Wizard Squared (9 page)

Horrible Lord Attaby was on his feet. So were his bookends. “Your Majesty,” he murmured. “I take it you and the Prime Minister have reached an agreement?”

“We have,” said Rupert. “Everything’s arranged.”

Dumbfounded, Melissande stared at Monk then Reg then back at Rupert. “I’m sorry,” she said, and pulled her hand free. “
What’s
arranged? Rupert, what are you—”

He kissed her cheek again. “I’ll explain everything later. You have my word. But right now you need to come with me, all of you. We don’t have much time if we’re going to save Gerald.”

Folding her arms, she shook her head. “Sorry, Rupert, but I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on. This has been a very long, very
bad
day, and I’m just about ready to—”

Without even so much as a courteous knock the drab chamber’s doors banged open again and an alarmingly
flustered minion scuttled in, a piece of paper clutched in one hand. Lord Attaby, freshly crimson, thumped a fist on the table. This time all three teaspoons, and the teacups, leaped and rattled in their saucers.

“Juby! What is the meaning of this? We are in private session! Have you taken leave of your few paltry senses, man, barging in here when—”

“I’m sorry, my lord. I’m terribly sorry,” the minion wailed. He had an odd, squarish-shaped face and every inch of it was sweating. “But this couldn’t wait.” He thrust the piece of paper at outraged Lord Attaby. “From Priority Monitoring, my lord.”

Lord Attaby flicked a glance left and right at his silently concerned bookends then took the piece of paper from Juby. Melissande heard an odd little sound beside her and turned, to see Monk easing a finger between throat and shirt collar. His eyes were wide and glassy with concern.

“What?” she murmured. “Monk, what’s going on?”

“Dunno,” he murmured back. “But it won’t be good.”

“Priority Monitoring means trouble?”

He nodded. “Big trouble.”

“What kind?”

“Sorry. No idea.”

“Reg?”

Still firmly ensconced on Monk’s shoulder, the dratted bird ruffled her feathers and shrugged. “Don’t ask me, ducky. Bang their snooty heads together if you want some answers.”

Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. “Lord Attaby, what—”

“Hush, Mel,” said her strangely altered brother,
with an authority she’d never before heard in his voice. “Wait.”

Lord Attaby was rereading the urgent note with a look on his face that said he hadn’t believed it the first time and didn’t wa K and Ant to believe it now. Was it a trick of the chamber’s lighting or could she see sweat on his brow? Silently the minister pushed the note towards Monk’s important uncle, who pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his inside coat pocket, placed them precisely on his nose and read the minion’s urgent missive.

Monk’s important uncle stopped breathing, just for a moment.

“If I may?” the nondescript third man at the table said quietly, and held out his hand. Without bothering to ask Lord Attaby’s permission Monk’s uncle passed the note to him. The nondescript man read it, just the once. When he was finished he closed his eyes. Melissande, watching him, thought it the most alarming thing she’d ever seen. Because in his eyes, before he’d hidden them…

Oh lord. Oh Saint Snodgrass. This is bad, isn’t it?

“All right,” she said, heedless of good manners and international protocol. “What exactly is going on? What’s this Priority Monitoring station, and what’s it monitored that’s put all three of you terribly self-contained gentlemen into a tizzy?”

As the minion Juby’s eyes bugged nearly out of his head at her tone, and Rupert touched warning fingers to her arm, and Lord Attaby sucked in a swift, offended breath, the nondescript man flicked the piece of paper across the table towards her.

“See for yourself, Your Highness.”

“
Sir Alec!
I have not—”

“We can’t hide it from them, my lord,” said the mysterious Sir Alec, who looked like a greengrocer but clearly wasn’t. “We might not like it but they are involved.”

Before Rupert could take the note she snatched it off the table and scanned the scribbled message. “
An unprecedented thaumaturgical event.
What’s that when it’s at home?” She glanced at the note again. “Or in this case New Ottosland.”

“Show me,” said Monk, and plucked the note from her suddenly cold fingers. He read it quickly then looked up, every last skerrick of color drained from his cheeks. “Are you sure about this, Jubes? Somebody’s not playing a practical joke?”

