Wizard Undercover

Book 4: Rogue Agent

by K.E. Mills

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

Synopsis

There may be trouble ahead . . . Wedding bells are ringing for the constantly battling nations of Splotze and Borovnik, and the upcoming royal nuptials could at last put an end to their dangerous hostilities. But in a development that hardly bodes well, one of Gerald's fellow janitors goes missing -- after delivering a dire warning of danger surrounding the marriage treaty. So Gerald must embark on a dangerous mission to uncover the troublemakers, before wedded bliss becomes international war. But going undercover isn't as easy as it looks, even with Melissande and Emmerabiblia for camouflage. Soon Gerald finds himself fighting for his life as well as world peace.

Release date: May 1, 2012

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 416

Sample

Puffing and panting, dripping unladylike sweat down her cheeks and off the end of her freckled nose and with her stylish, brand new spectacles fogged, Melissande slipped and staggered her way along yet another narrow, barely lit, cobblestoned Grande Splotze alley.

I’m an idiot. What am I? A raving nutter. I should’ve known I’d be sorry if I wore high heels.

Well. Highish. A good two and a half inches, at any rate, which at this particularly fraught moment was two and a half inches too many.

I swear on Sultan Zazoor’s best war camel, I don’t care what the occasion is, the next time I get mixed up with one of Gerald’s little missions I’m bloody well wearing ballet slippers!

Or better yet, football boots. The studded kind. With reinforced steel toes.

Assuming, of course, there is a next time. Assuming that this time doesn’t end with us well and truly corpsified.

She risked a downwards glance at her pale green silk-swathed chest, where Gerald’s lolling head was awkwardly pillowed. Oh, lord. He did look bad. Don’t die, Gerald. Please don’t die. Feeling him start to slip yet again, the fierce drag on her shoulders and back burning hotter with every unsteady step, she gave a little grunt, blinked fresh sweat out of her eyes, and tried to firm up her grip around his barely moving chest. If she dropped him he’d likely crack his skull on the cobbles, just like an egg.

Which would put the icing on our very lumpy cake, and no mistake.

Directly in front of her, arms clamped around Gerald’s knees, Bibbie was having her own difficulties staying upright. Not long after the night’s fireworks finished, a chilly rain had washed through festive Grande Splotze, chasing the crowds of revellers indoors even before the curfew. Now the capital’s inconveniently empty streets were as treacherous as an ice rink.

So any minute now we’ll be skating, I expect. Wonderful.

Without warning, the narrow, poorly lit alley took a precipitous right-hand turn. Cursing, Bibbie hopped and skipped and jiggled around it—and lost her footing. But then, praise Saint Snodgrass, with an alarmed squeak she found her balance and went on cursing, more inventively than ever.

Keeping up, but only just, Melissande clutched Gerald’s chest so tightly she expected to hear the sharp snap-snap-snap of his ribs.

“Do be careful, Bibbie! And shut up!” she hissed, frantic, at the back of Bibbie’s head. “We don’t want those murderous pillocks to hear us! And whatever else you do, don’t drop Gerald!”

“No, really?” Bibbie retorted over her shoulder. Her neatly coiffed hair was coming down in a tangle of plain pins. “Aren’t you the spoilsport. I was hoping to roll him down the street like a hoop!”

Melissande scowled. If her arms hadn’t been full of unconscious secret government agent she’d have happily slapped Monk’s wretched sister.

They staggered on, still panting and sweating, but mercifully no longer cursing, until they reached the end of the alley. Now the air wasn’t only coldly damp, it was smelly as well, ripe with discarded refuse and possibly a very dead cat. Melissande tried to hold her breath.

“Which way?” said Bibbie, between heaving gasps. “Mel, which—”

“I’m not sure. Give me a moment.”

Bibbie groaned. “Must I?”

