The Accidental Sorcerer Read online

  He stared at the gates. They were shut. To open them, all he had to do was wave his hand and say the word.

  Except…

  What if it didn't work? Walking home he'd steadfastly refused to let himself dwell on that heartstopping moment in Scunthorpe's office when the thaumatic ether wouldn't obey him. But now he had to think of it. What if he really was finished? What if that insane stunt with the First Grade staffs had burned out his meagre talent? What if the only thing in the world he was good for now was tailoring?

  Please, no. No. Heart thumping, he scrabbled for his cherrywood staff and waved it at the closed club gates. 'Open! Open!'

  A spurting fizzle of power. A momentary pause that lasted forever. Then, with a complaining groan and a flaking of rust, the wrought iron gates dragged sluggishly apart. He fell against them, panting. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  His abilities, such as they were, had returned.

  Straight ahead, at the end of a long brickwork path, squatted six wide stone steps. Above them loomed the club's ancient, imposing front doors. And behind those doors waited Haythwaite and Co, doubtless primed with Bellringer's best brandy and salivating at the thought of dragging that upstart nobody Dunwoody down a peg or two. Because the idea of discretion or sympathy was as foreign to them as a delegation of ambassadors from Katzwandaland. Errol and his friends had tongues like well-sharpened knives and there was nothing they enjoyed more than carving up their social inferiors. Especially when those inferiors made spectacularly public blunders.

  On the other hand, perhaps loitering isn't such a bad idea after all.

  'Bloody hell,' he said to the fading sky. 'When did I turn into such a coward?'

  Heart colliding painfully with his ribs, he walked through the gates.

  The club's parquet reception area was blessedly deserted. Blinking in the carefully cultivated gloom Gerald checked his pigeonhole and found a letter from his globe-trotting parents. This one was postmarked Darsheppe. He had to think for a moment where that was. Oh, yes. Capital city of Hortopia. Half-way round the world. Suddenly that seemed even further away than it actually was.

  As he stared at his mother's sprawling scrawl he found himself torn between relief that they weren't here to witness his latest disaster, and sharp sorrow-that he'd disappointed them again. That was the trouble with being the only offspring: no sibling shoulders to help carry the burden of familial expectations.

  Mr Pinchgut, the club's retainer and general factotum, emerged from his tiny office set underneath the grand staircase that led up to the private apartments. He saw Gerald and stopped. From the angle of his bushy eyebrows and the particular stiffness of his tail-coated spine it was clear he'd heard all about Stuttley's. Gerald tucked the letter into his pocket and nodded at him. 'Mr Pinchgut.'

  The retainer favoured him with a frosty bow. 'Mr Dunwoody.'

  He sighed. 'Would it help if I said it wasn't my fault?'

  Mr Pinchgut thawed, ever so slightly. 'I'm sure it's not for me to comment, sir.'

  'Even so. It wasn't.'

  Another bow. 'Yes, sir. May I say I hope that's a comforting thought?'

  'You may,' he said, heading for the stairs. 'But we both know you'd be wasting your breath.'

  The staircase stopped being grand after the first two flights because all the posh apartments were on the first and second floors. For the next two flights it was plain but serviceable, just like the rooms it led to. After that the stairs became narrow, uneven and downright higgledy-piggledy, which was also a fair description of the cheap rooms crammed beneath the roof of the building. Puffing, Gerald staggered on up to his bedsit.

  It was tucked away at the rear of the club's top floor. Squashed cheek-to-jowl inside were a saggy-mattressed single bed, a lopsided wardrobe, a narrow cupboard, a three-legged card table, a rickety chair, a very skinny bookcase and a single temperamental gas ring. Mysterious plumbing groaned and gurgled at all hours of the day and night. The bathroom he shared with six other wizards was on the next floor down. This meant a chamber-pot, which added a certain piquancy to the atmosphere. There was one miserly window with a fine view of the noisome compost heap and only two places where he could stand completely upright without cracking his head on an exposed roof beam.

  'Reg?' he called softly as he kicked the bedsit door unstuck and shoehorned himself inside. 'Reg, are you here?'

  A resounding silence was the only reply. He flicked on the light-switch and looked around, but the room was empty.