“Of course I’m sure!” said the minion Juby, his voice shaking. “I was bloody there, wasn’t I, when the alarms went off. The gauges
melted
, Monk. They’re nothing but etheretic
goo
. I’m telling you—” And then he choked to a halt as Lord Attaby thumped the table again. “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s just—I never—”

“You’re dismissed, Juby,” said Lord Attaby coldly. “Get back to your post. And not a word about this to anyone who wasn’t present at the time, is that clear?”

Juby nodded so hard and fast his neck almost snapped. “My lord,” he squeaked, and fled.

“I think, Lord Attaby,” Rupert said in the same mild voice Lional used just before somebody was made very sorry for something, “that you need to explain what’s going on.”

His expression horribly grim, Lord Attaby folded
his hands neatly on the table. “I can’t do that, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, I think you can,” said Rupert. Never in his whole life had he sounded so dangerous. “And I think you
will
. This business touches upon my kingdom and its welfare. Therefore you
will
tell me—”

“He can’t,” said Sir Alec, the deceptive greengrocer. “Because he doesn’t know. None of us knows precisely what has happened in your kingdom, Your Majesty. Only that it’s catastrophic.”

“Yes, but what does that
mean
exactly?” Melissande demanded. “Are you saying that between them Gerald and Lional have—have—that somehow they’ve managed to destroy the whole place?”

“That’s—unlikely,” said Sir Alec. “But something has definitely occurred, something—”

“If you say
catastrophic
one more time,” she said crossly, “I will give you
such
a smack.”

He blinked at her, once. “Something we are currently unable to quantify,” he said at last, “beyond the fact that the event is unprecedented.”

“And what does
that
mean?”

“It means Gerald’s in even more trouble than he was when we left,” said Monk, furious. “I’m a blithering idiot. I
never
should have let him—”

“Please, Mr. Markham,” said Rupert, “let’s not. I’m sure once the dust has settled there’ll be plenty of blame to go around. Now. This unprecedented thaumaturgical event. It seems obvious to me that either Gerald or my unfortunate brother Lional is behind it. If it’s Gerald then I venture we have cause for optimism. But if it’s
Lional
—”

Melissande flinched. Found herself wishing
quite desperately that she could take hold of Monk Markham’s hand. “Please don’t say that, Rupes. I don’t think I could bear it if—” She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words out loud. “Sir Alec, can’t you tell who’s behind what’s happened?”

Sir Alec shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rupert, very clipped. “But I find that hard to believe. It’s my understanding Ottosland’s Department of Thaumaturgy prides itself on being the most comprehensive establishment of its kind in the world. And yet there you sit claiming
you can’t tell
who has triggered this unprecedented thaumaturgic event?”

As the three men at the table exchanged inscrutable looks, Monk cleared his throat. “Actually, Your Highness, it’s true. We can’t. Our international monitoring stations aren’t calibrated that way. Not for individual thaumic signatures. Sorry.”

Rupert stared at Monk, and Monk stared at Rupert. Then Rupes nodded, apparently satisfied.

Struck again by how
different
her brother was, Melissande touched Monk’s sleeve. “Can’t you work out what’s happened? I mean, you were able to find Bondaningo’s thaumic signature in the hex Lional put on my doors and… well… Gerald’s your best friend. If anyone can work out if he’s the one behind this thaumaturgical event, surely it’s you.”

Painful shadows shifted in Monk’s eyes. “Melissande—Your Highness—I would if I could, Kld eig believe me. But it doesn’t work like that. I don’t think anyone’s been able to read a thaumaturgic event long-distance. At least not
this
kind of long-distance.”

“True,” said Sir Alec, suspiciously mild. “But to
my knowledge, Mr. Markham, nobody has ever invented a portable portal before, either. So perhaps Her Highness’s suggestion isn’t—”

“Now you wait a moment, Alec,” said Monk’s uncle. “That’s
my
reprobate of a nephew you’re enticing into yet more unsanctioned, unpalatable and patently unsafe thaumaturgic shenanigans and I don’t appreciate you meddling in my family’s—”

“Thank you, Sir Ralph,” Lord Attaby snapped. “Your sentiments are understandable but irrelevant. This is a crisis and in a crisis it’s a case of all hands on deck. Mr. Markham—”

Monk jumped, then yelped as Reg dug all her claws through his coat to stop herself from falling off his shoulder. “My lord?”

