The Accidental Sorcerer

Book 1: Rogue Agent

by K.E. Mills

Genres: Contemporary Fantasy; Action & Adventure; Humor & Satire; Steampunk

Synopsis

Gerald Dunwoody is a wizard. Just not a particularly good one. He's blown up a factory, lost his job, and there's a chance that he's not really a Third Grade wizard after all. So it's off to New Ottosland to be the new Court Wizard for King Lional.



It's a shame that King Lional isn't the vain, self-centered young man he appeared to be. With a princess in danger, a talking bird who can't stay out of trouble, and a kingdom to save, Gerald soon suspects that he might be out of his depth. And if he can't keep this job, how will he ever become the wizard he was destined to be?

Release date: January 1, 2009

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 564

Sample

The entrance to Stuttley’s Superior Staff factory, Ottosland’s premier staff manufacturer, was guarded by a glass-fronted booth
and blocked by a red and blue boom gate. Inside the booth slumped a dyspeptic-looking security guard, dressed in a rumpled
green and orange Stuttley’s uniform. It didn’t suit him. An ash-tipped cigarette drooped from the corner of his mouth and
the half-eaten sardine sandwich in his hand leaked tomato sauce onto the floor. He was reading a crumpled, food-stained copy
of the previous day’s Ottosland Times.


After several long moments of not being noticed, Gerald fished out his official identification and pressed it flat to the
window, right in front of the guard’s face.


“Gerald Dunwoody. Department of Thaumaturgy. I’m here for a snap inspection.”

The guard didn’t look up. “Izzat right? Nobody tole me.”

“Well, no,” said Gerald, after another moment. “That’s why we call it a ‘snap inspection’. On account of it being a surprise.”

Reluctantly the guard lifted his rheumy gaze. “Ha ha. Sir.”

Gerald smiled around gritted teeth. It’s a job, it’s a job, and I’m lucky to have it. “I understand Stuttley’s production foreman is a Mister Harold Stuttley?”


“That’s right,” said the guard. His attention drifted back to the paper. “He’s the owner’s cousin. Mr Horace Stuttley’s an
old man now, don’t hardly see him round here no more. Not since his little bit of trouble.”


“Really? I’m sorry to hear it.” The guard sniffed, inhaled on his cigarette and expelled the smoke in a disinterested cloud.
Gerald resisted the urge to bang his head on the glass between them. “So where would I find Foreman Stuttley?”


“Search me,” said the guard, shrugging. “On the factory floor, most like. They’re doing a run of First Grade staffs today,
if memory serves.”


Gerald frowned. First Grade staffs were notoriously difficult to forge. Get the etheretic balances wrong in the split-second
of alchemical transformation and what you were looking at afterwards, basically, was a huge smoking hole in the ground. And
if this guard was any indication, standards at Stuttley’s had slipped of late. He rapped his knuckles on the glass.


“I wish to see Harold Stuttley right now, please,” he said, briskly official. “According to Department records this operation
hasn’t returned its signed and witnessed safety statements for two months. I’m afraid that’s a clear breach of regulations.
There’ll be no First Grade staffs rolling off the production line today or any other day unless I’m fully satisfied that all
proper precautions and procedures have been observed.”


Sighing, the guard put down his soggy sandwich, stubbed out his cigarette, wiped his hands on his trousers and stood. “All
right, sir. If you say so.”


There was a battered black telephone on the wall of the security booth. The guard dialled a four digit number, receiver pressed
to his ear, and waited. Waited some more. Dragged his sleeve across his moist nose, still waiting, then hung up with an exclamation
of disgust. “No answer. Nobody there to hear it, or the bloody thing’s on the blink again. Take your pick.”


“I’d rather see Harold Stuttley.”

The guard heaved another lugubrious sigh. “Right you are, then. Follow me.”

Gerald followed, starting to feel a little dyspeptic himself. Honestly, these people! What kind of a business were they running?
Security phones that didn’t work, essential paperwork that wasn’t completed. Didn’t they realise they were playing with fire?
Even the plainest Third Grade staff was capable of inflicting damage if it wasn’t handled carefully in the production phase.
Complacency, that was the trouble. Clearly Harold Stuttley had let the prestige and success of his family’s world-famous business
go to his head. Just because every wizard who was any wizard and could afford the exorbitant price tag wouldn’t be caught
dead without his Stuttley Staff (patented, copyrighted and limited edition) as part of his sartorial ensemble was no excuse
to let safety standards slide.


