The Accidental Sorcerer Read online

  The last thing he saw, before darkness claimed him, was the irate face of Harold Stuttley.

  'You bastard! You bastard! I'll have your job for this!'

  Mr Scunthorpe folded his hands on top of his desk and shook his head. 'Gerald… Gerald… Gerald…'

  Gerald winced. 'I know, Mr Scunthorpe,' he said contritely. 'And I'm very sorry. But it wasn't my fault. Honestly.'

  It was much later. The ambulance officers from the district hospital had fished him out of the rose garden then transported him, over his objections, to the emergency room, where an unsympathetic doctor extracted all the rose thorns from various and delicate parts of his anatomy and pronounced him sound in wind and limb, if deficient in intelligence. Which meant he was free to catch a taxi back to Stuttley's and drive at not much above snail's pace home to the Department of Thaumaturgy so he could make his report.

  Unfortunately, Harold Stuttley's tongue had travelled a damned sight faster.

  'Not your fault, Gerald?' echoed Mr Scunthorpe, and looked down at the paperwork in front of him. 'That's not what the people at Stuttley's are saying. According to them you barged into the middle of a highly sensitive First Grade thaumaturgical transfer, ignored all reasonable warnings and pleas to leave before there was an accident, used your Departmental authority to evict the personnel from their lawful premises and then caused a massive explosion which only by a miracle failed to kill someone, or reduce everything within a radius of three miles to rubble. As it is you totally destroyed the factory, which is going to put back staff production by months. I have to tell you Lord Attaby is profoundly unamused. One of the staffs you blew up had his nephew's name on it.'

  It took a moment for Gerald's brain to catch up with his ears. When it did, he almost choked. 'What? But that's rubbish! Yes, all right, the factory did blow up, but I'm telling you, Mr Scunthorpe, that wasn't my fault! Harold Stuttley caused that! The etheretic conductors failed due to a lack of proper maintenance. They were on the brink of inversion when I got there! Ask the technicians! They'll tell you!'

  Mr Scunthorpe tapped his fingernails on the open file. 'What I just told you, Gerald, is a summary of their testimony. Theirs and, of course, Mr Harold Stuttley's. He's threatening all kinds of trouble. Lord Attaby is very unhappy'

  'But—but—' He clenched his fingers into fists. 'I went there in the first place because there was a protocol violation. Overdue safety statements. That proves they—'

  Mr Scunthorpe's round face was suffused with temper. 'All it proves, Mr Dunwoody, is that even the best of companies can fall behind with their paperwork. You were sent to Stuttley's to deliver a polite reminder to this nation's most valuable and prestigious staff manufacturer that the Department of Thaumaturgy looked forward to their prompt provision of all relevant documentation. You were not sent there to cause international headlines!'

  Mr Dunwoody. Gerald leaned forward, feeling desperate. 'But there was a woman! I spoke to her! She said things weren't being done right, she said there was trouble.' He scrabbled around in his post-explosion memory. 'Devree! That was her name! Find her. Ask her. She'll tell you.'

  Mr Scunthorpe rifled through the sheets of paper in front of him. 'Holly Devree?' He extracted a statement, picked up his glasses on their chain around his neck, placed them on his nose and read out loud: 'I don't know what happened. I was on my tea break. I never saw the man from the Department. This means my job, doesn't it? What am I going to do now? I've got a sick mother to support. Signed: Holly Devree.'

  'No,' he whispered. 'That's not how it happened, Mr Scunthorpe. My word as a compliance officer.'

  'Probationary compliance officer,' said Mr Scunthorpe, still frowning. 'Very well then, Gerald. What's your version of today's unfortunate events?'

  Haltingly, feeling as though he'd wandered into somebody else's insane dream, Gerald told him. When he was finished he sat back in his chair again. 'And that's the truth, sir. I swear it.'

  Mr Scunthorpe closed his mouth with a snap. 'The truth?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Mr Scunthorpe's face was so red he could have found work as a traffic light. 'You expect me to believe that a Third Grade wizard from Nether Wallop, who got his qualifications from some fourth-rate correspondence course, who got fired from his first job for insubordination and his second for incompetence, not only managed to single-handedly prevent a Level Nine thaumaturgical inversion but did so, moreover, by using the most expensive, the most finely calibrated, the most lethal First Grade staffs in the world? Is that what you expect me to believe?'

