Accidental Sorcerer (7 page)

'No,'said Monk.'Sorry. Wasn't thinking.'

His brief spurt of self-righteous anger fizzled and died. Slumping, he picked up his fork and stabbed another piece of chicken. 'It's all right,' he muttered.

'So,' Monk said after a moment. 'What happened?'

In a strange way it was a relief to tell his friend everything, right down to the final humiliation of his magic not working at all in Scunthorpe's office.

By the time he was finished Monk was struggling not to laugh. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's not funny, I know. But Gerald, in trying to stop Stuttley's from blowing up you blew it up. Admit it, that's a bit bloody ironic'

'It's not ironic, it's typical,' he retorted. 'Every job I touch turns from gold to shit. I'm a jinx, Monk.'

'Well, I wouldn't go
that
far ...' 7 would.'

Monk poked thoughtfully at his dinner. 'It is strange. I mean, there's no way you should've been able to handle that much raw thaumic energy or those First Grade staffs. No offence, mate, but Third Grade wizards ...'

'None taken,' he said, shrugging. 'And it doesn't matter anyway. My wizarding career's over.'

'Who says?'

'Come off it, Monk. Who in Ottosland's going to hire me now? Even if I do what Scunthorpe said, lay low for a while, even for a whole year, it won't make any difference. I'll go to my grave as the idiot who blew up Stuttley's.' He shook his head. 'I was a fool to think that a tailor's son from Nether Wallop could amount to anything in wizardry'

Scowling as ferociously as his unpleasant brother, Monk shoved his chair away from the table and started pacing, automatically avoiding his various and scattered experiments. 'Bollocks! Who was it conducted your thaumaturgical aptitude test?'

He blinked.'What?'

'Your aptitude test, the test that -'

'I know what it is! Drableys tested me. The correspondence school people.'

Monk dropped back into his chair, eyes alight with a feverish enthusiasm that boded no good. 'Well, don't you see? They got it wrong. No genuine Third Grade wizard would've survived depolarising that inversion. You'll have to get tested again to find out what your grading should be. On decent equipment this time. Department equipment, it's the best there is. It'll explain that weird feeling you had in the factory and give us an accurate reading of your potential. And if you don't test as a top-rate First Grader I'll eat Errol Haythwaite's underwear.'

A First Grade wizard.
Ha! 'Nice thought, Monk, but after Stuttley's I wouldn't get one foot inside the Department's front door. And no, you're not smuggling me in there. Or the Department's equipment out. Bad enough I've scuppered my own career. I won't be responsible for scuppering yours too. And how much do I owe you for the takeaway?'

'Bollocks to the takeaway' said Monk. 'I'm not going to sit back and let you chuck your career down the boghole.'

Gerald choked. 'What career? I told you. It's scuppered. Nobody -'

'In Ottosland will hire you. I know,' said Monk, impatiently. 'I heard you. And much as I hate to agree, you're right. You won't get another job here, at least not until the fuss dies down.'

'In other words, never. They'll be talking about Stuttley's into the middle of next century. They'll put me in textbooks under "Stupid Things No Wizard Should Attempt".'

'You're exaggerating ... but not by much.' Monk drummed his fingers on the table. Nobody took no for an answer less willingly than Monk Markham. 'Fine,' he said after a moment's racing thought. 'So you can't work here for the next little while. But Ottosland's not the only country that employs wizards. You'll just have to go overseas until the coast is clear. A year or two at the most. Trust me, Gerald, sooner or later there'll be another stupendous arse-up and Stuttley's will be yesterday's news. The minute you're off the hook you can come back, I'll retest your aptitudes myself and you can start again. Clean slate. Brand-new leaf.'

Gerald tried not to resent 'another stupendous arse-up'. 'Overseas where, Monk? I'm not multilingual. I'm not even Mingual. And if you take the other day into account I don't speak wizard very well, either.'

'Yes, but I don't take the other day into account,' Monk said briskly. 'And you don't need to be multilingual. Practically everyone speaks Ottish these days, and the people who don't aren't the kind of people you need to worry about.'