Bloody hell, he thought, mildly appalled. Somebody save me. I’m thinking like a civil servant…

The unenthusiastic security guard was leading him down a tree-lined driveway towards a distant high brick wall with a red
door in it. The door’s paint was cracked and peeling. Above and behind the wall could be seen the slate-grey factory roof,
with its chimney stacks belching pale puce smoke. A flock of pigeons wheeling through the blue sky plunged into the coloured
effluvium and abruptly turned bright green.


Damn. Obviously Stuttley’s thaumaturgical filtering system was on the blink: code violation number two. The unharmed birds
flapped away, fading back to white even as he watched, but that wasn’t the point. All thaumaturgical by-products were subject
to strict legislation. Temporary colour changes were one thing. But what if the next violation resulted in a temporal dislocation?
Or a quantifiable matter redistribution? Or worse? There’d be hell to pay. People might get hurt. What was Stuttley’s playing
at?


Even as he wondered, he felt a shiver like the touch of a thousand spider feet skitter across his skin. The mellow morning
was suddenly charged with menace, strobed with shadows.


“Did you feel that?” he asked the guard.

“They don’t pay me to feel things, sir,” the guard replied over his shoulder.

A sense of unease, like a tiny butterfly, fluttered in the pit of Gerald’s stomach. He glanced up, but the sky was still blue
and the sun was still shining and birds continued to warble in the trees.


“No. Of course they don’t,” he replied, and shook his head. It was nothing. Just his stupid over-active imagination getting
out of hand again. If he could he’d have it surgically removed. It certainly hadn’t done him any favours to date.


He glanced in passing at the nearest tree with its burden of trilling birds, but he couldn’t see Reg amongst them. Of course
he wouldn’t, not if she didn’t want to be seen. After yesterday morning’s lively discussion about his apparent lack of ambition
she’d taken herself off in a huff of ruffled feathers and a cloud of curses and he hadn’t laid eyes on her since.


Not that he was worried. This wasn’t the first hissy fit she’d thrown and it wouldn’t be the last. She’d come back when it
suited her. She always did. She just liked to make him squirm.


Well, he wasn’t going to. Not this time. No, nor apologise either. For once in her ensorcelled life she was going to admit
to being wrong, and that was that. He wasn’t unambitious. He just knew his limitations.


Three paces ahead of him the guard stopped at the red door, unhooked a large brass key ring from his belt and fished through
its assortment of keys. Finding the one he wanted he stuck it into the lock, jiggled, swore, kicked the door twice, and turned
the handle.


“There you are, sir,” he said, pushing the door wide then standing back. “I’ll let you find your own way round if it’s all
the same to you. Can’t leave my booth unattended for too long. Somebody important might turn up.” He smiled, revealing tobacco-yellow
teeth.


Gerald looked at him. “Indeed. I’ll be sure to mention your enthusiasm in my official report.”

The guard did a double take at that, his smile vanishing. With a surly grunt he hooked his bundle of keys back on his belt
then folded his arms, radiating offended impatience.


Immediately, Gerald felt guilty. Oh lord. Now I’m acting like a civil servant!

Not that there was anything wrong, as such, with public employment. Many fine people were civil servants. Indeed, without
them the world would be in a sorry state, he was sure. In fact, the civil service was an honourable institution and he was
lucky to be part of it. Only… it had never been his ambition to be a wizard who inspected the work of other wizards for Departmental
regulation violations. His ambition was to be an inspectee, not an inspector. Once upon a time he’d thought that dream was reachable.


Now he was a probationary compliance officer in the Minor Infringement Bureau of the Department of Thaumaturgy… and dreams
were things you had at night after you turned out the lights.


He nodded at the waiting guard. “Thank you.”

“Certainly, sir,” the guard said sourly.

