Accidental Sorcerer (10 page)

'I've already told you, Melissande, it is beneath my dignity to treat with a mere younger brother. If Sultan Zazoor is serious about resolving this situation he can come and talk to me himself.'

'And what am I supposed to do with his delegation?'

'I told you before! Show them the sights!'

'I
have,
Lional,' said his sister, sounding pressed to her limit. 'I've shown them the Royal Capital, the Royal Art Gallery, the Royal Gardens, the Royal

Zoo and the Royal Duck Pond. I have taken them riding in the Glen and boating on the Zigzag and I'm afraid there's nothing left to do with them short of putting them in the post and sending them home.
Wliich
-' and she held up a finger as he opened his mouth '- goes without saying is out of the question.'

'But you're the prime minister!' said the king, affronted.'I told
you
to deal with this!'

'And I've tried, Lional, but the delegation doesn't want to be dealt with. Not by
me,
at any rate,' Princess Melissande pointed out. 'Apparently
they
don't treat with mere younger sisters. Prince Nerim seems to think he should be speaking with
you,
seeing as how you're the king and he's the sultan's brother. And the holy man agrees. It's an odd notion, I know, but there you are. They're foreigners, so what can you expect? Of course, since they've got us surrounded and our economic survival depends on keeping their goodwill, I've always found it prudent to humour them but then that's just me. I suppose as you're the king you can do what you like, but on the whole I'd rather not push them any further than we have already because you and I both know that -'

'Yes, yes, I know!' the king snapped pettishly.'All right. I'll see them.'

'Today?'

'No. Tomorrow. I'll not have them thinking I'm a pushover!'

The princess frowned, apparently consulting an inner diary. 'In the afternoon? Say three o'clock?'

'If I must,' the king said with a martyred sigh. 'But I'll not see them without a wizard!'

'You've
got
a wizard, Lional! He's standing right in front of you!'

Lional the Forty-third threw up his hands. 'Well,
something
is standing in front of me, I grant you! But I'm yet to be convinced it's a
wizard.
Good God, Melissande,
look
at him! He's even younger than that daft idiot Rupert! He's almost as young as
youV

'So? What's age got to do with it?' the princess replied. 'You sacked your entire privy council because they refused to accept that anybody under the age of sixty can rule a kingdom
then
turned round and made me prime minister, so how can you say that Gerald's too young to be a wizard? What would you know about it anyway?
You're
not a wizard!'

The king's eyes narrowed. 'Oh, so it's
Gerald
now, is it?'

'Professor Dunwoody, I mean,' said the princess. She was blushing. 'And he absolutely is a wizard. Aren't you, Professor?'

'What?' said Gerald. It'd been so long since they'd noticed him
he'd
almost forgotten he was standing there. 'I mean, yes, Your Highness! I absolutely am a wizard.'

'A deaf one, from the looks of it,' the king snapped. 'You've brought your qualifications, I take it?'

He nudged the carpet-bag at his feet. 'Yes, Your Majesty.'

King Lional held out a hand, his expression long-suffering. Gerald dropped to one knee, rummaged inside the carpet-bag and pulled out his certificate of registration, complete with its impressive Department of Thaumaturgy crimson seal. Straightening, he proffered it to the king.

New Ottosland's monarch inspected the certificate. Then he looked up, frowning. 'Is this your idea of a joke?'

He blinked.'Joke? Ah - no, Your Majesty'

'You're a
Third
Grade wizard?'

'Yes, Your Majesty.'

'Third
Grade?
Not
First - or even Second?
Third?'

He risked a nervous glance at the princess, who was chewing on her lip. 'Yes, Your Majesty. I'm sorry Is that a problem? Only the Positions Vacant piece said grading wasn't relevant. But as it happens I do have a little First Grade experience. Sort of. If that helps.'

King Lional stared, his golden eyebrows shooting up. The orange cat yowled. 'No, it does not!
Melissande -'

'He's the only one who answered the ad, Lional!' the princess cried.'Nobody else was interested!'

'What do you mean,
nobody',
the king said, after an awful silence. 'There must be hundreds of wizards in the world.'

'Thousands,' said his sister. 'But not one of them put his hand up to be your new royal court wizard. And can you blame them, after all the ads we've placed lately? Did you think nobody would
notice
we've got a revolving door exclusively for royal court wizards in New Ottosland?'