He was looking demonically cheerful: a dangerous sign.

Gerald watched him leap up from the table again and rummage through his briefcase. 'What are you doing?'

'Getting this week's
Orb!
said Monk.'Catch!'

He snatched the magazine out of the air. Errol Haythwaite was on the cover, smirking about his invitation to join the Masterful Company. His fingers itched for a pen so he could indulge in some juvenile disfiguring ...

Monk flopped back into his chair. 'You haven't read it yet?'

In the never-ending struggle to make ends meet he'd stopped buying the
Wizarding Orb
as soon as he'd started working for the Department. There'd always been a copy floating round the tea room. 'No.'

'Well don't just sit there admiring Errol's haircut. What jobs are on offer?'

He flipped to the Positions Vacant section and quickly scanned it. 'None that'll suit me, I'll guarantee you. Face it, Monk, there's not exactly a huge demand for Third Grade wizards. Especially ones with a talent for blowing things up.'

'Stop being so defeatist. Here. Let me look.' Monk grabbed the magazine. 'Bloody hell,' he muttered after a quick perusal. 'They don't want much, do they? Second Grade or above, with a minimum ten years' experience - demonstrated talent for cloud manipulations and seed propagation - good with children -'

The familiar tide of despair was rising again. 'See? I told you. It's hopeless. I mean, good with children? Ha! Five minutes after I met the Brierly twins I wanted to strangle them.'

Monk looked at him. 'Gerald, five minutes after she met the Brierly twins my
mother
wanted to strangle them. And coming from the woman who gave birth to Aylesbury that's saying something.' Scowling, he kept on reading. 'What's this one? "Prefer someone with connections to royalty." Well, I trod on a visiting prince regents toes at a ball last Wizard Eve, does that count?'

Disconsolate. Gerald poked his fork into his now lukewarm dinner and half-heartedly tried another mouthful. 'It's no use. I just have to face facts, Monk. It was fun while it lasted but -'

'Ah
haY
Monk stabbed the
Orb
with his finger. 'Here we go! This one's got your name written all over it!'

He dropped his fork, treacherous hope flaring. 'What? Which one? Where? Show me.'

Ignoring him, Monk began to read. '"Wanted: Wizard. His Most Esteemed and Sovereign Majesty King Lional the Forty-third -"'

Hope died. 'Markham! Have you completely lost your mind? What king is going to want me?'

Monk lifted his gaze for a brief glower then kept on reading. "'- the Forty-third, sovereign ruler of New Ottosland, requires the services of an honest and upright wizard. Grading irrelevant and no experience necessary. Personality more important than pedigree. Must be flexible, adaptable and willing to muck in. Fondness for butterflies an advantage. To apply call crystal ball vibration blah blah blah".'

Gerald snorted. 'Very funny Monk. Kick a bloke while he's down, why don't you. Fondness for butterflies? That's low, that's really low'

'Here,' said Monk, offended, and threw the
Orb
at him.'Read it yourself if you don't believe me.'

After a moment's undignified hunting and pecking through the columns he found the advertised position. Monk hadn't been kicking him when he was down. The ridiculous job was right there in black and white. He looked up.
'New
Ottosland?'

'Our one and only colony. You must've heard of it. Established four or five centuries ago. In the good old days, when dashing about the world nicking other people's real estate was considered a suitable occupation for gentlemen and kings.'

'Oh yes. Now I remember. Isn't it in the middle of a desert?'

'Is it? Geography was never my thing,' said Monk, supremely indifferent. 'But even if it is, who cares? At least it'll be warm. And it's a
job,
Gerald. A job with a
king.
Think of the snob value. Once you've got "royal court wizard" on your resume you'll be beating 'em off with a stick, Stuttley's or no Stuttley's.
Trust
me.
Call
them.'

'Right,' he said, with a glower of his own.
'Trust me.
This from a man trying to measure ambient tetrothaumicles in the fourteenth dimension. Does the Department know you're mucking about with the fourteenth dimension, Monk? I'll bet it doesn't. I'll bet if they knew you were -'

'Geraldl
Make the bloody call!'

