“ Do you know,” said Reg, glaring, “I’ve a good mind to send that Sir Alec a bill when this is over. All this wear and tear on my nerves! First I’m scouting for you, then I’m eavesdropping for madam, then I’m back eavesdropping for you again! And I’m only getting paid to help madam! You’re taking me for granted, Gerald Dunwoody, and I don’t like it. I’ll have you know my feelings are hurt.”
He snatched her off the windowsill, dropped a kiss on her head then put her back. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. What did Errol and Kirkby-Hackett talk about?”
Reg fluffed out all her feathers. “Have you got a stool in here? You should be sitting down for this. Haf Rottlezinder. Someone official was asking Kirkby-Hackett about him. Had they been in contact recently, old university chums catching up sort of thing. And did he know if Rottlezinder had been in touch with any other old university chums, like, say, for instance, one Errol Haythwaite?” She cackled. “That pillock Errol turned fourteen different shades of puce when he heard that.”
Gerald frowned at the barricaded scullery door. He wouldn’t have much longer, surely, before someone tried to barge in. “And what did Errol say, once he was finished turning fourteen different shades of puce?”
Reg shrugged. “Said he hadn’t spoken to Rottlezinder in years. Said he didn’t want anything to do with him, something about rumours of unsavoury thaumaturgical practices. Said if Kirkby-Hackett had the brains of a gnat he’d not have anything to do with their old chum Haf, either. And then he sent Kirkby-Hackett on his way with a flea in his ear. Properly put out, he was, the poncy prat.”
“Do you think Errol was lying? Or was he telling the truth?”
“Hmm,” said Reg, and thoughtfully scratched her head. “That’s a good question. Wish I could answer it, sunshine, but the truth is-I couldn’t tell.”
Damn. “I’ll bet Sir Alec’s behind Kirkby-Hackett’s quizzing,” he murmured. “He’s stirring the pot a bit to give me a better chance of seeing what floats to the surface.” Snatching Reg up again he rested his cheek on her head, briefly. “You’re wonderful. You’re marvellous. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Ha,” she said, trying hard not to show she was pleased. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“I’ve got to get back to work,” he said, still holding her. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” And he settled her gently back on the windowsill.
“Yes, all right,” she said, sleeking her feathers ready for flight. “But-look here, Gerald, just you be careful. I don’t care how much thaumaturgic power you’ve got at your fingertips these days, my boy-if I’ve told you once, I haven’t told you often enough. You’re not indestructible. And I can’t be in two places at the same time.”
And on that final trenchant note, she flapped away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gerald watched her out of sight, missing her so much, then hurriedly unbarricaded the scullery door and shoved his trolley back out into the lab for yet another round of hunt-the-dirty-beaker.
He didn’t see Errol again, but he heard him inside the Mark VI lab, shouting at some unfortunate inferior or other. Even for Errol, the vitriol was vicious. Look after wary look was exchanged around the complex. Heads ducked lower, shoulders hunched. Even the other First Graders tried to make themselves inconspicuous, just in case Errol stormed out of his lab in search of fresh prey.
At length, Robert Methven came out of the Mark VI lab, looking alarmingly close to tears.
Gerald put his head down and got on with his beaker-hunting. Sir Alec had stirred the pot all right: Errol was as rattled as he’d ever seen him. In fact, he’d never seen Errol rattled like this. It certainly was… suggestive.
The work-day dragged to its eventual conclusion. One by one Wycliffe’s wizards began to go home. First Japhet Morgan and his two fellow Third Graders. Then Robert Methven, set-faced and silent, followed soon after by Wycliffe’s other three First Graders. The seven Second Graders weren’t long behind them. That just left Errol. And of course Ambrose Wycliffe, shut uncharacteristically late in his office.
Gerald was ready with an explanation if anyone asked why he was still working when the other Third Grade wizards had bolted. Making up for the time he took earlier, he intended to say. But nobody asked. Nobody gave a toss about Dunnywood or what he was up to. Not a single wizard was stupid enough to risk Errol’s wrath by showing any interest in a man their superior so openly despised.
When Ambrose Wycliffe finally emerged from his office into the complex, florid and preoccupied, Gerald ducked into one of the small labs so he wouldn’t be seen. He heard Ambrose exhort Errol not to kill himself on the Mark VI prototype. Things were looking up. The market would wait a little longer for the greatest airship in history. Errol’s reply wasn’t loud enough to be heard. Shortly after that, Ambrose bid Errol goodnight, dimmed the main lights to a mere glow and departed. Silence descended, full of unsolved mysteries.
Risking discovery, Gerald looked through the small lab’s almost-closed door. Where was Errol? What was he doing?
Please, please, let me catch him in a treacherous act. I want this bloody assignment to be over.
A moment later Errol stamped out of his own lab, swearing and muttering under his breath. In the subdued lighting his face was a portrait of furious indecision as he half-paced, half-dithered in the complex’s wide aisle. He looked like a man attached to invisible strings tugging him first this way, then that. The fingers of one elegant hand dragged through and through his disordered dark hair. His jaw was set hard, and shadowed with stubble. He was a far cry from the urbane, polished and sophisticated Errol Haythwaite who’d paraded himself for obsequious admiration at the Wizards’ Club and through the pages of newspapers and thaumaturgical publications alike.
“ Dammit,” Errol said at last, furious. “I’ll have to chance it. I’ll have to. Dammit.”
Spinning on his heel he headed back to his office, which was tucked between the Ambrose Mark VI lab and the complex’s outer wall. Breath hard-held, Gerald watched him go in-and couldn’t believe his luck. Errol left his office door open, which meant the thaumaturgic soundproofing wouldn’t work. It was a gift… and a hint. Time to spy. But with the lab complex so quiet and empty of all other wizards, there was a chance he’d be heard. And even if he wasn’t, Errol would undoubtedly sense his presence. Unless… unless…
What if he threw out an obfuscation hex to cover any inadvertent sound he might make and mask his thaumic signature completely? It was a neat solution, except I’d need to drop my shield. Will Errol feel it disengage? Will he feel me cast the hex? I may hate his guts but I can’t deny the truth: he is a phenomenal wizard. Dare I risk it? Is he upset enough to be sufficiently distracted?
Sadly, there was only one way to find out.
As softly and gently as he knew how, he switched off his shield-incant then held his breath again. Waited for Errol to storm out of his office, searching for the source of the strange surge in the ether.
No Errol. No storming. The lab remained as quiet as a tomb.
Not my tomb, please. I don’t feel like dying today.
Under his breath, Gerald whispered an obfuscation hex Reg had taught him years ago. Despite all of the new incants and hexes Sir Alec’s people had given him he hadn’t found one of theirs to beat it for flexibility. And he hadn’t shared it with them, either. It was important to keep safe some things from his old life.
Besides, as Reg liked to say, it never hurt to keep a trick or two stuffed down your knickers.
He crept out of the darkened lab, into the almost dark complex and along the aisle towards Errol’s office. Flattened himself against the wall beside the door and closed his eyes… hoping that would help him hear more clearly what was happening.