'But a
Tliird
Grader?' the king shouted, and threw the certificate onto the floor. 'You might as well have hired me a
toy
wizard! One of those silly wind-up dolls with the battery-operated staff]'

Gerald looked up from retrieving his qualifications. 'I assure you, Your Majesty, I'm a trifle more magical than a doll!'

'Oh, bugger,' muttered Reg. 'Now you've done it.'

King Lional the Forty-third sat back on his throne, smiling. His teeth were ice-white and immaculately even.'Really?' he drawled.

To hell with being intimidated by good dentistry. 'Really'

The king's smile widened. 'How exciting. Prove it.'

Without meaning to, Gerald took a backwards step. Oh, hell. He really had done it, hadn't he? Prove it? Prove it
how?

Still smiling, the king continued. 'You have sixty seconds, Professor, by the end of which you'll have demonstrated one of two things: why I should keep you here as my royal court wizard, or why you'll be discovering first hand the joys of traversing the Kallarapi Desert on foot. Do I make myself clear?'

Horrified, he looked at Princess Melissande. She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug, mute.

The king cleared his throat. 'Tick tock, tick tock, Professor.'

'Yes, Your Majesty!' he said.'Please - if I might have a moment to think?'

'You have fifty moments, Professor,' said King Lional. 'What you do with them is entirely your own affair.'

Gerald shoved the certificate back in his carpetbag and turned away, hunching his shoulder. 'Okay, Reg,' he whispered. 'What do I do now? I can't walk across a desert! I'll fry!'

'Calm down,' Reg whispered back. 'This won't be solved by panicking.'

'It won't be solved by magic, either! A simple Third Grade incant won't save me! You heard him, he wants a First Grade wizard!'

'Then a First Grade wizard's what you'd better give him, Gerald,' hissed Reg.'And quick!'

'Professor,' said the king, 'am I imagining things or are you consulting with that fusty heap of feathers on your shoulder?'

He spun around, struggling not to glance guiltily at the princess. 'Consulting? With Reg? Oh, no, Your Majesty. Why would I do that? Reg is a bird. No. I was just - thinking out loud.'

'Then I suggest you think more quietly,' said the king. 'And faster.'

The royal smile was by this time unsettling. 'Yes, Your Majesty. Sorry, Your Majesty.'

But it was easier said than done. His mind felt like cold molasses. All the incantations he'd ever learned whether he was supposed to or not stirred sluggishly, unwilling to be examined, and he couldn't feel so much as a
twinkle
of the power that had burst from him at Stuttley's.

A dream, a dream, it was all a mad dream.

Obdurately immune to King Lional's menace, Reg leaned close. 'Come on, Gerald, you're running out of time! For the love of serendipity
do
something!
Anything
¹
.'

With a fire-flashing of jewels in the bright chandelier light the king stood, tossing his fat orange cat unceremoniously to the floor. It dived beneath the throne and crouched there, swearing gruesomely under its breath.

'Well, Professor, this has been somewhat less than entertaining,' he said briskly. 'Such a pity you've come all this way for nothing but you can blame my sister for that. Melissande, do be sure to meet me in my privy chamber an hour from now so that we can discuss this little contretemps in delightful, private and uninterrupted detail. As for you, Professor, I'll have someone provide you with a map and a little bottle of water and show you the way to the kingdom's border. Such a pity but -'

As Princess Melissande leapt forward, protesting, Gerald threw caution to the winds and shouted at royalty. 'No, Your Majesty! Wait!'

Encouraged by the pin-dropping silence, Lional's cat inched itself out from under the throne and began washing one chubby leg, still grumbling. Astonished, the king stared.

'You raised your voice to me,' he said, wonderingly. 'Are you
deranged?'

Gerald winced.'No, Your Majesty. Just desperate. You see I really, really want this job.'Well. Needed it. But want sounded better.

The king's eyebrows shot up.'Of course you do. But
your
desires are hardly relevant. What is
relevant,
Mister Third Grade Wizard, is whether / want
you!

The cat snickered in the back of its throat. Hating it, Gerald felt his fingers itch to conjure a resounding case of feline scabby-arse. Feeling his hot gaze the cat looked up and smirked.

