Witches Incorporated (28 page)

Just like Reg.

Moulting? Reg had been so worried she was
moulting
? Oh no. She was so vain about her feathers…

Flayed with remorse, appetite ruined, he put his lunch back together and returned to the R&D complex. Three steps through the side door a hand clamped mercilessly around his upper arm.

“A moment, Dunwoody. I want a word with you.”

Gerald felt his heart plummet.
Errol, Errol. Do we have to do this now?
Making certain to keep his expression suitably chastened and subservient, to keep the surge of anger from showing in his eyes, he didn’t fight but let Errol drag him sideways into a convenient corner.

“Ah—Mister Haythwaite—I really am sorry about your staff,” he muttered, keeping his gaze lowered. “I’ll purchase you a new one, you have my word. It might take some time—my salary, you know—but—”

Errol, whose blistered hand had been bandaged, let go of him and leaned close. As always when he was displeased his immaculate accent had sharpened to a lethal edge. “What are you playing at, Dun-woody? What exactly are you doing here?”

Abruptly, he decided to drop a little of his Third Grade act. He’d never bowed and scraped to Errol at the Wizards’ Club and, assignment or no assignment, he saw no reason to completely humiliate himself.

“I’m earning a living,” he said, meeting Errol’s savage stare calmly. “Just like you.”

Errol ignored that. “What really happened in New Ottosland, Dunwoody? The
truth
. Because I don’t for a moment believe King Lional broke his neck hunting. Not if
you
were anywhere around.”

Damn. Trust Errol to let his petty vindictiveness spoil everything. They’d been doing such a good job of avoiding each other, too. And now the time had come for him to lie through his teeth.

Please, please, let me be a good liar.

“
I’m sorry you feel that way, Errol,” he said carefully. “But there’s nothing more I can tell you. King Lional’s death was a horrible accident. One in which I was
not
involved. And I’m back in Ottosland because the new king didn’t want a royal wizard. That’s the truth, but whether you choose to believe it or not is entirely up to you.”

Errol was staring at him, his contempt mixed with—with
confusion
? “There’s something… different about you, Dunnywood. I don’t know what—I can’t put my finger on it—but it’s there. I can feel it. And I’ll work out what it is, I promise you that.”

Oh,
really
damn. Errol wasn’t supposed to be able to sense anything through the anti-thaumic shield.
He really is a bloody good wizard. “
I’m sorry, Errol. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, I need to get back to work.”

“
Work
.” Errol fairly spat the word. “You’re a waste of space, Dunwoody. Truscott’s must have a screw loose, sending you somewhere like this.” He leaned close again. “Ambrose is too stupid to see that you’re a menace. A bloody great disaster waiting to happen. He won’t sack you. At least not yet. But until he does you stay away from me and my projects. I don’t want you so much as sharpening one of my pencils, is that clear? And if I catch you even
looking
at the next Mark VI prototype I will tear you limb from limb. Is
that
clear? Do you believe me?
Gerald
?”

Without waiting for an answer, Errol stalked away.

Gerald looked after him, shocked to realise he was actually shaken. Errol was positively overflowing with venomous hatred. He didn’t understand it.

At least he could wait till I’ve proven he’s the traitor Sir Alec’s looking for.

“
Mister Dunwoody!” called Robert Methven, standing beside a crowded lab bench. “If you’ve quite finished wasting Mister Wycliffe’s time, there are several pieces of apparatus here that need to be cleaned.”

Gerald closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rearranged his expression into the epitome of suitably Third Grade submission.

“Yes, Mister Methven,” he said. “Coming, Mister Methven.” And he hurried forward to do Robert Methven’s bidding.

This bloody assignment can’t end fast enough.

B
limey,” said Monk, standing at his open front door. “
Gerald
?”

“Oy,” said Gerald, glancing over his shoulder at the late night emptiness of Chatterly Crescent. “Not so loud. Voices carry. Can I come in?”

“Come in?” said Monk, still staring. “Oh! Of course, mate. Sorry.”