“Can you do it?” said Lord Attaby, leaning across the polished oak conference table toward him. “Are you able to ascertain which wizard is behind this unprecedented thaumaturgic event?”

“Um,” said Monk, his voice strangled. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“How, Monk?” said his uncle, incredulous. “You’ve no reference points, no thaumic signature on record for comparisons, no—”

“Oh dear,” said Lord Attaby, all his teeth on show in a deeply unamused smile. “And would that be guilt plastered across your face, Mr. Markham?” He looked at Sir Ralph. “I think there’s something your enterprising nephew has neglected to tell us, Sir Ralph.”

Sir Ralph covered his face with one hand. “When this is over, I am going to kill him.”

“Certainly that would be one way of solving the
problem,” Lord Attaby agreed. “But if we could for the moment stay focused on our more immediate concerns?” Sitting back, he laced his fingers across his middle. “Come now, Mr. Markham. Those of a religious persuasion tell us confession is good for the soul. If I were you I’d start confessing, for I suspect your soul needs all the help it can get.”

Melissande tightened her fingers on Monk’s arm. “Please? You might be New Ottosland’s only hope. And whatever trouble you get into afterwards, Rupert and I will help you out of it. My promise as a princess and a prime minister and an almost-queen.”

With a groan, his face milky pale, Monk nodded. Then he looked at his three superiors, grimly entrenched behind the oak conference table. “I covered up for Gerald when he transmogged King Lional’s cat into a lion.”

“I’m sorry?” said Lord Attaby, after a moment. His ferocious smile had vanished behind a frown. “Did I hear you aright? You falsified official Department records?”

“No!” said Monk, alarmed. “No, of course not, Lord Attaby. I just—I turned off the monitoring alarm before anyone else heard it and reset the etheretic calibrators. The information should still be there. All I did was… gloss over it.”

“All you did,” his appalled uncle moaned. “Ne Kle

“So what you’re saying,” said Sir Alec, before Monk’s uncle made good on his murderous threat, “is that we have a captured sample of Mr. Dunwoody’s enhanced thaumic signature?”

Monk nodded. “Provided nobody’s accidentally purged the records, yes.”

“And you’re confident you can use this sample to establish the cause of our monitoring meltdown?”

“Confident, sir?” Monk swallowed. “Well, I don’t know about confident but I’ll give it my best shot.”

Lord Attaby pushed his heavy oak chair back from the table and stood. “Then I suggest we waste no more time on recriminations and expostulations and instead get on down to Priority Monitoring. Your Majesty, I’ll have you and your—er—your prime minister escorted to a more comfortable chamber where you can—”

Melissande gave him a look worthy of Lional. “Oh no, you won’t. This is our kingdom you’re talking about, my lord. We’re coming down to Priority Monitoring with you. Aren’t we, Rupert?”

“Why yes, Melissande,” Rupert drawled. “I rather think we are.”

For the briefest moment she thought Lord Attaby might argue the point—but then he gave up. Smart man. “Very well,” he sighed. “Upon the understanding, Your Majesty, that you will be under the
strictest
code of confidentiality. Whatever you see or hear cannot be discussed with anyone not currently in this chamber. And frankly, after today, I’d rather it were never discussed again. Do I have your word on that?”

“You do, Lord Attaby,” said Rupert, with the most regal nod. “Mine and my sister’s.”

Lord Attaby heaved another sigh. “Fine. Mr. Markham, find somewhere to put that ridiculous bird, will you? This is the Ottosland Department of
Thaumaturgy, not a zoological garden. And if you can’t procure a cage you can stuff it in a cupboard!”

“I beg your bloody pardon?” said Reg, tail feathers rattling. “Stuff yourself in a cupboard, you silly old goat!”