A scream was building in his chest and throat, terror and pain and despair throttling him. Blinding him. He skidded down the final staircase, almost fell as he hit the floor, blundered across the refusescattered factory entrance towards its partially-boarded front door. He had enough wit and strength left to smash the door with a demolishing incant, then staggered through the rain of splinters into the chill night air. The illuminato floated with him like a tethered balloon.
Five steps closer to the deserted street, Haf Rottlezinder’s portal hex exploded. Gerald felt the unravelling in the ether as the malevolence of the hex reached its destructive peak. He let his knees fold. Let himself and Errol crash to the stony, brick-strewn ground, bright lights of pain bursting behind his closed eyes. Trapped air escaped his lungs in an agonised grunt. He managed to reach for a warding incant, managed to raise it partway…
… and then the shock wave from Rottlezinder’s detonated hex rolled over them. Gerald folded himself across Errol, wrapped his arms round his head and held his breath.
Going to die now. We’re going to die.
Great booming echoes of sound, loud enough to hurt his eardrums. A silent shrieking of thaumic energies, released. The thud and clatter and deadly rainfall of debris, plaster and brickwork and tiles and tin. The retching stink of overheated thaumicles, of scorched ether, of burning wood. The grinding, groaning collapse of the ruined boot factory.
After a little while, Gerald sat up. Everything hurt, but he wasn’t dead. Errol wasn’t dead either, he was twitching and moaning. He had cuts on his face and a swelling bruise on his forehead. His shamelessly expensive black cashmere overcoat was ruined.
Faintly, in the distance, the sound of sirens, wailing.
“Right,” he said, and was surprised to hear that his voice still worked. “Probably it’d be a good idea to make ourselves scarce.”
Groaning, Errol opened his eyes. Blinked into the illuminato ’s faint light. “What the hell? Dunwoody, is that you?”
Bugger. “No, Errol, it’s your fairy godfather. Can you stand? We’ve got to leave before the authorities arrive.”
“Dunwoody, what are you doing here?” said Errol, sounding querulous. “I was-I was-” His confused expression cleared, and he wrenched himself upright on a sharp gasp of pain. “Haf. I came to see Haf-where the hell is he, we were fighting, he-”
Gerald grabbed Errol’s shoulder. “Haf Rottlezinder’s dead, Errol. He went up with the factory. Now come on. We have to go.”
Shrugging free, Errol got his feet under him and managed to stand. Swaying, he looked at the charred and smoking remains of the abandoned boot factory, then turned. “What the hell? Did you do this, Dun-woody? Did you kill Haf?”
Oh lord. Painfully Gerald pushed to his feet. “No. He killed himself. Errol-”
Errol took a step back. “How did you get here? Did you follow me? What’s going on? What are you-”
“I can’t tell you,” he said. The sirens were inconveniently close now. “Errol, listen, there’s no time, we have to-”
Stepping back again, Errol nearly tripped on a twisted section of guttering. “You get the hell away from me, Dunwoody. I don’t know what you’re up to but I’ve had more than enough of you. I’ll see you’re decertified for this. I’ll see you back in your family tailor shop by the end of the week. That’s if I don’t see you in prison first-and if I can, I will. You’re a bloody menace. You always were. You must’ve bribed someone to get your Third Grade credentials, and I promise you this, too-I’ll find out who it was. I’ll see them in a prison cell beside you, I’ll-”
Gerald let Errol’s ravings wash over him. Took a deep breath, feeling his battered flesh and bones protest.
He’ll never be reasonable. He won’t let me explain. And anyway, I can’t. Not without telling him the truth.
“ Errol,” he said quietly.
Errol ignored him, still ranting.
“ Errol!” he said, and snapped his fingers in Errol’s face. Recited a new incant under his breath. One word to trigger it. Just one word. The incant itself was a little more… complicated. A lot more treacherous. In anyone else’s hands, internationally illegal. Gleaned, he’d been told, from an obscure proscribed text. Turned out it was closely related to the hex Lional had used on him to ensure his obedience. But that was all right, apparently. He was a janitor so he could be trusted with it. They only had to worry about bad people using that kind of thaumaturgy.
He hadn’t wanted to learn the incant. Hated knowing it existed. Couldn’t stand the idea of one day having to use it. Not after his first-hand experience with its effects.
“ For emergencies only,” said Sir Alec. “ Most agents never have to resort to the docilianti. I understand your concerns, Mister Dunwoody, but you are going to learn it. After all, isn’t it better to be safe than sorry?”
“Yeah? Well now I’m both,” Gerald muttered to the still-agitated ether. “And for the record, Sir Alec? I think this is wrong. ”
His free will thaumaturgically suspended, hexed from man to compliant puppet, Errol Haythwaite smiled a vacant smile.
Gerald took him by the elbow and tugged. “I’m sorry, Errol. I really am.” Then he sighed. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“More tea, Your Highness?” said Eudora Telford, hopefully brandishing the pot. It was covered in a badly-knitted puce and mustard yellow cosy, with a bobble on top.
Melissande shook her head. One more mouthful of tea and her bladder was going to explode. “No, thank you, Miss Telford.”
Eudora Telford’s face fell. “Oh.” Then she brightened. “Then perhaps another macaroon?”
Saint Snodgrass save her. Another crumb of Eudora Telford’s macaroons and the chair she was sitting on was going to collapse. They were so lumpen they could easily be used to weight sacks full of unwanted kittens, for the drowning thereof. Or scuttle an entire fleet of the Ottosland Navy’s battleships.
If I end up having to send her to visit Rupert he will never, ever, in a million years forgive me. No wonder she’s never been in contention for the Golden Whisk. She wouldn’t be considered for an old tin teaspoon. Not even if it was the consolation prize and she was the only contestant!
Realising that silence was another rejection, Eudora Telford took a step back.
“I’d love another macaroon, Miss Telford,” said Bibbie, as the end of the wretched woman’s nose turned an emotional pink. “I can eat anything.”
“And never gain an ounce,” Melissande added quickly. “Alas, if I could only say the same.”
“Oh,” said Miss Telford, marginally cheered. “Yes. Well.” She put down the teapot and offered the plate of macaroons to Bibbie. “Have as many as you like, Miss Markham. It’s a great honour for my little cakes to win the acclaim of Antigone Markham’s great-niece.”
As Bibbie got in some practice on her skills at deception, praising Eudora Telford’s dreadful macaroons, Melissande stared out of the horribly knick-knacked parlour window. Still no sign of Reg. Where was the dratted bird? More than an hour they’d been stuck here with Eudora, listening to her prattle on and on and on, and all she had to show for it was indigestion, a full bladder, and the sinking feeling there was no way she could extricate Rupert from a life-threatening encounter with the silly woman’s horrendous cooking.
Oh dear. Nature could not be ignored a moment longer. She leapt up. “I’m so sorry, Miss Telford. Might you excuse me to the-the powder room?”
Eudora Telford’s plump cheeks coloured. “Why certainly, Your Highness. Let me show you-”
“No, no, just point me in the right direction,” she said. “I don’t want to put you to trouble. Besides, now that we’ve heard all about your exciting life in the Guild, I’m sure there are some stirring tales of Antigone Markham my colleague’s just dying to share with you.”
“Oh!” said Eudora Telford, hands clasped to her bosom. “Oh, Miss Markham, would you? I didn’t like to ask… I didn’t want to-to thrust myself forward-but I must confess to you, Antigone Markham has been a lifelong heroine of mine. Any story you could share- any snippet of information to shed light on her illustrious career…”