Ignoring her, Melissande filtered the disgusting air between her teeth as she racked her tired brain for inspiration. If only she and Bibbie had gone with Gerald the day he went to investigate Abel Bestwick’s lodging. But he’d made them stay behind because they were only honorary janitors, and for all he knew Abel Bestwick had all kinds of secret janitorial information strewn about his rented home. Information they weren’t cleared to see. So instead of knowing in practice where they were going, she and Bibbie only knew in theory: 45b Voblinz Lane, smack dab in the middle of fancy Grande Splotze’s insalubrious slummy bits. She spared lolling Gerald’s upside down face an unfriendly glance. If all three of them got out of this scrape in one piece she’d have a few pithy things to say about being treated like a second-class honorary agent.

“Melissande!”

“Yes, yes, all right. Go left,” she said, haphazard.

“Left?” Bibbie echoed, doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“No, but at least there’s half a chance we’ll be going the right way!”

“Oh, Saint Snodgrass’s elbow,” Bibbie muttered. “Fine. Left it is.” But instead of getting a move on she cocked her head, listening. “I can’t hear anything, Mel. Are you quite certain those buggers are still chasing us? I threw down a pretty good confusion hex, y’know.”

“Bibbie, you and me and Gerald are all that stand between them and utter ruin. That’s what I call motive. Besides, with their thaumaturgics do you honestly think they’re going to stay confused for long?”

“Yes, well, when you put it that way…”

“Exactly. Now let’s go!”

They shuffled out of the stinking alley and headed left along a slightly wider and marginally less odiferous thoroughfare. Each side of the street was lined with slovenly buildings, leaning shoulder to shoulder like two lines of drunken sailors. A few crooked chimney pots belched half-hearted, noxious smoke. As with every other alley and lane in this dreadful part of Splotze’s capital, only a few gaslights were properly working and none of them was draped with festive garlands. Dim lamps shone behind tatty curtains here and there, but nobody stirred beyond the safety of their four dilapidated walls. But probably it wouldn’t matter if they did. Grande Splotze’s townsfolk were no match for the villains they were dealing with.

And speaking of villains…

Having caught her breath a little, Melissande strained her hearing. But she couldn’t hear any malevolent footsteps behind them. The only sounds were her bellows breathing, and Bibbie’s, and Gerald’s hoarsely squashed exhalations, and the uneven clipping of their reception-worthy heels on the city’s slick, uneven cobbles.

So was I wrong? Have we lost them after all? Oh, please, please let it mean I was wrong!

“Bibbie, I think maybe—”

And then it didn’t matter what she thought because Bibbie misstepped a second time, turned her ankle and with an anguished yelp let go of Gerald’s knees.

“Bibbie!” she shrieked, and dropped rump-first to the wet cobbles, Gerald clutched in her arms.

Ignoring her, Bibbie hopped in a circle. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

“Bibbie, be quiet!”

“Oh, be quiet yourself!” moaned Bibbie. “Can’t you see I’ve broken my leg?”

No, because she was too busy making sure Gerald was still with them. Luckily, Monk’s careless sister had chosen a fitful pool of gaslight in which to sprain her wretched ankle, so she could get a halfway proper look at him.

Oh, dear. Oh, lord. He’s getting worse.

“Gerald,” she whispered, patting his pale cheek. “Gerald, can you hear me? Gerald, are you there?”

He didn’t answer. Not even his closed eyelids flickered. In the uncertain light his lips looked dangerously pale. Equally alarming was the fine sheen of sweat coating his skin. She pressed gloved fingertips to his neck and waited for the re-assuring thub-thub of a pulse. It came at last, far too slowly.

“Well?” said Bibbie, bent in half and rubbing her kid-skin covered ankle. Her voice was steady enough but her eyes were frightened. “How is he?”

“Not dead yet.”

“If only we knew what poison they used,” Bibbie fretted. “Melissande, are you sure there’ll be something at Abel Bestwick’s lodgings that’ll save him?”

No, of course she wasn’t. Only she couldn’t say that. For all her bravado, Bibbie’s courage was hanging by a thread.