  'Well,' he said, after a moment. 'When you put it like that… .' Then he rallied. 'But sir, far-fetched or not that's exactly what happened. I can't explain how, or why, but that's precisely what I did.'

  'Dunwoody, what you're saying is impossible!' said Mr Scunthorpe, and pounded a fist on his desk. 'No Third Grade wizard in history has ever used a First Grade staff without frying himself like bacon. To suggest you managed it is to stretch the bounds of credulity across five alternate dimensions!'

  The urge to punch Scunthorpe in the nose was almost irresistible. 'Are you calling me a liar?'

  'I'm calling you a walking disaster!' Scunthorpe retorted. 'A carbuncle on the arse of this Department! Do you have any idea of the phone calls I've been getting? Lord Attaby! The Wizard General! Seven prime ministers and two presidents! And don't get me started on the press!'

  Gerald stopped breathing. Scunthorpe was going to fire him. The intention was in the man's glazed eyes and furious, scarlet face. If he was fired from another job it'd be the end of his wizarding career. No-one would touch him with a forty-foot barge pole after that. He'd have to go home to Nether Wallop. Beg his cousins for a job in the tailor's shop his father had sold them. They'd give him one, he was family after all, but he'd never hear the end of it. I'd rather die.

  'Let me prove it, Mr Scunthorpe,' he said. 'Fetch me a First Grade staff and I'll prove I can use one.'

  'Are you mad?' shouted Scunthorpe. 'After this afternoon's little exhibition do you think there's a wizard anywhere in the world who'd risk letting you even look at his First Grader, let alone touch it? And do you think I'd risk my job to ask them?'

  'Then how am I supposed to show you I'm telling the truth?'

  It was a fair question and Scunthorpe knew it. He snatched a pencil from his desktop and twisted it between his fingers. 'I'm telling you, Dunwoody, you won't be let anywhere near a First Grade staff. But—' The pencil snapped. With enormous forbearance, Scunthorpe placed the two pieces on the blotter.'— if you can use a First Grader then a Second Grader shouldn't pose the slightest difficulty.' He stood and crossed to the closet in the corner of his office. From it he withdrew four feet of slender, silver-bound Second Grade staff. Holding it reverently, he turned. 'Lord Attaby gave me this staff with his own hands, Dunwoody. In recognition of my twenty-five years impeccable service to the Department. If I give it to you, here and now, will you promise not to break it?'

  Gerald swallowed, feeling ill. 'I can't do that, sir. But I can promise I'll try.'

  Pale now, and sweating, Scunthorpe nodded. 'All right then.'

  'What do you want me to do?'

  'Nothing spectacular!' said Mr Scunthorpe, darkly. 'Something simple. Noncombustible.' He nodded at the painting on the wall beside him, an insipid rendition of the first opening of Parliament in 1142. 'Animate that.'

  He swallowed a protest. Animation might be noncombustible but it was hardly simple. All right, for a First Grade wizard it was child's play and for a Second it was unlikely to cause a sweat. For a Third Grade wizard, though, animation required a command of etheretic balances that tended to induce piles in the unprepared.

  Scunthorpe bared his teeth in a smile. 'I take it you do know an appropriate incantation?'

  Sarcastic bugger. Yes. As it happened he knew all kinds of high-level incantations, and not all of them entirely… legal. Reg had insisted on teaching him dozens, even though his cherrywood staff was totally inadequ
ate when it came to channelling them. Even though he, apparently, was equally inadequate. Learn them, she'd insisted. You never know when one might come in handy.

  Maybe she'd been right after all. Maybe this was one of those times. And anyway, what did he have to lose?

  He held out his hand for Scunthorpe's staff. Reluctantly Scunthorpe gave it to him. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to centre himself. To rummage through his collection of interesting but hitherto irrelevant charms and incantations until he found the one that would rescue him from his current predicament.

  'Hurry up, Dunwoody,' said Scunthorpe. 'I've an appointment to see Lord Attaby. Somehow I've got to explain all this.'

  'Yes, sir,' he said, still rummaging. Then he recalled a small but effective binding that would set the picture's painted crowd politely clapping.