A nugget of an idea rolled to the surface of his stunned mind and glinted, briefly.

The fat, obnoxious cat. King Lional's ego. The memory of a First Grade wizard's power coursing through his veins. All those mysterious, forbidden incantations Reg had bullied him into learning ... and one in particular ...

'Yes, Your Majesty,' he said.'You do. And if you'll give me a moment to prepare, I'll show you why'

complex and convoluted incantation of its kind. Moreover it was a highly guarded government secret; how Reg had got hold of it was a mystery she had steadfastly refused to solve.
And
performing it was illegal without an Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy Special Licence.

Wlien you 're in Ottosland. But I'm not in Ottosland any more.

No, he was far far out in unknown territory and he didn't have anything approaching a map. He was utterly mapless. Making things up as he went along.

If
this doesn't work ...

He wouldn't have to worry about being unemployed because he'd most likely be dead. Wizards who mucked around with a Level Twelve transmog and got it wrong weren't noted for their longevity, they were noted for the footnotes that got written about them in textbooks and medical journals.

But if this does work then I'm set for life. I'll be able to unite my own ticket. I'll never be in danger of polka-dots again.

He had to try.
Had
to. Because the alternative wasn't anything he wanted to contemplate. Not sober. Not sane.

Time to find out what he was really made of.

Let's hope it's not lots of squishy red stuff and a few mysterious tubes ...

Heart pounding, Gerald plucked Reg from his shoulder and thrust her at the princess.'Here, Your Highness. Just in case.'

Princess Melissande stared at dangling Reg. 'Just in case what? Professor -'

'It's simply a precaution. You're not in any danger, I assure you.' As the princess hesitated he added,'Don't worry. She doesn't peck.'

The gleam in Reg's eye belied that assertion but the princess took her anyway Gingerly perching Reg on her shoulder she said crossly, 'If I'd known you were going to be
this
much trouble, Professor ...'

He spared her a swift smile.'Sorry'

On his dais, the king heaved a theatrical sigh. 'You will be, I promise, if you don't do something magical
right now!

Blimey, the man was
such
a pillock.
Do I really want to work for him?
The answer was swift and certain.
No, but
1
want the job.

He nodded at Lional the Forty-third, handsome and spoilt and the answer to his prayers. 'Yes, Your Majesty. Sorry, Your Majesty'

The king's horrible cat was now washing its face. Gerald pulled his Stuttley s-scarred cherrywood staff from its pocket inside his coat. It was nowhere near strong enough to contain the energies of a Level Twelve transmog but with luck it'd get him started, at least. After that ...

Saint Snodgrass, patron of wizards, deliver me.

Raising the staff above his head he took a deep breath. Let the air out slowly and summoned the words of the transmog incantation to his tongue, adjusting them to the specifics at hand.

'Innocuasi cumhadalarum. Amina desporato animali contradicta rexoriV

Deep within him something powerful stirred from slumber. No pyrotechnics this time, no twisting and tearing. Just a flash like a firefly in the darkness of his mind. A tease, a hint, a whispered promise ...

'Yes?' said King Lional, arms tightly folded. 'And? Well? Was that it?'

Gerald shivered. His skin was crawling, the firefly flash stronger now, sustained and growing. As though the first words of the incant were some kind of trigger, punching a tiny hole into a reservoir of raw power hiding somewhere inside him.

'No,' he said. 'Wait.'

'Wait?' echoed the king, impatient and offended. 'I have
been
waiting, Professor, and as yet nothing has -'

'Don't interrupt, Lional, you might make something go wrong,' said Princess Melissande. 'Get
on
with it, Professor, quickly!'

Barely aware of her presence, of the king's temper, of Reg gurgling in alarm on the princess's shoulder, he bowed his head. The tiny hole was widening, he could feel the power pouring out of that hidden reservoir and into his blood, bolder and faster and increasing in urgency with every staccato heartbeat.

He had to keep going or the incant would collapse and with it any chance of his staying in New Ottosland as King Lional's court wizard.