Well, his day was certainly getting off to a fine start. And we wonder why people don’t like bureaucrats…


With an apologetic smile at the guard he hefted his official briefcase, straightened his official tie, rearranged his expression
into one of official rectitude and walked through the open doorway.


And only flinched a little bit as the guard locked the red door behind him.

It’s a wizarding job, Gerald, and it’s better than the alternative.

Hopefully, if he reminded himself often enough, he’d start to believe that soon.

The factory lay dead ahead, down the end of a short paved pathway. It was a tall, red brick building blinded by a lack of
windows. Along its front wall were plastered a plethora of signs: Danger! Thaumaturgical Emissions! Keep Out! No Admittance Without Permission! All Visitors Report To Security Before Proceeding!


As he stood there, reading, one of the building’s four doors opened and a young woman wearing a singed lab coat and an expression
of mild alarm came out.


He approached her, waving. “Excuse me! Excuse me! Can I have a word?”

The young woman saw him, took in his briefcase and the crossed staffs on his tie and moaned. “Oh, no. You’re from the Department,
aren’t you?”


He tried to reassure her with a smile. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Gerald Dunwoody. And you are?”

Looking hunted, she shrank into herself. “Holly,” she muttered. “Holly Devree.”

He’d been with the Department for a shade under six months and in all that time had been allowed into the field only four
times, but he’d worked out by the end of his first site inspection that when it came to the poor sods just following company
orders, sympathy earned him far more co-operation than threats. He sagged at the knees, let his shoulders droop and slid his
voice into a more intimate, confiding tone.


“Well, Miss Devree—Holly—I can see you’re feeling nervous. Please don’t. All I need is for you to point me in the direction
of your boss, Mr Harold Stuttley.”


She cast a dark glance over her shoulder at the factory. “He’s in there. And before you see him I want it understood that
it’s not my fault. It’s not Eric’s fault, either. Or Bob’s. Or Lucius’s. It’s not any of our faults. We worked hard to get
our transmogrifer’s licence, okay? And it’s not like we’re earning squillions, either. The pay’s rotten, if you must know.
But Stuttley’s—they’re the best, aren’t they?” Without warning, her thin, pale face crumpled. “At least, they used to be the
best. When old Mr Horace was in charge. But now…”


Fat tears trembled on the ends of her sandy-coloured eyelashes. Gerald fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed
it over. “Yes? Now?”


Blotting her eyes she said, “Everything’s different, isn’t it? Mr Harold’s gone and implemented all these ‘cost-cutting’ initiatives.
Laid off half the Transmogrify team. But the workload hasn’t halved, has it? Oh, no. And it’s not just us he’s laid off, either.
He’s sacked people in Etheretics, Design, Purchasing, Research and Development—there’s not one team hasn’t lost folk. Except
Sales.” Her snubby nose wrinkled in distaste. “Seven new sales reps he’s taken on, and they’re promising the world, and we’re
expected to deliver it—except we can’t! We’re working round the clock and we’re still three weeks behind on orders and now
Mr Harold’s threatening to dock us if we don’t catch up!”


“Oh my,” he said, and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m very sorry to hear this. But at least it explains why the
last eight safety reports weren’t completed.”


“But they were,” she whispered, busily strangling her borrowed handkerchief. “Lucius is the most senior technician we’ve got
left, and I know he’s been doing them. And handing them over to Mr Harold. I’ve seen it. But what he’s doing with them I don’t know.”


Filing them in the nearest waste paper bin, more than likely. “I don’t suppose your friend Lucius discussed the reports with
you? Or showed them to you?”


Holly Devree’s confiding manner shifted suddenly to a cagey caution. The handkerchief disappeared into her lab coat pocket.
“Safety reports are confidential.”


“Of course, of course,” Gerald soothed. “I’m not implying any inappropriate behaviour. But Lucius didn’t happen to leave one
lying out on a table, did he, where any innocent passer-by might catch a glimpse?”


“I’m sorry,” she said, edging away. “I’m on my tea break. We only get ten minutes. Mr Harold’s inside if you want to see him.
Please don’t tell him we talked.”


He watched her scuttle like a spooked rabbit, and sighed. Clearly there was more amiss at Stuttley’s than a bit of overlooked
paperwork. He should get back to the office and tell Mr Scunthorpe. As a probationary compliance officer his duties lay within
very strict guidelines. There were other, more senior inspectors for this kind of trouble.


