Part 40 (1/2)

He stared nose to beak at the wretched bird. ”What?”

”Don't ask,” said Monk, resigned. ”Really. Just don't.”

”Reg, I need you to tell her what the plan is,” he hissed, as Melissande and Bibbie prepared to escort Eudora Telford down the pathway to her front gate. ”Tell her she's decided this business is so urgent that they've got to go over Sir Ralph's head to his superior, Sir Alec.”

Reg sniffed. ”Tell her yourself. I'm not your social secretary, suns.h.i.+ne.”

”How can I?” he demanded in an urgent undertone. ”I'm just a factotum, aren't I? Please, Reg. Hurry.”

”Blimey,” she said, and ruffled her feathers. ”What would you do without me, that's what I want to know.”

And she launched herself into air, towards Melissande.

”Good question,” said Monk, watching Reg land on Melissande, making enough fuss for three birds twice her size. ”You ever think about that? About not having her around?”

Gerald felt a cold s.h.i.+ver run through him. ”No. Not if I can help it. Now shut up and look obsequious. Their Royal Highnesses approach.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

When Gerald returned to the noisy, bustling Wycliffe R&D laboratory complex, every wizard stopped what he was doing: stopped talking, experimenting, surrept.i.tiously eating, clandestinely drinking, sweeping, scrubbing, filing and skiving off... and stared at him.

It was like walking into a wall of silence.

”Um,” he said carefully. ”h.e.l.lo, chaps.”

Robert Methven broke the hostile stillness, pus.h.i.+ng his way through the collection of wizards. ”What the h.e.l.l are you doing here, Dunwoody? You're supposed to be...” His face twisted. ”On leave.”

He'd worked out his cover story during the taxi ride from Eudora Telford's bungalow. ”Ah, well, Mister Methven, I know. And I am. But I've come to do a favour for Mister Haythwaite. He asked me especially.”

Robert Methven looked down his nose. ”Really? Mister Haythwaite asked you for a favour? That's odd. I heard you nearly got him killed last night. Again.”

A mutter of comments ran through the watching wizards. Keeping a cautious eye on them, Gerald manufactured a suitably shocked expression. ”What? Oh, no. That's not right, Mister Methven. Who told you that?”

”Mister Wycliffe,” said Robert Methven. ”Are you calling him a liar?”

Well... d.a.m.n. He looked past Methven, down to the far end of the lab complex towards Ambrose's office. Its door was closed. ”A liar? Oh, no, Mister Methven. Not at all. Either Mister Wycliffe-ah-misunderstood what Mister Haythwaite said, or else he's teasing. Yes. I'm sure he's just teasing. Perhaps if you asked him to step out of his office for a moment, we could-”

”Mister Wycliffe isn't here,” said Robert Methven. ”In Mister Haythwaite's absence, I am in charge of this facility until Mister Wycliffe's return.”

Oh. Well, it could be worse. ”I see,” he said humbly. ”In that case, Mister Methven, I'm sure you'll have no trouble letting me into Mister Haythwaite's office, just for a few moments? You see, when I visited Mister Haythwaite this morning he asked me to stop by and fetch something for him. It might be a bit uncomfortable if I have to say I couldn't perform this small errand for him because Mister Methven wouldn't let me.”

Around the laboratory, the other wizards were gradually, grudgingly, returning to work. Robert Methven made a strangled sound in his throat, clearly torn between doing down the accident-p.r.o.ne, unpopular Third Grader and not getting on the bad side of the Wycliffe's senior thaumaturgist. Just like Sir Alec, Errol cast a long shadow. Trying not to look as though he cared very much one way or another, Gerald shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed his fingers. Because if Methven decided to be an idiot about this, life was about to get very, very complicated...

”Fine,” Methven grunted, and jerked his head towards Errol's office. ”Go on, then, Dunnywood. But make it quick. You're a b.l.o.o.d.y jinx, you are. You're thaumaturgical quicksand, and the sooner you're out of here the better I'll like it.” He grimaced. ”Truscott's must have taken leave of their senses, sending you here.”

”Yes, Mister Methven,” he said, backing away. ”Thank you, Mister Methven. I'll be as quick as I can, I promise, Mister Methven. You won't even know I'm around, you'll see.”

With a withering stare of utter contempt, Robert Methven turned on his heel and stalked away. Acutely aware that he was still being surrept.i.tiously stared at by his former colleagues, Gerald hid his relief, showing only the kind of servile grat.i.tude expected of a Third Grader, and headed for Errol's office before Robert Methven changed his mind. Pa.s.sing the Mark VI lab, he noticed it was warded shut, with a big red warning poster pasted onto the explosion-buckled door. Its forbidding black lettering read: No Admittance, by strict order of the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy.