'Stop shouting! For all we know it's the middle of the night in New Ottosland!'

'It's not.'

'How do you know?'

'Because it's night-time here,' said Monk, triumphant. 'They're halfway round the world, so it's daytime there. More or less.'

'More or
less?
That's your idea of accuracy? And they call you a thaumatological genius?'

'They'll be calling me a homicidal maniac if you don't make that bloody call.'

He picked up the
Orb
again and re-read the ad.
'Fondness for butterflies?
What does that
mean?'

Monk shrugged. 'Search me. Call and ask.'

'The position's probably filled by now.'

'Yeah? Know a lot of inexperienced wizards in love with insects, do you?'

He almost smiled at that but stopped himself just in time. The last thing Monk needed was encouragement. The man was a runaway tram with a brake problem. 'And what about this?' he said, returning to the advertisement. '"Personality more important than pedigree." What does
that
mean?'

His friend hooted. 'It means they've had a bellyful of honking old wizards who blather on and on about their illustrious ancestors and demand ten times the going rate on the strength of'em.'

'And that's
another
thing. There's no mention of the salary'

'Gerald,' Monk sighed, 'right now you're unemployed. Your salary is nothing. So whatever old King Lional's willing to cough up, you win. Now make the bloody call. You know you want to.'

Ha. What he wanted was to snap his fingers, turn back time and do the last week over minus the exploding staff factory and Reg flying off in a huff, never to return.

Reg.
He felt his guts twist.

'Well, what about this "apply by crystal ball" business?' he said, belligerent, distracting himself from that disaster. 'If they've got someone on staff who can use a crystal ball what do they need a wizard for?'

'Now you're being ridiculous,' said Monk. 'Lots of civilians have enough sparkle to use a ball. That stopped being part of the aptitude test years ago and you know it.'

'Yes, but -'

Monk sat back in his chair, disgusted. 'Look, mate. Just
call
them. Or don't. Go back to Nether Wallop and spend your life as a pin cushion. Makes no difference to me. Just make sure to warn me before you tell Reg you passed up this chance so that / can get out of the country'

He looked away. 'Reg is gone. She left me.'

' WliatV

'We had a fight, she -'

'Oh, like
that's
never happened before,' said Monk. 'Don't worry, Gerald. She'll come back. She always does.'

'No. No.This time was different.'

Monk rolled his eyes. 'Look, Gerald. All external evidence to the contrary she's a woman. And you know what women are like.'

Yes, but Reg was no ordinary woman. 'Look, I'm worried about her, Monk, all right? It's a big bad world out there and -'

'And she's survived in it for a long, long time,' said Monk, and slapped the table. 'Reg can take care of herself. You're the one in trouble at the moment. You need to make a decision. The wild adventure and solemn glory of wizardry ... or slaving for your cousins in Nether Wallop where the most exciting thing you'll see in a month is a pair of men's polka-dot underpants.'

Yes, well, when you put it like
that ...
Heart uncomfortably thudding, Gerald retrieved the
Orb.
Stared at the address listed at the end of the advertisement. Ever helpful, Monk lifted his crystal ball from the windowsill and plonked it on the table.

'Go on. Quick. Before somebody else gets the job.'

He made the call.

His mind went blank.'What job?'

Across the table Monk had his hand around an invisible noose and was industriously hanging himself.

'Oh, the
job!
he said, gathering his wits. 'You mean the position's still vacant?'

'If I say yes,' said the mystery woman in the crystal ball, after a considering moment, 'will I regret it?'

'Possibly. But then again so might I. Really, employing someone, being employed - it's all a bit like a blind date, isn't it, when you get right down to it?'

'Is it? I wouldn't know,' said the woman. 'What's your name?'

'Gerald Dunwoody.
Professor
Gerald Dunwoody'

'And you're a wizard, are you?'

She sounded sceptical. 'Yes,' he said firmly. 'I am. May I ask with whom I'm speaking?'

'Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande,' said the veiled woman. 'Prime Minister of New Ottosland. I take it, Mr Dunwoody, that you've all the proper qualifications and credentials? Diplomas with fancy seals on them and so forth? Proof, in other words, of your exalted wizarding status?'

'Yes, indeed, Your Highness. Or should that be Madam Prime Minister?'

From under the veil came an inelegant snort. 'Your Highness will suffice. Now tell me, Mr Dunwoody. Why should
you
be given the honour of serving my brother the king as New Ottosland's royal court wizard?'

He risked a glance at Monk, who nodded and made little 'go on, go on' gestures like a stage mother at her child's school play.

'Well,' he said, on a deep breath, 'because I have loads of personality, no pedigree whatsoever, practically no experience and after working in the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy the mucking out of any substances at all won't be a problem.'

Another snort. 'It was mucking
in,
actually, but never mind. How do you feel about butterflies?'

'Honestly, Your Highness? I can take them or leave them.'

'So can I,' said the princess mordantly. 'And you're from Ottosland, you say? Hmm. We've already had a -' She stopped, as from somewhere beyond the crystal ball's field of focus came a bang, the sound of books crashing to the floor and an anguished cry of pain. Her veiled face turned sharply.
'RupertV

From more or less the same direction a plaintive male voice cried,'Sorry! Sorry! I didn't think -'

'You never do, that's the problem! Don't expect me to divert limited portal access to you again if this -'

'Never again, Melly, never again, I promise! Look, just hire the poor chap and come help me, would you? They're getting awfully stroppy and you know how delicate vampire butterflies are, not to mention expensive. And I simply
can't
catch them all by myself, I'll get bitten to death!'

Princess Melissande sighed. 'Excuse me, Mr

Dunwoody. My other brother Prince Rupert has just received a new delivery of butterflies and he's very excited about it.' She looked again in the direction of the complainer. 'Yes, all
right,
Rupert, I'm
coming\
Honestly, I don't know
why
you had to ignore the packing instructions and open the box now in the first place! And in my
office!

Neither did Gerald.
Vampire butterflies?
Accosted by a vision of pretty flying insects with fangs and a penchant for haemoglobin, he stared at Monk. Monk shook his head vehemently and crossed his eyes, one pointed finger spinning circles round his temple.

And of course Monk was right. Prince Rupert did sound mad. The whole set-up sounded mad. Not the kind of place in which to serve out a hopefully brief exile. Bad enough he had to leave home. The least he deserved was a place where the natives weren't stark staring cuckoo.

On the other hand ...

Across the table, Monk was shaking his head so hard it looked in danger of falling off, and waving his arms in giant 'Stop! No! Go back!' semaphore signals.

He bit his lip. How did the cliches go? Beggars can't be choosers? If wishes were horses, beggars would ride? The word 'beggar' was distressingly prominent. How long before it could reasonably be applied to him? His savings were negligible, his chances of re-employment here nil ...

'Your Highness,' he said, 'if I ask you something will you answer me honestly?'

Her veiled chin shot up. 'I am a princess, sir. We are
always
honest.'

That wasn't what Reg had told him but this wasn't the time to quibble. 'How many other wizards do you have in the running?'

'Why?'

Because if he had stiff competition for the post he'd retire gracefully from the field. He didn't have time to waste on round-robin interviewing. He needed a new job fast. 'Oh,' he said. 'You know. Just curious.'

A long silence, punctuated by yelps and squeals in the background. Then: 'None. You're the only one.'

'I see.'

Now Monk had an invisible knife in one hand, a neck-stretching bunch of hair in the other, and was busily cutting his own throat.

He took a deep breath. Crazy or not, escapologist vampire butterflies or not, it was a wizarding position. It was out of the country. And there was a very good chance that as a royal court wizard he'd never lay eyes on a pair of polka-dot underpants. What had Reg shrieked at him during their most recent, calamitous argument?
You're too timid, Gerald. You're unadventurous and unwilling to take a chance. You're always talking the talk hut you never walk the walk.

'All right, Your Highness,' he said.'I'm in. I'll be your new court wizard.'