On the other hand, his supervisor was allergic to incomplete reports. Unconfirmed tales out of school from disgruntled employees
and nebulous sensations of misgiving from probationary compliance officers bore no resemblance to cold, hard facts. And Mr
Scunthorpe was as married to cold, hard facts as he was to Mrs Scunthorpe. More, if Mr Scunthorpe’s marital mutterings were
anything to go by.


Turning, Gerald stared at the blank-faced factory. He could still feel his inexplicable unease simmering away beneath the
surface of his mind. Whatever it was trying to tell him, the news wasn’t good. But that wasn’t enough. He had to find out
exactly what had tickled his instincts. And he did have a legitimate place to start, after all: the noncompletion of mandatory safety
statements. The infraction was enough to get his foot across the factory threshold. After that, well, it was just a case of
following his intuition.


He resolutely ignored the whisper in the back of his mind that said, Remember what happened the last time you followed your intuition?

“Oh, bugger off!” he told it, and marched into the fray.

Another pallid employee answered his brisk banging on the nearest door. “Good afternoon,” he said, flashing his identification
and not giving the lab-coated man a chance to speak. “Gerald Dunwoody, Department of Thaumaturgy, here to see Mr Harold Stuttley
on a matter of noncompliance. I’m told he’s inside? Excellent. Don’t let me keep you from your duties. I’ll find my own way
around.”


The employee gave ground, helpless in the ruthlessly cheerful face of officialdom, and Gerald sailed in. Immediately his nose
was clogged with the stink of partially discharged thaumaturgic energy. The air beneath the high factory ceiling was alive
with it, crawling and spitting and sparking. The carefully caged lights hummed and buzzed, crackling as firefly filaments
of power drifted against their heated bulbs to ignite in a brief, sunlike flare.


A dozen more lab-coated technicians scurried up and down the factory floor, focused on the task at hand. Directly opposite,
running the full length of the wall, stood a five-deep row of benches, each one equipped with specially crafted staff cradles.
Twenty-five per bench times five benches meant that, if the security guard was right, Stuttley’s had one hundred and twenty-five
new First Grade staffs ready for completion. The technicians, looking tense and preoccupied, fiddled and twiddled and realigned
each uncharged staff in its cradle, assessing every minute adjustment with a hand-held thaumic register. All the muted ticking
made the room sound like the demonstration area of a clockmakers’ convention.


At either end of the benches towered the etheretic conductors, vast reservoirs of unprocessed thaumaturgic energy. Insulated
cables connected them to each other and all the staff cradles, whose conductive surfaces waited patiently for the discharge
of raw power that would transform one hundred and twenty-five gold-filigreed five-foot-long spindles of oak into the world’s
finest, most prestigious, expensive and potentially most dangerous First Grade staffs.


Despite his misgivings he heard himself whimper, just a little. Stuttley First Graders were works of art. Each wrapping of
solid gold filigree was unique, its design template destroyed upon completion and never repeated. The rare wizards who could
afford the extra astronomical cost had their filigrees designed specifically for them, taking into account personal strengths,
family history and specific thaumaturgic signatures. Those staffs came with inbuilt security: it was immediate and spectacularly
gruesome death for any wizard other than the rightful owner to attempt the use of them.


Once, a long long time ago, he’d dreamed of owning a First Grade staff. Even though he didn’t come from a wizarding family.
Even though he’d got his qualifications through a correspondence course. Wizardry cared nothing for family background or the
name of the college where you were educated. Wizarding was of the blood and bone, indifferent to pedigrees and bank balances.
Some of the world’s finest wizards had come from humble origins.


Although… not lately. Lately, Ottosland’s most powerful and influential wizards came from recognisable families whose names
more often than not could also be heard whispered in the nation’s corridors of power.


Still. Technically, anybody with sufficient aptitude and training could become a First Grade wizard. Social standing might influence your accent
but it had nothing to do with raw power. Technically, even a tailor’s son from Nether Wallop could earn the right to wield a First Grade staff.