  The silver-chased staff in his hands felt heavy and cool. He couldn't detect the smallest sense of latent power from it. When was the last time Scunthorpe had used it? Or sent it out to be thaumically recharged? God help him if the damned thing had a flat battery—

  'Hurry up, Dunwoody!' snapped Scunthorpe. 'I'm running out of patience!'

  'Right,' he said, and settled his shoulders. Extended the staff until its tip touched the painting's frame, closed his eyes and in the privacy of his mind uttered the animation binding.

  Nothing happened. No burning surge of power through the staff, no giddy-making roil of First Grade thaumic energy in his veins or repeat of that strange torqueing tearing sensation he'd felt in Stuttley's factory. Not even his usual Third Grade tingling. And no sound of tiny painted hands, clapping. No sound at all except for Scunthorpe's stertorous breathing.

  He cleared his throat. 'Um. Why don't I just try that again?'

  Before Scunthorpe could refuse he attempted to animate the painting a second time. Nothing. A third time. Nothing. A fourth ti—

  'Forget it!' shouted Scunthorpe, and snatched back his precious silver-filigreed staff. 'You're a fraud, Dunwoody! After a performance like that I'm at a loss to understand how you even got your Third Grade licence! My Aunt Hildegarde's geriatric cat has more wizarding talent than you!'

  Stunned, Gerald stared at the uncooperative painting. Then he fished inside his overcoat and pulled out his slightly singed cherrywood staff. Turning, he snatched the broken pencil pieces from Scunthorpe's desk, tapped them with his staff and uttered a joining incant, a task so simple it wasn't even included in the Third Grade examination.

  The pencil stayed stubbornly broken.

  Oh God. 'I don't understand it,' he muttered. 'I've got nothing. Nothing. How can that be? Unless—' Horrified, he stared at Scunthorpe. 'Do you think I burned myself out when I short-circuited the inversion? Do you think channelling all that raw thaumic energy through those First Grade staffs somehow used up all my power?'

  'All what power?' roared Scunthorpe. 'You don't have any power, Dunwoody! You're the worst excuse for a wizard I ever met! I must've been mad the day I took pity and gave you a job! I must've been raving! Get out! You're fired!'

  Gerald felt his throat close. Fired. Again. His stomach heaved. 'Mr Scunthorpe, I protest. I didn't do anything wrong. Harold Stuttley's the criminal here, not me. I don't care what he says, I contained that thaumic inversion, I didn't cause it. The resulting explosion was unfortunate but—'

  'Unfortunate'?' Scunthorpe wheezed. 'You mean catastrophic! Are you really this naive, Dunwoody? Stuttley's is demanding a parliamentary enquiry! They're threatening to sue the government! They want this entire Department disbanded!'

  'But—but that's ridiculous—'

  'Of course it's ridiculous!' snapped Scunthorpe. 'But that's not the point! The point is that if your head's not rolling down the Department staircase in the next five minutes we will lose control of this situation!'

  'And then what? Harold Stuttley gets off scot-free?'

  'Never you mind about Harold Stuttley! Forget you ever heard of Harold Stuttley! This isn't about Harold Stuttley, Dunwoody, it's about you. Don't you understand? You've embarrassed the Department and disgraced your staff. You're finished, do you hear me? Finished! So don't stand there staring like a poleaxed bullock! Get out of my office. Get out of the building. So that when Lord Attaby demands the privilege of personally kicking you into the street I can put my hand on my heart and say I don't know where you are!'

  Gerald shook his head. 'This isn't right. I'm not going to take this lying down, Mr Scunthorpe. I'm going to—'

  'What?' sneered Scunthorpe. 'Demand an enquiry of your own? Go on record claiming you're a better wizard than the likes of Lord Attaby himself? You: A correspondence course Third Grader? Well, I suppose you can. If you insist. But you'll never work as a wizard again, Dunwoody. That much I can promise you.'

  Stung, he looked at his red-faced superior. 'I thought I was already finished!'

  Abruptly Scunthorpe's manner softened. 'You are, son. At least around here. But if you go quietly, no fuss, no indignant, outlandish claims and accusations, lay low for a while, well, I'm sure once the dust has settled, in a few months, a year maybe, some little locum agency somewhere will take you on.'

  'A year?' He almost laughed. 'And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?'