As Monk retreated he stepped over the dilapidated but still stately house’s threshold into the old-fashioned vestibule, which was—to put it very kindly—sadly shabby.

“What are you doing, Markham, answering your own door?” he demanded. “Isn’t a place like this meant to come with a butler?”

“It did, but—well. Long story,” said Monk, pushing the front door closed again. “And anyway, I don’t really need ancient retainers hobbling about the place. They just get in the way. Gerald, I can’t
believe
you’re standing in my vestibule.”

Grinning, he accepted Monk’s back-slapping embrace. “Neither can I. Mind you, I can’t believe you’ve
got
a vestibule.
Two
vestibules. Greedy sod.”

“How did you hear about that?” said Monk, stepping back. His eyes widened in alarm. “Gerald, are you telling me Sir Alec’s got—”

‘Don’t be stupid. Melissande told me.”

Monk frowned. “Melissande? When did you run into Melissande?”

“She hasn’t said?”

“I haven’t seen her. Or heard from her,” said Monk. “She, Bibs and Reg are up to their eyeballs in a job.”

He pulled a face. “I know. At the Wycliffe Airship Company. That’s where we bumped into each other.”

“
You’re
at Wycliffe’s?” said Monk, eyebrows shooting up. “Since when?”

“Look, I’ll tell you what I can,” he said, shrugging out of his overcoat, “but isn’t there somewhere we can talk in comfort?”

“Sure, sure,” said Monk, then took the coat and slung it onto the vestibule’s coat stand. “Sorry. Come into the parlour.”

Gerald followed Monk down the creaky-floorboarded hallway into another shabby room made cheerfully warm by a leaping fire in the fireplace. A laden drinks trolley stood beside the curtained window and a lopsided table took up half of one wall. Two overstuffed armchairs were angled to take comfortable advantage of the warmth. The armchairs were both so elderly their leather had crazed and cracked, leaving tufts of horsehair stuffing poking out like bristles on a caterpillar. A faded, cosy two-seater sofa completed the room’s furnishings.

“What?” he said, looking around. “No experiments all over the floor? Don’t tell me you’ve reformed.”

Grinning, Monk collapsed into the nearest armchair. “Who, me? Perish the thought. No, they’re all over the attic.”

He grinned back at his friend and sat himself in the matching chair. “Of course they are.” Typical Markham. “It’s good to see you, Monk.”

“And you. I notice that colour-incant’s worn off. How’s it working out?”

He rubbed his silver eye. “Good. It’s good. I had to tweak it a bit—I’m putting in a ten-hour at Wycliffe’s. Can’t afford it fading at an embarrassing moment.”

Monk sat up. “You what? You tweaked one of my incants? Oooh, Gerald, you shouldn’t have done that. You might explode your eyeball.”

“Ah… no,” he said, gently smiling. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” said Monk, slumping again. “You know, for a moment there I forgot.” He shook his head, bemused. “Huh. You tweaked one of my incants. There’s a turn-up for the books.”

Was he jealous? No. Not Monk. There wasn’t a jealous bone in his friend’s lanky body. He was just… adjusting.

And he isn’t the only one. I’m still not used to it and I’ve spent the last six months finding out what I can do.

“
It’d be good if you could tweak it a bit more, though,” he added. “Whatever I did to it makes my eye itch.”

“Sure,” said Monk. “Remind me to take care of it before you leave. So. If you’re at Wycliffe’s, that means…”

“Yeah. I’m in the field. My first assignment.”

A slow smile spread over Monk’s thin, anarchic face. “You passed the final test.”

“Well, I didn’t
fail
.”

“Eh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me and we’ll both know,” he said wryly. “Hey, I don’t suppose the bar’s open, is it?”

“Been one of those days?” said Monk, sympathetic.

“You have no idea.”

Monk uncoiled from his armchair. “Brandy all right?”

“Bless you, my son,” he said, letting his head fall back. “Brandy is perfect.”