Unbidden, his fingers touched his copper-ringed cherrywood Third Grade staff, tucked into its pocket on the inside of his
overcoat. It was nothing to be ashamed of. He was the first wizard in the family for umpteen generations, after all. Plenty
of people failed even to be awarded a Third Grade licence. For every ten hopefuls identified as potential wizards, only one
or two actually survived the rigours of trial and training to receive their precious staff.


And even for Third Grades there was work to be had. Wasn’t he living proof? Gerald Dunwoody, after a couple of totally understandable
false starts, soon to be a fully qualified compliance officer with the internationally renowned Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy?
Yes, indeed. The sky was the limit. Provided there was a heavy cloud cover. And he was indoors. In a cellar, possibly.


Oh lord, he thought miserably, staring at all those magnificent First Grade staffs. It felt as though his official Departmental tie
had tightened to throttling point. There has to be more to wizarding than this.


An irate shout rescued him from utter despair. “Oy! You! Who are you and what are you doing in my factory?”

He turned. Marching belligerently towards him, scattering lab coats like so many white mice, was a small persnickety man of
sleek middle years, clutching a clipboard and looking so offended even his tea-stained moustache was bristling.


“Ah. Good afternoon,” he said, producing his official smile. “Mr Harold Stuttley, I presume?”

The angry little man halted abruptly in front of him, clipboard pressed to his chest like a shield. “And if I am? What of
it? Who wants to know?”


Gerald put down his briefcase and took out his identification. Stuttley snatched it from his fingers, glared as though at
a mortal insult, then shoved it back. “What’s all this bollocks? And who let you in here? We’re about to do a run of First
Grades. Unauthorised personnel aren’t allowed in here when we’re running First Grades! How do I know you’re not here for a
spot of industrial espionage?”


“Because I’m employed by the DoT,” he said, pocketing his badge. “And I’m afraid you won’t be running anything, Mr Stuttley,
until I’m satisfied it’s safe to do so. You’ve not submitted your safety statements for some time now, sir. I’m afraid the
Department takes a dim view of that. Now I realise it’s probably just an oversight on your part, but even so…” He shrugged.
“Rules are rules.”


Harold Stuttley’s pebble-bright eyes bulged. “Want to know what you can do with your rules? You march in here uninvited and
then have the hide to tell me when I can and can’t conduct my own business? I’ll have your job for this!”


Gerald considered him. Too much bluster. What’s he trying to hide? He let his gaze slide sideways, away from Harold Stuttley’s unattractively temper-mottled face. The thaumic emission gauge
on the nearest etheretic conductor was stuttering, jittery as an icicle in an earthquake. Flick, flick, flick went the needle,
each jump edging closer and closer to the bright red zone marked Danger. In his nostrils, the clogging stink of overheated thaumic energy was suddenly stifling.


“Mr Stuttley,” he said, “I think you should shut down production right now. There’s something wrong here, I can feel it.”

Harold Stuttley’s eyes nearly popped right out of his head. “Shut down? Are you raving? You’re looking at over a million quid’s
worth of merchandise! All those staffs are bought and paid for, you meddling twit! I’m not about to disappoint my customers
for some wet-behind-the-ears stooge from the DoT! Your superiors wouldn’t know a safe bit of equipment if it bit them on the
arse—and neither would you! Stuttley’s has been in business two hundred and forty years, you cretin! We’ve been making staffs
since before your great-grandad was a randy thought in his pa’s trousers!”


Gerald winced. By now the air inside the factory was so charged with energy it felt like sandpaper abrading his skin. “Look.
I realise it’s inconvenient but—”


Harold Stuttley’s pointing finger stabbed him in the chest. “It’s not happening, son, that’s what it is. Inconvenient is the lawsuit I’ll bring against you, your bosses and the whole bleeding Department of Thaumaturgy, you mark my words, if
you don’t leg it out of here on the double! Interfering with the lawful conduct of business? This is political, this is. Too
many wizards buying Stuttley’s instead of the cheap muck your precious Department churns out! Well I won’t have it, you hear
me? Now hop it! Off my premises! Or I’ll give you a personal demonstration why Stuttley’s staffs are the best in the world!”