'Incantata magicata spellorantum infinatuml Enlargiosa lionara expellecta domesticiaV

In a single slashing move he pointed his staff directly at the king's hissing cat. Incandescent power poured out of him like a river in full flood, transfixing the animal where it crouched on the dais. He felt as though he were being emptied, as though all his insides had melted and were streaming through his outstretched arm, into the staff and out again. The copper-banded cherrywood began to glow, hotter and brighter with each passing second. Surely his hand should be burning, but no. It was cool. Whole. Dimly he was aware of Reg's hysterical squawking, Princess Melissande's attempts to calm her, the king's shouted questions. He couldn't respond to any of them, could only stand there and let the incredible power do what it willed and hope it didn't kill him before it was done.

Overcome at last, the cherrywood staff crumbled into cinders and drops of melted copper. Gerald watched its charred remains fall piecemeal to the carpet, vaguely aware of sorrow, regret. The staff had been a present from his mother.

Its destruction didn't stop the power pouring from his body. On and on, lighting him up from the inside out like a firework. At last, though, it ran dry. As his knees buckled and his body swayed like a drunken sailor's, the air around the fat orange cat began to thicken like fog. Then it started to shimmer, suffusing with green and purple light. There came a sense of relentless pressure, as though an invisible fist was tightening itself around the room, squeezing, squeezing. Then the pressure released in a blinding flash and an eardrum-popping soundless explosion.

When the coloured fog cleared moments later, King Lional's fat orange cat was gone and in its place sat an enormous tawny lion wearing an expression of extreme apprehension.

'Saint Snodgrass preserve me,' said the princess, breaking the stunned silence. 'Professor Dunwoody, what have you
done?'

'Kept my job,' he said, dazed.
It worked, it worked, I can't believe it, it worked.
'I hope. Your Highness.'

With an hysterical flapping of wings Reg launched herself from the princess's shoulder to fly dizzy circles round his head. 'A lion? A
lion?
You're
mad,
sunshine! Stark staring crazy bonkers! Off your bloody trolley with
bells
on! That was a
Level Twelve tmnstnogV

He snatched her out of the air and shoved her under his arm. 'Sorry, Your Majesty,' he said to the king.'Terrible vocabulary her previous owner taught her. I've done my best but I can't seem to fix her.'

King Lional ignored him. His gaze was trained on the lion, and in his eyes a bold bright burning. 'Tavistock?'

The lion mewled, hauled itself to its feet and butted its head against him.

With an effort, Gerald stood to attention. When he'd recovered from the shock he was going to do some
serious
celebrating.
It wasn't a fluke, Stuttley's wasn't a fluke. I am a First Grader, no matter what my certificate says.
How it was possible he didn't know, didn't care. It was a pettifogging detail, he'd worry about it later.
There's a First Grade staff out there with my name on it! Pity it won't be a Stuttley's ...

'Your cat is quite unharmed, Your Majesty. And he's still Tavistock on the inside. Of course I can reverse the transmogrification if you -'

King Lional lowered his sharply raised hand. Shifting his burning gaze he said, softly, 'Why a lion, Professor?'

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned. 'Well ... I suppose because Tavistock is a cat. And your name, well, it's very suggestive. And - if you'll forgive the familiarity - a lion is a far more regal creature, isn't it? Not that cats aren't perfectly pleasant,' he added hastily. 'But. Well. They're not lions, are they?'

'No,' the king said, his voice still soft. 'Cats aren't lions at all. Professor, I am impressed. Not one of your predecessors, experts all, exhibited such power. And you say you're a mere
Third
Grade practitioner?'

'Well, Your Majesty, it is possible that in the matter of my grading there was a slight ... clerical error.'

King Lional threw back his head and laughed in abandoned delight. 'A clerical error? Oh, Professor. You are exceedingly droll.'

He bowed.'Thank you, Your Majesty. But if I may be so bold - am I also your next royal court wizard?'

Still chuckling, one hand now tangled in Tavistock's lavish mane, the king revealed all his teeth in a wide, wide smile. 'Actually, Gerald, you're better than that. You are, officially, my
last
royal court wizard.'

* * *

'So, Professor,' said Princess Melissande, considering Gerald sideways as they left the royal audience chamber in their wake.
'That
was different. Quite the audition piece.'

Clutching his carpet-bag, he managed a tired shrug. 'I just wanted to make a good impression, Your Highness.'

She gave him another considering look. 'I think it's safe to say you succeeded.' With a glance at the black cat padding at her side she added, 'I hope you're not getting any ideas about Boris, now.'