  Dammit. Where the hell was she? He'd left the window open, just in case. She should be here, all broody and complaining on the tacky, revolting old ram skull she insisted on using for a perch. Eating a mouse and leaving the tail on the floor because tails always get stuck halfway down. Why wasn't she here? They'd quarrelled before. Hell, they quarrelled practically every day. Just because he'd lost his temper and called her a moulting feather duster with the manners of a brain-damaged hen, was that any reason to fly off in high dudgeon and not come back?

  Had she gone for good?

  Scrunching down to avoid the rafters, he crossed to the window and stuck his head out. The last of the daylight was almost gone and the first faint stars were starting to sparkle. A thin rind of moon teetered low on the distant horizon. All in all, it was a beautiful evening.

  He couldn't have cared less. 'Reg!' he called in the loudest stage whisper he could manage. 'Reg, are you out here?' Nothing.

  'Don't be an idiot,' he told himself sternly. 'She's fine. She's only a bird on the outside. Anybody who tries to mess with Reg is making their last mistake. She'll be back. She's just trying to wind you up.'

  And it was working, dammit.

  Defeated, Gerald pulled his head back into the room and slumped on the edge of his horrible bed. Two more springs died, noisily.

  His stomach grumbled. Lunch had been hours ago and he'd been a bit busy since then, one way and another. But steak and chips in the club's dining room was an expense he could no longer afford and anyway… Errol Haythwaite and his ghastly friends were downstairs.

  He didn't have the heart to face them. Not without Monk Markham as back up, at least. And if that made him a coward then fine. He was a coward.

  There was a tin of baked beans in the cupboard, and a can opener, and a spoon, for emergencies. If this didn't qualify as an emergency he didn't know what did.

  Bloody hell. I hate baked beans.

  Morose, disconsolate and feeling more alone than he'd ever felt in his life, he went about eating his pathetic, solitary supper.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Melissande heard the commotion when she was still one dingy corridor away from the palace's Large Audience Chamber. Raised voices. Indignant expostulations. The rat-a-tat-tat of ebony canes on marble-tiled flooring. She felt her insides clench. Her brisk footsteps slowed, and her heart suddenly felt too large for her chest.

  Someone was arguing with Lional.

  She started hurrying again, breath caught in her throat. More than likely it was the Council. Oh, how could they be so stupid? Didn't they understand her brother yet? When were they going to realise that Lional wasn't his father? The late king had been a kind, mostly ineffectual man who was more than happy to let the Council run the kingdom on his behalf. Leave him alone to potter in his gardens and trundle out once or twice a year for public display and he was perfectly content.

  Lional wasn't. For a start, he didn't like gardens. Even less did he like being told what to do by a bunch of nattering old men. The only thing Lional and the late king had in common was the name. And in the last few months, as kingship took its toll, Lional s temper had grown markedly short.

  Fearing the worst she sprinted the final eight yards and skidded around the corner to the audience chamber's reception area. Now she could make out actual words in the shouting. Words like 'foolish' and 'ridiculous' and 'misguided'.

  Saint Snodgrass preserve them.

  Her other brother was sitting in a plush red velvet chair, his
bony nose stuck in a book as usual. From the ratty state of his britches and jacket he'd come straight from his butterfly house. It was possible he'd even slept there last night; half a green butterfly wing was caught in his hair and he had a rumpled, unbedlike look. Ignoring the shouting and the two discomfited attendants on either side of the open chamber doors, she rushed up to him and snatched the book from his hands.

  'Rupert! What's going on? What are they yelling about now, do you know? about the mating habits of the Larger Crested Swamp Butterfly of Lower Limpopo.' A gleam of passion shone in his faded blue eyes. 'I'd give just about anything to have one in my collection but the

  Lower Limpopo government is so unreasonable when it comes to exporting their native fauna. I've even asked Court Wizard Greenfeather to help, since he's from Lower Limpopo and seems to know everybody important, but—'

  'Rupert!'Confiscated book pinned between her knees, Melissande clapped her hands sharply in front of his face. 'Are you sure you don't know what they're yelling about?'

  'Positive,' said Rupert cheerfully. He wiggled his fingers at her. 'Can I have my book back, please?'