Gerald stared. Was the man mad? He couldn’t throw out an official Department inspector. He’d have his manufacturing licence
revoked. Be brought up on charges. Get sent to prison and be forced to pay a hefty fine.


Little rivers of sweat were pouring down Harold Stuttley’s scarlet face and his hands were trembling with rage. Gerald looked
more closely. No. Not rage. Terror. Harold Stuttley was beside himself with fear.


He turned and looked at the nearest etheretic conductor. It was sweating too, beads of dark blue moisture forming on its surface,
dripping slowly down its sides. Even as he watched, one fat indigo drop of condensed thaumic energy plopped to the factory
floor. There was a crack of light and sound. Two preoccupied technicians somersaulted through the air like circus performers,
crashed into the wall opposite and collapsed in groaning heaps.


“Stuttley!” He grabbed Harold by his lapels and shook him. “Do you see that? Your etheretic containment field is leaking! You have
to evacuate! Now!”


The rest of the lab coats were congregated about their fallen comrades, fussing and whispering and casting loathing looks
in their employer’s direction. The acrobatic technicians were both conscious, apparently unbroken, but seemed dazed. Harold
Stuttley jumped backwards, tearing himself free of officialdom’s grasp.


“Evacuate? Never! We’ve got a deadline to meet!” He rounded on his employees. “You lot! Back to work! Leave those malingerers
where they are, they’re all right, they’re just winded! Be on their feet in no time—if they know what’s good for them. Come on! You want to get paid this week or don’t you?”


Aghast, Gerald stared at him. The man was mad. Even a mere Third Grade wizard like himself knew the dangers of improperly contained thaumic emissions. The entire first
year of his correspondence course had dealt with the occupational hazards of wizarding. Some of the illustrations in his handbook
had put him off minced meat for weeks.


He stepped closer to the factory foreman and lowered his voice. “Mr Stuttley, you’re making a very big mistake. Falling behind
in your safety statements is one thing. It’s a minor infringement. Not worth so much as half a paragraph in Wizard Weekly’s gossip column. But if you try to run this equipment when clearly it’s not correctly calibrated, you could cause a scandal
that will spread halfway round the world. You could ruin Stuttley’s reputation for years. Maybe forever. Not to mention risk
the lives of all your workers. Is that what you want?”


Harold Stuttley swiped his face with his sleeve. “What I want,” he said hoarsely, “is for you to get out of here and let me
do my job. There’s nothing wrong with our equipment, I tell you, it—”


“Quick, everyone! Run for your lives! The conductors are about to invert!”

As the technician who’d shouted the warning led the stampede for the nearest door, Gerald spun on his heel and stared at the
sweating etheretic conductors. The needles of each thaumic emission gauge were buried deep in the danger zone and the scattered
drops of energy had coalesced into foaming indigo streams. They struck the factory floor like lances of fire, blowing holes,
scattering splinters. The insulating cables linking the conductors to each other and the benches glowed virulent blue, shimmerings
of power wafting off them like heat haze on a dangerous horizon.


Balanced in their cradles, the First Grade staffs began to dance.

“We have to turn off the conductors!” said Gerald. “Before all the staffs are charged at once or the conductors blow—or both!
Where are the damper switches, Stuttley?”


But Harold Stuttley was halfway out of the door, his clipboard abandoned on the floor behind him.

Wonderful.

Now the etheretic conductors were humming, a rising song of warning. The air beneath the factory ceiling stirred. Thickened,
like curdling cream, and took on a faintly blue cast. He felt every exposed hair on his body stand on end. His throat closed
on a gasp as the etheretically burdened atmosphere turned almost unbreathable. Something warm was trickling from his nostrils.


He should run. Now. Without pausing to pick up his briefcase. Those conductors were going to invert any second now, and when
they did—


“Bloody hell!” he shouted, and leapt for the nearest cable.


It wouldn’t disengage. None of the cables would disengage. He ran up and down the benches, tugging and swearing, but the leaking
power had fused the cables to the cradles and each other.


He’d have to get the staffs clear before they all got charged.

Stumbling, sweating, parched with terror, he started hauling the gold-filigreed oak spindles out of their cradles. Tossed
them behind him like s