'No! No, of course not. Not unless you -'

'Because I like Boris just the way he is.' The princess rubbed her nose. 'You know, Professor, I'm no expert but it seems to me that little stunt you just pulled was - how shall I put it - insanely dangerous?'

'You can say that again,' said Reg, rousing from her sulks.

'I'd rather not,' said the princess.

Gerald twitched his shoulder hard and hoped Reg would take the hint.'I admit,' he said carefully, 'transmogrification's one of the trickier feats in the wizarding lexicon.'

She snorted. 'That's quite a talent for understatement you've got there. Clearly, Professor, you're something out of the ordinary. Not at all like any other wizard the king has employed. Of course, whether or not that's a
good
thing remains to be seen.' She surged ahead down the dimly lit corridor, heels thumping the musty carpet, Boris leaping in her wake.

'Well done,' muttered Reg. 'Get the boss's sister offside. That's always a good plan. Almost as good as doing a
Level Twelve transmogrification
without so much as consulting me first! You
idiotl
You
blockhead!
Don't you know you could have been
killed?'

'Yes, but I wasn't, so stop fussing.'

'Well excuse
me
for giving a tinker's cuss what happens to you!' Reg snapped. 'You just about scared the feathers off me, sunshine! I haven't felt that much power rolling off you since - since - Gerald, I've
never
felt that much power rolling off you! What's going on?'

With that first giddy flush of triumph well and truly faded he was starting to feel apprehensive. Unsettled. Ever so slightly
spooked. A
nasty headache was brewing behind his eyes. 'I don't know,' he muttered. 'And I don't want to talk about it now. I need some time to think, to -'

Reg chattered her beak. 'You need to get a move on, that's what you need. Madam's getting away from us, in case you haven't noticed.' She took a big breath.
'Oy, you! Princess Tearaway! What's the bleeding rush?'

The corridor was so dimly lit and the princess stopped so fast that Gerald ran straight up the back of her, skittling her like an indoor bowling champion. The princess cursed, inventively and at length, Boris yowled and Reg shrieked as she fell off Gerald's shoulder.

He groaned, and sagged against the nearest wall.

With a couple of well-placed pokes of her beak Reg had Boris totally preoccupied with matters reproductive, so she relocated and turned her attention to the princess.

'Language, woman!' she snapped from her strategic position on top of Gerald's head. 'Pull yourself together. You're royalty, you've got no business rushing about like a lackey. Where's your pomp and circumstance, madam? Royalty doesn't
bustle,
it
glides]
Slowly, gracefully, as though it has got all the time in the world and more servants than a blind man can poke a stick at! Thirty hours, a staircase and a good thick book on your head, that's what
you
need, my girl.'

Still on the floor and rigid with offence, the princess opened her mouth to respond but Reg rolled on, regardless. 'And another thing. Why are all these corridors so damned dark? D'you
want
people flying into the walls and spraining their beaks?'

'I've got better things to spend my budget on than candles!' the princess retorted.

'You certainly have! Decent clothes, for a start, but you've been skimping there, too. It's a disgrace. Since when do royal highnesses tromp about in trousers, shirts and sensible shoes? Silk, satin, chiffon, floaty bits of gauze and the right amount of decolletage,
that's
the Princess Dress Code. Not to mention a nice set of diamond-studded high heels, peekaboo toe optional. And
who,
exactly, is the hairdresser responsible for that
jackdaw
nest I'm sure you're pleased to call a hair-do? I've met combine harvesters that could do a better job!'

Throughout this pithy homily on princessly personal grooming, Her Highness's expression faded from furious outrage to mild anger and came to rest at disbelief. Tearing her wide-eyed gaze away from Reg she turned to Gerald.

'I'm sorry.This is not a parrot. I'm not even sure it's a real bird. I don't suppose you'd care to explain, would you, Professor?'

He winced. 'No. Not really'

'Do you mind?' Reg demanded, as the princess glared. 'I'd rather you didn't discuss me as though I wasn't here. Contrary to popular opinion having feathers doesn't mean I don't have feelings.'

'Maybe not,' said the princess, 'but I'm reasonably sure it
does
mean your conversations shouldn't be polysyllabic'

Hell. So much for keeping Reg under wraps. I
should have known.
'I'm sorry, Your Highness. It's just that - it's a long story.'