’s enemies never leads to a happy ending. In short we must nip this matter in the bud. Before it comes to
real
war, and people start dying.”

“I can see that it’s necessary,” said Gerald, slowly. “But where do I fit in?”

Sir Alec’s wintry smile appeared again, brief as ever. “You, Mister Dunwoody, are my pruning shears.”

Pruning shears? “
I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“The wizard in question has proven himself remarkably… stubborn,” said Sir Alec. “Not only does he steadfastly decline to willingly co-operate with our investigation, he has managed to acquire for himself a shadbolt, to ensure his lack of assistance.”

What
? Gerald stared, disbelieving. “Is he mad?”

“Better say desperate,” said Sir Alec. “Or greedy beyond any reason.”

“But not even the thaumaturgical black market deals in shadbolts. Does it?”

Sir Alec sighed. “It deals in everything, Mister Dunwoody. No matter how ill-advised, distasteful or patently illegal. If one can pay, one can purchase.”

“Yes, but a
shadbolt
?”

“Clearly our friend next door gambled that his rewards would compensate for any… personal inconvenience.”

“Next door? You mean he’s—”

“Through there. Yes,” said Sir Alec, nodding at the small room’s other exit. “Waiting for you.”

Gerald felt his skin crawl. “For me?”

“Indeed.” Sir Alec frowned. “We can’t break his hex, Mister Dunwoody. Whoever designed this particular shadbolt used some… regrettable… incants. After due consideration it’s been decided that we need
your
particular and peculiar talents to loosen our man’s tongue.”

Oh
. “I see.”

“So in you go. I’ll be here, watching through the scryer. Ready to lend a hand should assistance be required.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Ah… Sir Alec? I’m only guessing because I’ve never done this before, but—forcibly breaking a shadbolt. That’s not going to be pleasant.”

“Not for our treacherous friend, no,” Sir Alec agreed. “But I’m inclined to feel he should’ve thought of that before he betrayed his country.”

“Yes. Only, was he thinking about betraying his country? Or was he just thinking about the money. Getting himself out of debt.”

Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Is it relevant?”

“Well… yes. I think it is.”

“Mister Dunwoody, you are an agent of the Ottosland government,” said Sir Alec, impatient. “Committed to its service and the defence of the nation’s sovereignty. You just signed a contract to that effect. And now you’re being asked to honour that contract. Are you telling me you’re not able to fulfil your obligation?”

“No,” said Gerald. His hands were sweaty. “No, I’m not.”

“Then fulfil it,” said Sir Alec. “The clock is ticking, Mister Dunwoody. Lives are depending on what you do next.”

Dizzy, he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The nameless Second Grade wizard jumped as the door into his small room opened.

“Hello,” said Gerald, closing it behind him. “I’m Gerald.”

The wizard looked at him, uncertain. “William.”

“Hello, William.”

William frowned. “So, what are you? My lawyer?”

“Lawyer?” he said, feeling ill. “No, I’m a wizard. Like you.”

“Ha. If you can turn around and walk out of here, you’re not like me,” sneered William.

There was a second chair in this room. Gerald sat down and pressed his hands between his knees. “Look. William. They’ve sent me in here to break your shadbolt.”

“Then you’re wasting your time,” said William, dismissive. Beneath the bravado he stank of fear. “My shadbolt’s the best a small fortune can buy. Guaranteed to make me unbreakable.”

Gerald looked at him.
Let me out, let me out. I don’t want to be here. “
No-one’s unbreakable, William.”

Arms folded across his chest, William sat back. “I am.”

“No, you’re not. Trust me.”

“All right. Fine. Go on, then,
Gerald
,” said William, shrugging. “Give it your best shot. The others failed. You will too.”

Deeply apprehensive, Gerald closed his eyes and let his senses unfurl. He felt the shadbolt straight away, saw it in his mind’s eye as a series of chains and padlocks looped and secured around William’s etheretic aura. It was ingenious. Complicated. Diabolically strong. But so was he—and he could sense how to break it. In fact he could break it quite easily, in one fell swoop, if he didn’t mind sending William insane. Or killing him.

He opened his eyes. “William, you need to listen to me. Deactivate the shadbolt and tell Sir Alec whatever he needs to know. Because I really,
really
don’t want to hurt you.”

William snickered, even as his fingers crept towards his mouth. “You won’t. You can’t.”

Gerald stared at his hands, pressed almost bloodless now between his knees. “Sir Alec,” he said, just loudly enough for the scrying crystal to pick up. “I don’t want to do this.”