Not to mention mine.

“There should be,” she said, chafing Gerald’s cold hand. “Bestwick’s a janitor, he must have some kind of emergency medicine kit.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’ll have a crystal ball hidden somewhere. One strong enough to reach Sir Alec. And Sir Alec will know exactly what to do.”

“How?” Bibbie demanded, her voice catching. “When we can’t tell him which poison that bastard gave Gerald?”

Yes, well, trust Emmerabiblia Markham to spot the flaw in her plan.

“Can you walk yet, Bibbie? We have to get on.”

Gingerly, Bibbie put some weight onto her right foot. “I think so,” she said, wincing. Then she frowned. “You know, I really should risk—”

“No,” Melissande snapped. “Are you out of your mind? With Splotze’s etheretics as bad as they are, a levitation hex might explode Gerald to smithereens. Now help me up, then grab hold of his knees again. We can’t stay here, Bibs. It’s not safe.”

Awkward and clumsy, they got Gerald slung between them once more like a lumpy sack of potatoes. If only he weren’t such a dead weight. If only he could open his eyes.

If only he’d not drunk that damned cherry liqueur.

“Right,” said Bibbie. “Which way now?”

Her own pulse racing, Melissande stared around them. A short stone’s throw further along the street was the entrance to another laneway. Should they go that way? She had no idea. What they needed was a bird’s-eye view of Grande Splotze.

“I’m not sure. Lord, I wish Reg was here.”

Bibbie rolled her eyes. “Which one?”

“Emmerabiblia Markham! That’s a dreadful thing to say!”

“Yes. Well.” Sounding shamefaced, Bibbie settled her pale pink satin-clad shoulders under the heaviness of Gerald’s sagging lower half. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought it. Honestly, trying to remember which bits of our lives this new Reg remembers, and which bits she doesn’t, and constantly being reminded that she isn’t our Reg, that’s not much fun either.”

No, it wasn’t. But what could they do about it? Their Reg was gone and the new Reg was the only one they had left. The sooner they all got used to that fact, the better.

“Anyway,” said Bibbie. “I’m ready. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she said curtly, blinking away the sting of inconvenient grief. “Let’s go. And we’ll keep going until we reach the end of this street.”

Limping only a little bit, Bibbie started walking. Melissande fell into step behind her, pulse racing. Dangling between them in his elegant evening wear, looking less rumpled and more important than ever they’d seen him, Gerald wheezed the damp night air in and out of his lungs.

“Look!” said Bibbie, after a few moments. “There’s a street sign, at last.”

Still slipping and staggering, nearly bursting a blood vessel trying to catch any sound of pursuit, Melissande squinted through her foggy spectacles at the faded board hanging by one rusty nail from the house on the corner.

“Groontzeshilsitz Place,” she said, stumbling over the surfeit of syllables and sibilants. “Sound familiar?”

Bibbie snorted. “Not the way you pronounce it.”

She peered both ways. “Looks like a dead end to the right. We’ll have to go left. Or turn around and take that little laneway after all. Or—”

“We can’t,” Melissande said, shaking her head. If we go back, we’ll run straight into trouble.”

“Y’know,” said Bibbie, “I really do hate it when you’re right.”

“Ha,” she said. “You should be used to it by now.”

They shuffled around till they were pointed in the right direction, then kept going. Several unsteady steps later, Bibbie cocked her head again.

“Do you hear that?”

That was a sluggish sloshing sound, growing more definite the further along the street they walked.

“It’s the Canal,” said Melissande, and briefly closed her eyes. Oh, Saint Snodgrass be praised. “That means we’re going the right way. Gerald said Abel Bestwick’s haunt was directly across from it.”

“Yes, he did,” said Bibbie, suddenly doubtful. “Only across from the Canal sounds awfully vague.”

“Now who’s being the spoilsport? Come on, Bibbie, hurry.”