  Scunthorpe shook his head. 'Sorry. That's not my problem. You should have thought of that before you blew up Stuttley's. Now if I could just have your official badge…'

  Fingers numb, Gerald pulled his identification wallet out of his pocket and handed it over. In a final act of petulant defiance, he undid his official tie and thrust that at Scunthorpe as well. Then, with as much dignity as his tattered pride could muster, he turned on his heel and marched out of Mr Scunthorpe's pokey office.

  Mr Scunthorpe slammed the door closed behind him.

  Braving the gauntlet of eyes beyond it, the secretaries and the other inspectors, the visiting bodies from elsewhere in the DoT, he felt as insignificant as a beetle and as conspicuous as an elephant. Not one of his former colleagues said a word, just watched him walk past desk after desk to the lifts in hot, humiliating silence.

  Life in the street outside the DoT building continued in blissful ignorance of his latest wizarding debacle. Well-dressed, affluent citizens of the city were smiling, laughing even, as they bustled about their lives, the insensitive bastards. How could they? Didn't they know his lifelong dream had just gone up in smoke right along with Stuttley's bloody staff factory?

  No. They didn't. And even if they did, would they care? Probably not. Nobody cared. Not even Reg. She'd flown off and left him. He was all alone. Alone, disgraced and unemployed.

  Stop snivelling, Dunwoody, he told himself derisively. Self-pity doesn't suit you.

  Maybe not, but wasn't he entitled? After three failed attempts at wizarding hadn't he earned himself at least one small snivel?

  All I wanted was to be a wizard. Is that so damned much to ask?

  Yes. Apparently it was.

  The motor he'd driven out to Stuttley's belonged to the DoT carpool. When he wasn't on official business he caught the bus. Well, he couldn't afford to do that any more. He'd have to watch every last penny now until he somehow managed to find another job. Street-sweeping, probably, if he decided he really couldn't face his revolting cousins and the tailor shop his father had loved and toiled in for most of his working life.

  With his spirits sloshing about his ankles he headed for home, the Wizards' Club, where he rented a room.

  But for how much longer he had no idea.

  At the time of its official opening—October 19, 1274, according to the tarnished plaque by the front doors—the Wizards' Club had been brand spanking new. The wrought iron gates were shiny and silent, the brass-bound front doors undented and scratchless, the windows unwarped, the roof tiles gleaming, and its sandstone bricks clean and creamy white like newly churned butter.

  But down the long centuries the club's pale sandstone bricks had acquired a patina of soot and ivy; exotic weeds began a ceaseless war for equal squatt
ing rights amongst the flowerbeds; and a tangled jungle of briars, blackberries and tigerteeth grew up to flourish like living barbed wire around the property's perimeter, guaranteeing privacy without the tedium of having to regularly renew unfriendly incantations.

  Now, nearly six hundred years later, all that could be said of the club was that it was still there, defiant in its grimy and time-twisted old age like an ancient relative who refuses to be decently shuffled off to the Sunshine Home for Old Wizards.

  Dusk was dragging slow fingers through the tops of the ornamental amber trees as Gerald dawdled his disconsolate, chilly and blistered way along the quiet street. Even the starlings settling in for the night sounded derisive as they commented on his reluctant progress towards the club's now rusty and slightly mangled front gates.

  His heart sank as he scanned the visitors' car park. Errol Haythwaite's gleaming silver Orion. James Kirkby-Hackett's scarlet Chariot. Edward Cobcroft Minor's black Zephyr. Oh lord. They were all here? So soon?

  Well, of course they were. Haythwaite and Co had probably rushed right over as soon as the news about Stuttley's hit the streets.

  He perused the residents' car park, hoping to see Monk Markham's battered blue Invincible, but it wasn't there. Hardly surprising. Monk's current secret project for the Department's Research and Development division had swallowed him alive, metaphorically speaking. He hadn't been home for three days.

  Gerald sighed. A pity. Monk was his best friend, and such a genius not even the likes of Haythwaite and Co dared to offend him. What he was doing renting rooms at the club and slaving away as a civil servant when he could name his price anywhere in the world and have his pick of palaces to live in was a mystery.

  The lowering sun sank a little further behind the trees. He shivered.

  Come on, Dunwoody, you gutless worm. You can't loiter out here on the footpath all night. Might as well get it over with.