Monk threw up his arms in despair. In the crystal ball, New Ottosland's prime minister jumped as though she'd just been bitten by a butterfly. 'You will? I mean, excellent. How soon can you start?'

'Soon. Within a couple of days, I should think. Just a few loose ends to sort out.'

'Really? How fortuitous. Er ... do you have portal access?*

Good question. Surely Mr Scunthorpe wouldn't be so petty as to have revoked his portal privileges? He crossed his fingers.'Yes, Your Highness.'

'Excellent. I'm sending you our coordinates ... now. Have you received them?'

The green recording crystal in the ball's base was blinking.'Yes, Your Highness.'

'Then on behalf of His Majesty King Lional the Forty-third, allow me to congratulate you on your appointment. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to have you join him in implementing his plans for the kingdom.'

'And please inform His Majesty that
I'm
thrilled to -' He stopped. An enormous red and black butterfly had landed on the princess's veiled face. 'Er - Your Highness? There's a vampire butterfly on your nose.'

'Yes,' said the princess. 'I can see that, Professor.' She took a deep breath.
'RupertV

And then the connection was cut, and Monk's crystal ball was a lump of empty glass again. Bemused, Gerald sat back in his chair.

I'm still a wizard, hi fact I'm more than a wizard. I'm a royal court wizard. To a king. Take that, Scunthorpe!

'You're mad,' said Monk. 'Certifiable. You need your head examined. Vampire butterflies! Insane princes! A king with plans! Kings aren't supposed to have plans, Gerald, they're supposed to sit on their thrones and make new kings and that's
all
they're supposed to do. History is littered with the corpses of fools who got tangled up with kings who have plans'.'

He shrugged. 'History, maybe. But we live in the modern era, Monk. And anyway this was all your idea. You're the one who insisted I apply for the position.'

'Apply, yes! Accept, no!'

Strangely, he was feeling exhilarated. All his life he'd been sensible. Conservative. Hoping for great things but never quite believing they'd happen, at least not to him. Dreaming of grand achievements, heroic accomplishments, but always being brought back to reality with a shuddering thud by a seemingly inescapable fact: tailors' sons from Nether Wallop were not the cloth from which heroes are cut.

So. Perhaps he wasn't ever going to be a hero but he
was
about to become court wizard to a king. And
that,
at least, was a grand achievement. Of a sort.

He smiled. 'Monk, I'll be fine.'

'You don't know that! And what about the salary? You didn't even ask how much they're paying you!'

'Like you said, the salary's not important. What's important is this job is my express ticket out of town. If I have to hang around here listening to Haythwaite and Co and everyone else going on and on about Stuttley's I think I
will
cut my throat. Don't you see? This is the answer to a prayer. And you were right: with
Royal Court Wizard
written on my resume nobody will care about Stuttley's. Not after I've been gone for a while, anyway. So thank you. I think we can officially say you've saved my bacon. Again.'

Monk shook his head. 'I'm not so sure. The court of New Ottosland looks more like a three-ring circus from where I'm sitting. And what about Reg?'

'If the court's a three-ringed circus she'll fit right in.' He sighed. 'Look. If she comes back before I leave, we'll talk about it. If she comes back after, will you tell her where I've gone? She can make up her own mind whether she wants to join me or not. And if she doesn't come back -'

'I'll do everything I can to find her. But Gerald -' 'No. I'm going. We both know it's my only choice.'

Reluctantly Monk nodded. 'Yeah. But I still think you should get yourself tested again. There has to be some explanation for what happened. Maybe in a couple of months, once you've settled in at court, you can portal back for a day and we'll see what the Department equipment has to say about you. The dust over Stuttley's will be settled by then. Deal?'

Gerald laughed, the gloom of recent events abruptly vanished. He felt light enough to fly.

'Deal! Now let's go back downstairs to the bar so I can buy you a drink.'

'No, let's go back downstairs to the bar so
I cm
buy
you
a drink,' said Monk. 'With luck Haythwaite and his little friends will still be there. I really want to see their faces when I call for a toast to the next Royal Court Wizard of New Ottosland!'