With an effort that sent her cross-eyed, Melissande picked up the pace, forcing Bibbie to shuffle along faster as well. Every muscle she owned was howling in protest. She had three blisters on each foot and was sweating so much that she thought she could easily drink the Canal dry, even if there were thirty dead cats floating in it.

Miraculously, they’d managed to reach the Canal’s deserted public promenade. Stumbling to the watery thoroughfare’s walled edge, Bibbie looked over her shoulder. “Wait—wait—I need a moment. I have to stop.”

“All right,” Melissande said, rasping. “But only a moment, Bibbie. We’re running out of time.”

They lowered Gerald to the cobbles and fell against the Canal wall, heaving for air. Melissande clutched at her side, where a white-hot pain was sawing her in two. Despite it, she stared across the city rooftops in the direction of the Royal Palace. Oh, dear. There was a definite glow in the night sky, shimmering crimson above the tiles and chimneys and gilding the crowns of the distant trees.

“Y’know, Bibbie,” she said, wheezing only a little bit now. “On second thoughts, perhaps setting fire to the reception hall wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

With no gaslight close by it was too dark to see Bibbie’s face, but she felt the searing touch of her friend’s glare.

“Is that so?” Monk’s sister demanded. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, Your Highness, but aren’t you the one who shrieked Quick, quick, we need a diversion!”

“Yes, all right, I did,” she said, caught, “but I meant for you to knock over a tray of drinks, not indulge in a spot of wholesale arson! Hartwig’s going to be terribly upset.”

“Right!” said Bibbie. “That’s it. Next time you create the diversion!”

“Oh, come on, Bibbie, don’t be like that! I’m only saying—”

Bibbie stamped her foot. “I don’t care what you’re saying! From here on in, Your Royal Snootiness, you can take care of your own bloody dirty work, because nothing I do is ever good enough for you!”

“What? What?” she spluttered. “Emmerabiblia Markham, that is the most—”

But before she could finish refuting such a rankly unfair accusation, the dank night air was unexpectedly full of feathers and beak and claws and a loud, angry indignation.

“Oy, you pair of hoydens!” Reg screeched. “Put a sock in it, right now! And then you can tell me what you’ve done to my Gerald!”

Three and a half weeks earlier…

“Right,” said Mister Jennings, the Department of Thaumaturgy’s leading technician. “That does it, I think, Mister Dunwoody. The monitoring crystals are all in place. How do you feel?”

So nervous I can’t see straight, Gerald thought. But since obviously he couldn’t say that, he shrugged. “Fine, Mister Jennings. I feel fine.”

“Hmm,” said Mister Jennings. A few years past middle age, he was corded with sinews and afflicted with adenoids, and a faintly fragrant pomade slicked his thinning grey hair close to his skull. Lips pursed, light brown eyes wearily cynical, he made another tiny adjustment to the clear crystals he’d fixed to his patient’s forehead. “Good. That’s good.”

In other words, I know you’re a big fat liar, Mister Dunwoody, but for your sake I’m going to pretend I believe you.

Satisfied at last, Mister Jennings glanced at the small, bare room’s ceiling. “All set here, Sir Alec. Anything you wanted to say?”

“No,” came Sir Alec’s crystal-thinned voice. “You may proceed, Mister Jennings.”

Trying not to feel the trickle of sweat down his shirt-covered ribs, Gerald frowned.

What, Sir Alec? No last words of encouragement? Not even a feeble, half-hearted good luck? Miserable bastard.

Except that wasn’t true. Not really. Soothing platitudes just weren’t his chilly superior’s style—something he should be used to by now.

“Now then, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings, and patted his shoulder. “Breathe slow and deep and keep as still as you can. Mapping your potentia for the grimoire hexes shouldn’t be a problem, but once we start extracting them, well, there’ll be a bit of discomfort. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. But I’ll be right outside, keeping a nice close eye on you. Most important thing is, don’t fight what’s happening. You’ll want to, but you’ll only make things harder on yourself if you do.”

