So she’d heard that? Damn. A sharp pain was brewing in his temples. Sighing, Gerald let his head fall against the back of the chair.
“Don’t be daft, Reg. Of course I’m not sorry.”
A feathery whoosh and flap as she glided from the windowsill to the arm of the chair opposite. “And don’t you try to kid a kidder.”
He cracked open his good eye. “I’m not.”
“No?” Her dark eyes were gleaming in the lamplight. “And I s’pose you’re not peeing-your-underdrawers terrified that you’re going to wake up one morning and find you’ve turned into him, either.”
“Not peeing-my-underdrawers, no,” he said, after a brief hesitation. “But I’ll admit to an occasional looseness in my bowels.”
“Ha!” Her tail rattled. “And so they should be loose, sunshine. He was a nasty piece of work and no mistake, your opposite number.”
“Which means I’m a nasty piece of work, surely,” he countered. “Doesn’t it?”
“That’s up to you,” Reg said, shrugging. “Every man’s captain of his own ship, Gerald Dunwoody. You made the right choice the first time. All you have to do is make it again.”
“And again, and again, and again,” he murmured. “Every hour of every day, for the rest of my life. And how much harder is that going to be, with his magic inside me like he’s perched on my shoulder?”
“But it’s not all inside you, is it? Not any more.”
“Trust me, Reg. Enough of it is. And if Monk can’t pull a rabbit out of his trousers, it always will be. D’you know, I nearly flattened bloody Errol Haythwaite?”
Reg chuckled. “Bloody Errol Haythwaite could do with a bit of flattening.”
“It’s not funny!”
“Gerald, Gerald,” she sighed. “Lose your sense of humour, my boy, and you really will be in a pickle.”
And that was when she sounded like his Reg. He felt the memory jolt through him, bright flames in the sunlight as she crumbled to ash. Smothered a groan. A familiar, feathered weight came to rest on his shoulder and a long beak rubbed gently against his cheek.
“I know it’s hard,” she whispered. “I know you miss her. It’s easier for me. I got my Gerald back. That other manky bastard, he’s just a bad memory. But I know it’s not the same for you, Gerald. I won, and you lost, and how that’s going to end up I honestly can’t say.”
“No,” he croaked. “Me, neither.”
“I’ll go, if you want me to,” the other Reg said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “I managed before I met you and I’ll manage if I leave. No need for you to worry about that. If having me around makes it harder for you to do your job, then I should go. Just say the word, Gerald, and you’ll not lay an eye on me again.”
“No!” he said, sitting up. “Reg, are you mad? Of course I don’t want you to go. No-one wants you to go. Things might be a bit difficult at the moment, but they won’t always be. And I absolutely want you to stay. We all do.”
Instead of replying, Reg hopped from his shoulder to the library’s writing desk and cast her eye over his various scribblings.
“Not bad, not bad,” she said, when she’d finished reading. “In another ten years or so you might make a halfway decent secret government agent. Only you’re mad if you only take one crystal ball with you. You’ll need at least three. More if you can manage it. Because if your luggage doesn’t get left behind, dropped over the side of a riverboat, down a mountain or into a bog, or end up confused with someone else’s so it’s shipped to Jandria by slow hot air balloon, then I’m not the dispossessed Queen of Lalapinda.” She looked at him over her wing. “And no matter where I happen to be, I am.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, grinning despite the evening’s heartache. “At least three crystal balls. I’ll make a note.”
She sniffed. “Yes. Well. See that you do. Because if you’ve only got one and you lose it at a delicate moment, meaning you’ve got to nick someone else’s in order to save the day, all you need is some other snooty guest’s busybody minion poking his nose where it’s not wanted and you’ll be answering awkward questions and drawing attention to yourself. And that won’t please your Sir Alec, will it?”
“No,” he said. “Reg…”
With a rustling of feathers she hopped around to face him. “Gerald?”
Heart thumping, he stared at her. This was as good a time as ever to say it. And he had to say it. Had to.
“Reg, if ever you see me turning into him, you must speak up. And if I won’t listen, if I try to brush you aside, you must go to Sir Alec. He’ll know what to do and he’ll do it, no hesitation. He’s very good at his job.”
Reg chattered her beak. “Now, Gerald-”
“No, Reg. I mean it,” he said, leaning forward. “You promise me. Right now. I need this. I need to know I can trust you. Just in case the day comes when I can’t trust myself.” He swallowed. “And it might come. We both know that. So please, don’t insult me by telling me I’m talking nonsense.”
“Oh, Gerald,” said Reg, and gave her tail feathers an aggravated rattle. Then she sighed. “Fine, you wretched boy. Yes. I promise.”
Was it his imagination, or did the shrouding shadow lighten then, just a little? He touched his fingertip to her wing.
“Dammit, Reg. I wish you were coming to Splotze. But since you’re not, do me a favour, would you? Keep an eye on Monk? Because he adores Bibbie, and Mel, and he’s going to worry himself sick over them. Besides, you know what he’s like. He can no more stop himself from inventing things than Melissande can help giving everyone orders.”
“Ha!” said Reg, eyes gleaming again. “And won’t madam be in her element, with two of you to boss around from sun up to sun down and half way into the night!”
Half laughing, half groaning, Gerald sprawled backwards in his chair. “Saint Snodgrass’s teeth, Reg. Don’t bloody remind me!”
Standing with Frank Dalby in Nettleworth’s dingy Ops room, staring at the enormous relief map of the Central Northern Continent where Fandawandi spread like a threadbare carpet across nearly half of the humpy landmass, Sir Alec pinched the bridge of his nose, hard.
“I must be going blind,” he muttered, glaring at the glowing, unbroken line that traced the thaumaturgically protected edges of Fandawandi’s territory. “Or senile. For the life of me I cannot fathom how these bandits are getting the dirit weed past Fandawandi’s checkpoints and across the border into Dibaloo.”
“Neither can I,” said Frank, his expression dour. “And since we don’t have an agent in Dibaloo, or any kind of political influence there, that means it’s only a matter of time before the bloody stuff’s smuggled from there onto boats crossing the Damooj Strait, then starts showing up on the back streets of Ott and every-bloody-where else you’ll find young fools cursed with more money than sense.”
“Yes, while the Fandawandi authorities mop and mow and wring their lily-white hands,” Sir Alec said. He thumped his fist to the edge of the relief map. “Why the devil they’ve not taken steps to eradicate dirit is beyond my comprehension!”
“You know bloody well why,” Frank said roughly. “Because when they’re not busy wringing their hands, those same Fandawandi authorities are putting them out for bribes to turn a blind eye. What do they care if a muck-load of Ottish youngbloods fry their brains smoking poisonous herbery?”
“Well, I’m going to damned well make them care. Mister Dalby-”
The Ops room’s door burst open. “Sir Alec. A moment of your time, if you’d be so obliging.”
Frank’s scowl deepened. Sir Alec frowned him into blandness, then turned. “Sir Ralph,” he said, with every appearance of cordiality. “Good morning. Did we have an appointment?”
Ralph’s colour was high, a sure sign of danger. “We have one now. Your office, if you please.”
If it had been anyone other than Ralph, and if the witness to such blatant bad manners had been anyone other than Frank Dalby, there would have been hell and more to pay.
Fortunately for Ralph, that was not the case.