Sadly, Haythwaite and Co had departed. But that didn't stop Gerald and Monk from downing a prodigious number of colourful and highly alcoholic drinks in honour of the occasion. By the time Upjohn the barkeep called 'Time!' they were definitely the worse for wear. Mr Pinchgut, gloomily inured to the excesses of young wizardry, helped them up the stairs, poured Monk into his bed then saw Gerald poured safely into his own.

'Good night, sir,' he said, just before pulling the bedsit door closed. 'I'll be sure to have the kitchen prepare a little something for your headache in the morning.'

Sprawled face-up on his slowly expiring mattress, Gerald listened to the latch click shut and watched the ceiling spin lazy circles overhead. He felt warm and fuzzy and delightfully disconnected. Stuttley's exploding staff factory was a long, long way away.

A feathered shadow swooped through the open window and landed with a click of nails on the ram skull above the bed. He struggled onto his elbows and squinted into the darkness.

'Reg? Is that you?'

'No,' said a snippy voice. 'It's your fairy godmother.'

He thudded back to the sagging bed. 'Thank God! Where have you
been?
I've been worried out of my mind!'

'Must have been a short trip.'

'Oh come on, don't be like that.'

'I'll be any way I like, thank you very much.' A censorious sniff. 'You're drunk.'

He folded his arms behind his head. 'And you're a bird, but I shall be sober in the morning.'

A short, sharp silence. Then, 'That was unkind,' said Reg, subdued.

'And true.'

A cosily familiar ruffling sound as she fluffed out all her feathers. 'I hear you blew up Stuttley's staff factory and lost your job,' she observed, rallying.'How enterprising of you.'

Of course she'd heard. Reg heard everything. It was one of her more irritating habits. 'Yes, I did. But that's not why I'm drunk.'

'Really? Don't tell me there's more. I'm an extremely senior citizen, Gerald, I'm not sure my heart can take it.'

Slowly, carefully, mindful of his spinning head, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. 'Look. I'm sorry about the other day. You said a lot of things I didn't want to hear and I lost my temper.'

Another feather-ruffling pause. 'Your apology's accepted, Gerald. I'm sure I don't like to be scathing with you but sometimes things need to be said no matter how uncomfortable they are or how little one doesn't wish to hear them. I've only your best interests at heart, you know, and I -'

'Yes, Reg, I know. I do. Which is why I think you'll be pleased when you hear my news.'

Reg heaved a sigh. 'What news?'

'I found another job.'

'Already?'

Sitting up was proving to be a bad idea. He lowered himself by inches back to the mattress and winced as another spring expired, stabbing his backside in its death throes. 'Yes.'

'When?'

'This evening. Over dinner, actually. With Monk.'

'Oh, yes, well, I might've known
that
young reprobate would be involved!'

'He's not a reprobate, he's a lifesaver. I was all set to give up and go back to Nether Wallop. Monk convinced me otherwise.'

More furious feather-rattling. 'I can't believe what I'm hearing, Gerald! You actually accepted another wizarding position? Without consulting me? After everything I said the other day?'

Another wince. 'Well, you weren't here to consult, Reg. You'd flown off in a huff, remember?'

With a great flapping of wings Reg launched herself from the ram skull and landed on his booted toes. Even through the polished leather he could feel her claws gripping.

'What job? With which organisation? Saint Snodgrass and all her children defend me! Didn't you hear a word I said, Gerald? It takes
days
to choose a position properly! You have to check your prospective employer's references, his bank balance, his social standing, his pedigree! I don't believe this, it's the Department debacle all over again!'

Gerald peered down the length of his body at her. In the starlight from the open window her dark eyes gleamed, and her long sharp beak. 'Actually it's not. It's about as far from the Department as you can get. Didn't you say it was time I took a chance? Started walking the walk, not just talking the talk? Well, I've done it. This is me, walking. Reg, you are sitting on the feet of the next Royal Court Wizard to Lional the Forty-third, King of New Ottosland.'