“I see,” he said, his mouth drier than the Kallarapi desert. “Ah—have you any idea how long this will take?”

Mister Jennings rubbed his chin. “Can’t say as I do, I’m afraid. This isn’t something as gets done on a regular basis, you know. And then every wizard’s different, isn’t he?”

The look in his eye added: And some of us are more different than others.

“Yes, of course,” Gerald muttered. “Thank you, Mister Jennings.”

As the small, bare room’s door closed quietly behind the thaumic technician, he made an effort to relax. It might have been easier had he not been strapped down on the padded table. Or if there’d been something soothing overhead to look at. The empty expanse of white ceiling was oddly intimidating, even if he could only see it through his one good eye. Intimidating too were the broad strips of battered leather Mister Jennings had secured across his chest, hips, thighs and ankles. Honestly, he felt like he’d been abandoned in one of the less savoury establishments certain politicians had recently been caught frequenting, with abruptly career-ending results.

The crystals on his forehead weighed heavier than lead.

“Right then, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings’s disembodied voice. “I’m activating the mapping hex now. You shouldn’t feel anything more than a slight tingle. Be sure to say something if that’s not the case.”

He swallowed, wishing he’d thought to loosen his collar. “I certainly will, Mister Jennings. Thanks for the warning.”

Some time passed. Was that a tingle? He couldn’t tell. It was hard to feel anything beyond the heavy thudding of his heart against the wall of his chest. With his eyes closed he could almost hear the thick, red gushing of blood through his veins.

“Right then, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings. Beneath the deliberate cheer there sounded a note of caution. “All done.”

“Really?” Surprised, Gerald blinked. “That was fast. And I hardly felt a thing. Are you sure all those grimoire hexes are properly mapped?”

“He’s quite sure, Mister Dunwoody. Kindly refrain from telling the expert how to do his job.”

Oh. “Sorry, Sir Alec. No offence intended.”

“None taken,” said Mister Jennings. “Now, sir, we’ll start the extraction. I’ll have it over and done with soon as I can, I promise.”

And whatever Mister Jennings intended, that wasn’t the least bit reassuring at all.

“Thank you, Mister Jennings,” he croaked.

But there was no point complaining. He was the one who’d pushed to have the grimoire hexes his appalling alternate self had given him sucked out of his potentia, where general wisdom declared all acquired incants resided. Sir Alec, not at all keen on the idea, had counselled patience. When that didn’t work, Mister Jennings had been brought in to explain in stomach-turning detail the many and disgusting things that could go wrong with the extraction procedure. Not wanting to listen to either of them, he’d all but stuck his fingers in his ears.

“At least give the Department time to learn something of the effects of these hexes before you have them removed,” Sir Alec had said at last. “After all, Mister Dunwoody, you can’t overlook the fact that you’re in a unique position to further the sum of our thaumaturgical knowledge.”

Oh yes he bloody well could. He’d had more than enough of playing guinea pig for the Department. Besides, after enduring the grimoire hexes’ sickening taint for eleven days, he was starting to feel desperate.

To his surprise, even Monk, who’d seen what the other, terrible Gerald Dunwoody had done, the damage those dreadful hexes could inflict, hadn’t wanted him to do this.

“It’s too risky, mate,” he’d said, lanky dark hair flopped over his face. “Jennings’s procedure is practically experimental. What if something goes wrong?”

Trouble was, things were already going wrong. The other Gerald’s grimoire magic was giving him terrible dreams. Every night since his return from the other Ottosland he’d woken in a cold sweat, shaking, with those seductive grimoire hexes churning dread through his blood. In a terrible way they were alive… and they wanted to be used. But when he’d tried explaining that, all he got was blank stares. Monk shoved a bottle of brandy at him. Sir Alec told him it was his grief talking, and that as a janitor he could not afford to indulge in counterproductive and self-indulgent emotions.