Monk frowned as he sloshed a generous amount of liquor into the first of two balloon glasses. “Wycliffe’s,” he murmured. “Hang on… hang on…” His eyebrows shot up, and he stared. “Errol Haythwaite’s working for Wycliffe’s. Very smartly turned down the Aframbigi post and… oh. Oh, Gerald. Tell me you’re not.”

Trust Monk to leap to the right conclusion. “Not what?”

“Tell me you’re not investigating Errol Haythwaite!”

Careful now, careful
. “I’m not investigating him specifically.”

Monk poured the second brandy, brought both glasses back to the armchairs and held one out. “But…”

He took the brandy and swallowed a generous mouthful. The smooth bite of fermented apple flamed across his tongue and down his throat, and he smiled.

“That’s good stuff.”

“Yeah, well, Great-uncle Throgmorton was a cranky old sod but he kept a good cellar,” said Monk, sitting again. “
Gerald
. What’s going on?”

“Look, I’m not trying to be coy, honestly,” he said, “but can we wait till the girls get here before I spill the beans?”

Monk frowned. “The girls?”

Terrific. “They didn’t warn you?”

“Warn me about what?”

“That we’d all be meeting here tonight. At nine.”

“No,” Monk sighed. “They didn’t.”

“Probably they wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Or Mel was just being regal again.” Monk grinned. “She does that, you know.”

“I had noticed,” he said. “So… you and Melissande… you’re still…”

“Yes, Gerald,” Monk said primly. “We are still—what’s the word? Courting?”

“I think so. Though when it comes to Melissande it must be like courting disaster.”

“It has its moments,” Monk admitted. “I’m busy. She’s busy. And she’s the next in line to a throne, at least until Rupert marries and has a sprog. She’s genuine working royalty, mate. That kind of complicates things.”

“Only if you let it, Monk. Unless, of course, you’re looking for an excuse.”

“An excuse?” said Monk, startled. “To do what—exit stage left? No. No. I just—I don’t know—I’m not good at this, Gerald.”

“Not good at what?”

“You know.
Romance
,” said Monk, harassed. “I don’t think I know what women
want
. What do they
want
?”

He swallowed laughter, along with more brandy. “How would I know? Ask Reg. She’ll tell you—at length.”

“Yeah…” Monk half-drained his glass. “So. How are you? What’s it like being a janitor? Answering to Sir Alec? Is he as tricky as everyone says?”

Instead of replying, Gerald stared into his brandy balloon. He shouldn’t answer. In fact, he should leave. He’d been told, point blank, not to make contact with his friends.

And I didn’t. I tripped over them, which is hardly my fault. The damage—if there is damage—is done, so there’s no point in me leaving. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t find out what Melissande and Reg are up to at Wycliffe’s.

As for Monk, well, he wasn’t just anybody. He was the best friend who’d risked everything for him in New Ottosland and had come damn close to losing his career on the strength of it. Monk Markham knew the same secrets as he did. Which meant, in his book, they were practically the same person.

Which means the rules don’t apply.

Besides, he really needed someone to talk to about… stuff. And he had questions that only Monk could answer.

He looked up. “Remember in New Ottosland when you said to me, ‘
Don’t do it
’
.
Not unless I really wanted to? You meant the janitoring, right?”

Monk considered him warily. “Yeah. Right.”

“So what did you know that you weren’t telling me?”

“Gerald…” Monk shoved out of his armchair and returned to the drinks trolley, sloshed more apple brandy into his glass and brought the bottle back with him.

He held out his own glass. In the fireplace the flames crackled merrily, devouring wood. “Don’t mess me about, Monk. I really need to know.”

His expression derisive, Monk topped up the brandy balloon. “That was fast. I thought it’d take longer.”

“Thought what would take longer?”

“For Sir Alec to mess with your head. Seven months? That must be some kind of record. From what I hear, most agents are good for a couple of years at least.” He sat down again and plonked the bottle of brandy by his feet. “So. What happened?”