Well. Sir Alec wasn't messing about, was he?

Easing Errol's office door closed, but not latched, he took a moment to breathe deeply, subduing nerves, and let his gaze roam around the room. It was immaculately tidy, which was a help. On the desk a blotter, a crystal ball, a telephone, an ink pot, a selection of pens and pencils and some drawing instruments: compa.s.s, slide rule, thaumic protractor and an etheretic plumb-bob. Beside the desk was an oversized filing cabinet, designed to house Errol's top-secret airs.h.i.+p and thaumic engine designs.

But before he explored that likely target for proof of theft, he took a moment to get the feel of the office's etheretic ambience. Rather like a strong perfume, thaumic signatures lingered, sometimes for weeks, if their inherent strength was impressive enough. And the black market wizard who'd designed the hexes Permelia-or whoever was behind the thefts-had used to steal Errol's work was no weakling Third Grader, that much he knew for certain.

He may be a genius but he's a b.l.o.o.d.y menace, too. I wonder if Sir Alec will let me hunt him down when this is over? Unless of course it was Rottlezinder. In which case...

It was a possibility that hadn't occurred to him. But it would make a kind of twisted sense... as well as provide more proof against Permelia.

Slowly, carefully, holding his breath in case he inadvertently set off one of the laboratory's etheretic sensors, Gerald unfurled his potentia and let it taste the air.

Yes. There was Errol, sharp as snow on the wind, a bitter, biting essence of power. No warmth in his thaumic signature at all. Muddying all around it, the faint scents of other wizards who'd been summoned to his presence over the past week or two. Robert Methven, in particular. His potentia was tinged with anxiety... which wasn't surprising. Being Errol's direct underling would make anyone sweat.

Frowning lightly, Gerald pushed a little harder. There had to be a trace of the black market wizard in here. A hint of him... a suggestion... a shadow...

Yes. There it was. Subtle. Elusive. A potentia he'd never encountered before-which meant not Haf Rottlezinder. d.a.m.n. Nor did it belong to any of Wycliffe's R&D wizards. He fished the fake diamonds out of his pocket, closed his fist around them and inhaled. Yes. There it was again. The same sour etheretic aftertaste. Powerful. Very powerful.

Raised voices in the lab beyond the office had him jumping. He leapt back to the door to see what was going on, but it was only another argument between Second Graders Spinkniz and Nye. Idiots. All those two had in common were a lab bench and a bad temper.

So he wasn't unmasked. But he really had to get moving, before his precarious situation here deteriorated further. Time to check out Errol's precious airs.h.i.+p designs.

He risked one last check of the lab complex. Spinkniz and Nye had lapsed into sullen silence, and no-one at all was looking his way. Not even j.a.phet Morgan, who'd been a sort of, kind of, friend. A fellow sufferer in Third Grade adversity, anyway. Wasn't that supposed to count for something?

Apparently not.

So, Wycliffe's wizards were busily at work and Robert Methven was nowhere in sight. Hopefully he was up to his eyeb.a.l.l.s in an experiment and had forgotten about the appalling Gerald Dunwoody.

Easing back from the door, Gerald turned and headed for Errol's filing cabinet. Used one of his newly acquired incants to unhex it, slid the top drawer open, pulled out the first sheaf of blueprints and ran his fingers lightly across them. No. No. No. No. Yes. The same thaumic signature as he'd felt in the fake diamonds, almost too faint to detect. He triggered a recording incant, recited the design code number, then checked the last two designs.

Nothing.

Putting those designs back, he pulled out the next file's worth. No. No. Yes. Yes. No. No.

Another pile. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. No.

And another. No. No. No. No.

Errol had certainly been busy. Six new airs.h.i.+p designs, from small personal craft to enormous public carriers. And no less than three new engine designs, all building on the innovations he was trying out in the Ambrose Mark VI.

Blimey. If Errol managed to get even half of these to work, public transport would be revolutionised. Even if the portal network survived, and thrived, there was still a lot of potential in the designs.

Of course... there was even more potential for creating a truly formidable and terrifying military fleet.

Gerald swallowed. With designs like this in the hands of war-hungry Jandria, the world would be in mortal danger. The reminder was nasty: after the harmless fluffiness of Eudora Telford, a p.r.i.c.k in the side with a smooth, cold knife.

This isn't a game, Dunwoody. You're a janitor. Get the job done.