The only person who took his fears seriously was the other Reg.

“You trust your instincts, sunshine,” she said, head tipped to one side, eyes bright. “You’re the one that bugger mucked up with the manky stuff, aren’t you? If you think his grimoire magic’s trouble, then it’s trouble. So don’t you go taking no for an answer from that beady-eyed Department stooge.”

Gerald still couldn’t decide if it helped or hurt, that her trenchant advice sounded so familiar. So right. As though it was really his Reg talking. Taking the advice, he’d dug in his heels and, for once recognising defeat, Sir Alec had relented.

So now here he was, strapped to a padded table in the bowels of the Department’s rambling, obscure Nettleworth headquarters, waiting to be doused with the thaumaturgical equivalent of paint stripper.

Who says I don’t know how to have a good time?

A hint of warmth in the crystals attached to his sweaty forehead stirred him out of thought. And then… no, it wasn’t his imagination. That was a definite tingle. A few booming heartbeats later, the tingle intensified. He felt his muscles twitch in protest, and heat surge through him like a tide of boiling water.

“Bloody hell!”

“Just relax there, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings, encouraging. “We don’t want you doing yourself a mischief, do we?”

No, they certainly didn’t. With an effort, Gerald uncramped his fingers. Willed his frantically beating heart to slow down. Took a deep breath and tried to relax his spasming body.

In vain.

The boiling water transmuted to thick, boiling molasses. He was being cooked alive from the inside out. Buried memories thrust themselves unwanted to the surface. This was his torment in Lional’s cave all over again, it was—

Actually, it was much, much worse.

“Mister Dunwoody, do you understand what you’re asking for?” Sir Alec had demanded, so severe. “The other Dunwoody’s grimoire magic will resist extraction. Vigorously. Are you prepared for that?”

Of course he’d said yes, he understood completely and was perfectly prepared—even though he knew he wasn’t. But he’d had no intention of letting that stop him.

Which, on reflection, might’ve been a mistake…

He could feel himself thrashing against the wide leather restraints. Everything hurt, but the worst of the pain was in his head, behind his eyes, where it threatened to shatter his skull. The small, bare room spun wildly around him. There was blood in his mouth, metallically tangy. He’d bitten his tongue.

“Steady on, Mister Dunwoody. You’re doing fine.”

Fine? Jennings was mad. Let them swap places and the Department’s best technician would soon realise this wasn’t fine. He wanted to shout out the pain, but he couldn’t. Sir Alec was watching and he had to prove his superior wrong. He had to bear this, no matter how bad it got, and deny Sir Alec the chance of saying I told you so.

“Coming along nicely, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings’s disembodied voice. “But it’d help if you didn’t jiggle about quite so much.”

Only that was easier said than done, wasn’t it? Ignoring instructions, his tormented body thrashed itself from side to side, flailing against Mister Jennings’s merciless extraction incant. And beneath the torment he could feel something else, an odd, hollow, sucking sensation. Not pain, yet somehow worse than pain. Just as Sir Alec had warned, the other Gerald’s poisonous hexes were fighting their removal. Like ticks burrowed into tender flesh, they battled to stay put. Could a wizard’s potentia bleed? His felt like it was bleeding.

Gerald heard his harsh, deep breathing turn into shallow pants. The pain was intensifying, squibs of bright light and heat bursting behind his tightly closed eyes. Fresh beads of sweat trickled, scorching his skin.

“Really, Mister Dunwoody, you need to keep yourself still,” said Mister Jennings. Now he sounded anxious. “We’re getting down to the nitty-gritty and we don’t want any nasty accidents.”

With an effort that rolled both eyes back in his pain-stormed skull, Gerald forced himself into immobility. He thought he heard his joints popping and cracking with the strain. Bits of his body were numb, where he struggled against the leather straps that kept him on the table.