  Swallowing an impatient sigh she shoved it at him. There was no point getting angry with Rupert. He was a darling man, a sweet and thoughtful brother, but not even an adoring sister could call him the brightest candle in the palace chandelier.

  Inside the audience chamber the shouting stopped. She heard Lional say, 'Raise your voices to me one more time, gentlemen, and there will be consequences, is that clear?'

  There was a moment's silence and then the voices resumed. This time they were pitched at a respectful murmur.

  'Whoops,' said Rupert, wincing. 'I think they've really made him cross this time.'

  Melissande slumped into the chair beside him. 'They always do, the silly old fools. You'd think they'd learn.' With a sigh, she patted Rupert's threadbare knee. 'What brings you here, anyway?'

  He brightened. 'I need permission to leave the country. There's a terribly important symposium in Aframbigi I want to attend. "Natural Mutations Arising From Captive Lepidoptery Breeding Programs". It's being chaired by Professor Sunyi herself!' He released a tiny, ecstatic sigh. 'I've read every book and pamphlet she's ever written. The idea of meeting her—'

  'Is pretty much out of the question,' she said, as gently as she could. 'Balloon season's over and the Kallarapi are still refusing nonessential camel-train passage.'

  Rupert's expression turned mulish. 'There's still the portal.'

  'The portal? Don't be silly, Rupert. Lional will never let you use it. Not for a butterfly symposium.'

  'He might. If I ask him nicely.'

  Dear Rupert. Deluded, ever-hopeful Rupert. There was no point arguing, either. The only trait he and their older brother had in common was a streak of stubbornness as wide as the Kallarapi Desert. She patted his knee again. Sometimes she felt like Rupert's mother, not his little sister.

  'Yes, Rupe. You can always ask.'

  'Don't worry, I will.' He sniffed. 'Why do you want to see him?'

  'I don't. I was summoned.' She chewed at a fingernail. 'I hope it's not about finishing school again. How many more times can I say no? For pity's sake, I'm nearly twenty-one! Finishing school would finish me all right, but not in the way he thinks. And anyway, I don't have time.'

  'Because of your correspondence course with Madame—'

  'Shhh.’ she hissed, and glanced at the po-faced chamber attendants. They never looked as though they were listening but one couldn't be too careful. She lowered her voice. 'Partly. And I have a feeling I should be here.'

  'But Mel…' said Rupert anxiously, 'you might not have a choice. After all, Lional's the king now. Father didn't much mind what any of us did so long as we weren't running all over his flowerbeds. But Lional's got views. Especially about being contradicted.'

  She waved a dismissive hand. 'I'm his little sister. Putting me in prison wouldn't look good. Besides, Lional's bark is far worse than his bite, you know that.' She patted his knee again. 'Don't worry'

  Rupert smoothed his thin fingers over the cover of his precious book. 'Well, I hope you're right, Mel. But I still think you should reconsider. You never know, finishing school might be fun and at least it'd get you away from here for a—'

  ' Dismissed? roared a voice from inside the audience chamber. 'The entire Council? Is Your Majesty quite mad?’

  'Mad? No!' was Lional's cold reply. 'But I am sorely tempted to serve you your liver fried with onions for daring to take that tone with me, your king!'

  Melissande and Rupert leapt to their feet. Even the diplomatically deaf, dumb and blind chamber attendants quivered. 'That sounded like Lord Billingsley,' Rupert whispered hoarsely. 'He always was a bit tactless.'

  'There's tactless and then there's suicidal,' Melissande whispered back. She felt Rupert's cold hand groping for hers and wrapped her fingers round it. 'I'm sorry, Rupe, but I think asking Lional for permission to leave the country will have to wait.'

  Rupert nodded. 'Yes. D'you want me to stay anyway? You know, for moral support?'

  A fresh babble of angry voices rose within the audience chamber. 'No, I'll be fine. You go. We both know Lional in a temper gives you hives.'

  He let go of her hand. 'Well,' he said, sounding relieved. 'If you're sure…'

  She was certain. Rupert got on Lional's nerves even more than Lord Billingsley and the rest of the Council. All her life she'd pushed herself between them like a wodge of cotton wool, preventing unfortunate breakages.