“
He’s not an innocent casualty, Mister Dunwoody
,” said Sir Alec, seemingly out of thin air. “
He’s a willing accomplice. The kind of man who creates innocent casualties. Your compassion should be reserved for them
.”

“Even so…”

“
I told you once this was not a job for the faint-hearted. I told you there were times when you’d have to be a scalpel. This, Mister Dunwoody, is one of those times.
”

A scalpel. Pruning shears. A dustpan and brush. How many euphemisms were there for what he’d become?

“
Please
, William,” he said, not caring that Sir Alec could hear his desperation. “Tell us what you did. All of it. And after that we can work things out.”

William’s eyes were the colour of dirty dishwater. Filled with unease now, his gaze jittered from side to side. His fingernails were so badly bitten they’d started to bleed. “Can’t. Can’t. No talking. That’s the deal.”

“
Mister Dunwoody
.”

Gerald flinched. Sighed. “I’m sorry, William.” Looking with his mind’s etheretically-tuned eye, he reached for the first strand of the shadbolt… and snapped it.

William howled like a dog run over by a carriage.

Fighting a wave of nausea, he leaned forward. “William, please, I’m
begging
you. Save yourself.
Talk
.”

William sobbed, and shook his head.

He snapped another strand of the shadbolt. William toppled sideways off his chair to the floor, blubbering, all bravado burned away in white-hot flames of pain. Gerald stared down at him… and remembered the cave.

I can’t do this. I’m not Lional.

“
I can’t do this,” he said out loud, to Sir Alec. “If that means I’m in breach of contract then fine. Sue me. But I can’t—I
won’t
—do this.”

Without waiting for a reply he got off the uncomfortable wooden chair and walked to the small room’s other door, the door that would let him get out of this place. He turned the handle, pulled it open…

… and found himself outside the wrought-iron gates of the haunted house. The morning mist was heavy. Fading into the distance, the muffled clip-clop of hooves and the creak of wooden wheels as the cart that had deposited him here returned to the railway station.

And as he stared at the gates, numbed beyond any thought or feeling, they swung wide and soundless, inviting him to enter. Cold despite his overcoat, gloved hands thrust deep in its pockets, he walked unhindered up the gravel driveway to the mist-shrouded, ivy-covered house. Banged the gargoyle doorknocker. Nodded to the very proper butler who answered the door.

“I’m Gerald Dunwoody. I believe I’m expected.”

“Certainly sir,” said the butler. “Sir Alec is in the parlour. Please, follow me.”

And yes, Sir Alec was in the parlour, a buttercup yellow and fresh dairy-cream room. Seated in a blue-and-white striped wingback armchair and conservatively, nondescriptly dressed in a grey pinstripe suit, he was sipping tea from an elegant porcelain cup. He looked up as the butler announced his visitor.

“Ah. Mister Dunwoody,” he said, unnervingly expansive and genial. “So good of you to join me. Come in. Sit down. Would you care for some refreshment?”

Standing just inside the doorway, Gerald shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said, struggling not to sound as dazed as he felt. “Sir Alec, what was that? Lional… the hexed gates… that wizard, William? What just happened?”

Sir Alec considered him over the rim of the teacup. “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, I—I thought it was real, then I thought I was dreaming, and then—” He shook his head again. “I don’t know. I’m assuming it was… all part of the test?”

Sir Alec nodded. “Correct.”

“And I passed?”

Not even this warm, cosy room could thaw Sir Alec’s smile. “Well… let’s just say you didn’t fail.”

Oh. Well. That was good… wasn’t it?

“Do sit down, Mister Dunwoody,” added Sir Alec, much less genially. “I’m not fond of repeating myself.”

He dropped onto the parlour’s couch. “Sorry, sir. So, if I’ve passed, and I’m a janitor, then what happens now?”

“Now, Mister Dunwoody?” Sir Alec put down the cup. “Now I have a job for you.”

“A job?” he repeated. He still felt not quite real. “Already?”

“Certainly,” said Sir Alec. “The government’s not in the habit of paying agents to loll about. It’s time, Mister Dunwoody, for you to get your feet slightly damp.”

A
nyway
,” said Monk, bounding back through the dining room doorway, slightly out of breath and looking ever-so-slightly flustered, “it’s going to be a while before I can fix the place up. I mean, Great-uncle Throgmorton may have left me the house but unfortunately his bequest didn’t include the dosh for repairs and modernisation and so forth.”

“Huh,” said Emmerabiblia, as Monk slid into his seat at the table. “At least Great-uncle Throgmorton remembered you exist. You
and
Aylesbury. He didn’t leave
me
so much as a copper penny, the female-hating old miser. I hardly call
that
fair.”