“Well done, Mister Dunwoody,” said Mister Jennings. “Nearly there. Just be a good chap and brace yourself. Things could get a mite uncomfortable now.”

Only now? If he’d had the strength to spare, he’d have laughed.

But then even that brief spark of levity died as the heavy crystals on his forehead burst into flame. Or felt like it. He did shout aloud this time, he couldn’t keep the pain decently, properly hidden. Not with the top of his skull ripped clean off. The air sobbed in and out of his labouring lungs and his fingers were clenched so hard he thought the bones would break. His belly twisted and heaved, threatening to empty. And then he felt a gush of something wet and warm, followed by a sharp slap of shame. His bladder had let go, as though he were a child.

“Hold on, Mister Dunwoody!” Mister Jennings urged. “One last hurdle. Hold on!”

But he couldn’t. He was done. Even as a final blast of pain surged through him, he felt himself drift upwards from the padded table and float away into welcome darkness.

A hand on his shoulder, not so gently shaking, brought him back with a thud. Dragging his eyes open, feeling an ache in every bone, tasting fresh blood in his mouth, Gerald frowned at the bleary, anxious face hovering above him.

“There you are,” said Mister Jennings, his nasal voice unsteady with relief. “Gave me a proper nasty turn there, you did, Mister Dunwoody, going off like that. Not the kind of happy ending I was looking for. But never mind. You’re upright and breathing, more or less. I’ve unhooked you from the extraction crystals and undone all your straps, so here. Have a drink.”

With Mister Jennings’s arm helping him sit up, Gerald took a large, grateful swallow of whiskey from the flask the technician held to his lips. Closed his eyes as it seared a path to his belly, took another, to be on the safe side, then politely declined any more.

“Is Sir Alec still here?” he said, feeling his bitten tongue tender against his teeth.

Stoppering the flask, Mister Jennings shook his head. “He’s taken himself off to town. Told me to tell you to go straight home, and stay there recuperating until you’re sent for.”

“I see.” Torn between relief and resentment, Gerald blotted his sweat-slicked cheeks on his sleeve. “And when will that be, Mister Jennings. Do you know?”

“I do not, sir,” said Mister Jennings, mildly reproving. “That’d be between you and Sir Alec.”

“Yes. Of course. Sorry. Ah—Mister Jennings—”

But Mister Jennings was avoiding his incomplete gaze. “I know what you’re wanting to ask, Mister Dunwoody, but I’ve been told by Sir Alec to leave the particulars to him. I’m authorised to say the extraction went well enough, all things considered. No more than that.”

All things considered? Gerald stared. What did that mean? Was he clean of filthy grimoire magic or wasn’t he?

His light brown, cynical eyes surprisingly sympathetic, Mister Jennings tucked the whiskey flask back into his lab coat’s stained, capacious pocket.

“There’s a change of clothes waiting for you in the showers, Mister Dunwoody. And Sir Alec’s arranged a driver to take you home. I’d advise a hearty meal and an early turn in to bed. I’m sure you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.” He nodded, a small, unexpected gesture of respect. “Good day to you, sir.”

Acutely aware of every strained, insulted muscle, Gerald made his way through a honeycomb of drab grey corridors to Nettleworth’s showers, which were blessedly deserted. As promised, there was a fresh change of clothes and a bag for his soiled suit waiting for him. Arranged by Sir Alec? Had to be, surely. How remarkably gentle of him. And also unexpected.

Slumped beneath the shower’s steady sluicing of hot water, Gerald rested his head against the wet tiles and let his eyes close. With Sir Alec gone and Mister Jennings ordered to silence, he was alone with all his unanswered questions. So, was he brave enough to seek inside for those answers? A part of him desperately wanted to know the truth. Another part shrank from knowing it, so soon after the ordeal of extraction. For if the news was bad… if the procedure had failed…

A stab of self-contempt. He was a janitor. He had obligations. If the extraction had failed this time, then he’d just have to try it again. And again, and again, as many times as it took, until he was entirely r