  'Positive.' She stretched up and kissed his stubbly cheek. 'I'll see you at dinner, all right? Say hello to the butterflies for me—and don't forget to shave. Lional's got views about that too, remember?'

  Rupert departed, clutching his book. A moment later Lional's Council—his former Council—filed out of the audience chamber. Their expressions were identically thunderous. Ebony cane tips rapping the floor, they muttered to one another under their wheezing breaths as they limped and shuffled into the chamber's reception area, a group of old men whose aggregate age approached a staggering one thousand years.

  No wonder Lional was tired of them.

  Lord Billingsley, the youngest at seventy-six, paused to look down his bulbous nose at her. Like his colleagues he was dressed in the height of courtly fashion: striped trousers, tail coat and boiled shirt, with half a diamond mine's worth of stick pins and gewgaws thrust into his polka-dot silk cravat.

  'Your Highness.'

  She nodded. 'Lord Billingsley.'

  'Here to see the king?'

  'That's right.'

  'Then I suggest you take a moment to talk some sense into him!' Billingsley snapped. His left eye twitched uncontrollably, threatening to shoot his monocle clear across the room. 'He seems to have completely lost his reason!'

  What could she say? The stuffy old man might well be right. It did seem crazy for Lional to dismiss the Council. He might be the king but he could hardly run the country on his own. However, agreeing with Billingsley meant disagreeing with Lional and that was treason. Technically, anyway. If Lional overheard he might ship her off to finishing school out of pique, no matter how old she was or how many times she declined the offer.

  She graced Lord Billingsley with her most imperious smile. 'Like you, my lord, I am His Majesty's loyal and obedient subject. If, during our audience, he asks me to talk some sense into him I will certainly attempt to do so. Was there anything else?'

  Lord Billingsley cast a glance towards his colleagues, huddling like elderly sheep at the reception entrance, and made a great show of harrumphing and pretending hed got the answer he wanted. Then he bowed, creakily.

  'Not at this moment, Your Highness. Doubtless this is but a temporary state of affairs. I'm sure His Majesty will soon come to regret this decision. We will return to our estates now and await our recall. Good day'

  Watching the offended Council members retreat, she almost felt sorry for them. All those years running the show behind the scenes while
her father the cabbage king played figurehead… and now here was Lional. At nearly thirty he was less than half Lord Billingsley's age, and to the Council's mind scarcely old enough to shave unassisted. Throwing his weight around. Inconveniently insisting that kings had more important things to do than poison aphids and peruse seed catalogues.

  'Melissande!' a deceptively sweet voice called from within the audience chamber. 'I'm waiting.’

  She sighed and looked to the rigidly non-commital chamber attendants. The one on the right banged his ceremonial pikestaff on the floor and said, unnecessarily, 'His Majesty will see you now, Your Highness.'

  'Apparently. Don't bother announcing me, Willis.' She poked a couple of escaping hairpins back into her slapdash bun, squared her shoulders and marched into the enormous, echoing audience chamber.

  Lional was down off his throne, standing instead by the large leadlight windows in the grandiose room's far wall. Shafting sunlight turned his wavy hair to burnished gold and sparkled the rubies and emeralds in his crown. Long and lean, he wore his dark green silks like a second skin. His thickly lashed blue eyes were luminous, his wide cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. His skin was lightly golden, and blooming fresh like a child's. Every inch of him shrieked athletic elegance and grace. He looked like a living legend.

  It was hard to believe they were related.

  A fat orange cat wove complicated patterns around his booted ankles. Tavistock. She didn't like Lional's pet, but the fact that he loved it without reservation gave her heart when his casual inconsiderations drove her to swearing and sometimes to tears.

  It was a long walk up the thin strip of crimson carpet to reach him, and he didn't acknowledge her presence until she came to a stop a few feet from him. Tavistock eyed her with a slitted green gaze, smirking. Dratted animal.

  Ignoring it, she sniffed. 'Good morning. What was all that business with the Council? Surely you haven't—'

  He raised a finger and both eyebrows. 'Ah ah ah! What are we forgetting, Melissande?'