The Accidental Sorcerer Page 6

  Of course he did. Reluctantly Gerald joined the gruesome trio at the fireplace. 'Yes?'

  Typically perverse, Haythwaite ignored him. As though he was a butler, or Mr Pinchgut. '— how many times I have to say no. I mean, it's all very well the Potentate of Aframbigi offering me the position of Wizard at Large, but the old boy s put a few noses out of joint down at the Department and there's a whisper of sanctions.'

  'Then of course you can't accept,' said Cobcroft Minor, reaching to the cake cart for a jammy doughnut. 'Once you've fallen foul of the Department it's all over. One might as well shut up shop and find a job in the provinces as a tailor, or something equally menial!'

  As Haythwaite and Co chortled merrily, carefully not looking at him, Gerald swallowed a string of expletives. 'Well, it's been wonderful catching up with you, Errol, but—'

  'Not so fast,' said Haythwaite, whose cut-glass accent had acquired a new and sharper edge. 'I've a little something to say to you.'

  Sarkiness was unwise but he couldn't help it. The remnants of his self-respect demanded he not play the doormat. 'Sometime this century, I hope.'

  Despite the leaping flames in the fireplace and the general air of warm crony camaraderie, the ambient temperature dropped ten degrees. Haythwaite's pale green eyes narrowed. 'I wouldn't go trying to be clever, Gerald. Not if I were you. Not after your recent debacle.'

  'It was an accident, Errol.'

  Kirkby-Hackett snorted. There was a gobbet of chocolate sauce on his receding chin. 'So was granting you a wizard's licence, Dunnywood.'

  This time he bit his tongue. Seriously antagonising these three would be… unhelpful. Between them, their prestigious families had fingers in every last one of Ottosland's wizardly pies… and at least a half-dozen more abroad. If he didn't endure the insults he really would be headed home for a life of provincial tailoring.

  Haythwaite leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. 'Next week, Gerald, I'm to be inducted into the Masterful Company of Wizards.'

  'I know, Errol. Didn't you receive my note of congratulations?'

  The note was waved away like so much grubby scrap paper. 'The Masterful Company, Gerald, is the most exclusive wizarding organisation in the country, if not the world.' Haythwaite's expression was mild, his voice mellow, but even so Gerald flinched; Errol's impeccably well-bred urbanity never quite managed to hide the pirate within. 'Membership is restricted to First Class wizards, naturally, and is achieved by invitation after nomination by an existing member, a rigorous selection process and personal scrutiny by the committee. Presidents and prime ministers have been known not to make the cut. An invitation to join the Masterful Company of Wizards, Gerald, is an honour to which few may aspire.' The look on his face added, And you're not one of them.

  Somehow, he managed to keep his own expression apologetic. 'I know that, too.'

  Still piratically smiling, Haythwaite continued. 'Central to the induction ceremony is the presentation of one's especially commissioned and crafted First Grade staff, Gerald. I was due to take delivery of mine tomorrow. Sadly, according to a somewhat hysterical missive from one Mr Harold Stuttley, my new staff is little more than a melted thimbleful of slag spread thinly over the charred remains of his ruined factory. What have you to say to that, Gerald?'

  Any number of things, none of which he could utter. From the looks on Kirkby-Hackett and Cobcroft Minor's faces anyone would think he'd murdered Haythwaite's firstborn son. Bitterly regretting the impulse to set foot outside his bedsit for at least the next ten years, Gerald shook his head.

  'What can I say? I'm truly sorry, Errol.'

  Haythwaite blinked. 'That's it? That's all? You're sorry? By God, Dunwoody, if you think you're sorry now, just you wait until I'm done with you! There won't be a hole small enough for you to crawl into here or—'

  'Oh Errol, put a sock in it,' said a cheerful voice. 'If your family can't rustle you up a new First Grade staff for the ceremony you can borrow one of mine. I must have three I've never so much as breathed on and I'm pretty sure one of 'em's a Stuttley. Bloody manufacturers keep on sending them to me for gratis, hoping I'll give 'em a public endorsement. And since I'm a Masterful Companion myself of course, there'll be no questions asked.'

  Haythwaite closed his mouth, his expression curdled. Gerald turned round.

  Monk Markham, released at last from the bowels of Research and Development. As usual, his friend's long dark hair was falling over his face in unkempt disarray and there were smudges of something dubious on the end of his aquiline nose and down the front of his shabby blue corduroy jacket. Behind the aggressive cheer he looked bone-tired. Fragrant smells wafted from the brown paper bag he carried in one hand. The other clutched the handle of his battered, bulging briefcase.

  Composure recovered, Errol stared at him coldly. 'Markham. Too kind, I'm sure, but it won't be necessary'

  'Suit yourself,' said Monk, grinning, then turned. 'So Gerald, I picked up some Yoktok curry and rice on the way home. Fancy sharing?'

  For the last two days Gerald had existed on coffee and toast. He had to swallow a bucketful of saliva before he could answer. 'Uh—yes.'

  'Excellent! Catch you later, Errol. Give me a shout if you change your mind about the staff. Come on, Gerald. My octopus is getting cold.'

  Monk being Monk he occupied a plush apartment on the club's second floor with three rooms, several windows, ample headspace and no smelly chamber-pot or nightly serenade from the plumbing. Not that Monk ever really noticed his surroundings. He'd have been perfectly happy in one of the shoeboxes under the roof, except for the lack of space to continue his incomprehensible mucking about with things metaphysical.

  'Careful,' he said, dropping his briefcase as Gerald tripped over an oscillating octogram spinning hysterically between the living room's sofa and bookcase. 'It took me three days to get that bloody thing to hold its axis properly'

  Gerald pushed himself off the wall and rubbed his banged elbow. 'What are you trying to measure?'

  'Ambient tetrothaumicles in the fourteenth dimension,' said Monk, cat-stepping around a tangle of test tubes.

  He swallowed an unworthy lump of envy. 'Of course you are. Isn't everyone?'

  Squashed into his kitchenette, Monk grinned over his shoulder as he started unpacking the bag of food. 'Hope not. If it comes off it means an article in The Golden Staff!

  The Golden Staff? Good God. To date, the youngest person ever permitted to publish in The Staff had been forty-eight. The idea of a twenty-four-year-old wizard getting the nod from The Golden Staff was unthinkable.

  Unless, of course, you knew Monk Markham.

  'Well, good luck.'

  Monk rummaged in a drawer for cutlery. 'Thanks. I need it.'

  No, he didn't. He was just being typically Monkish: modest, unpretentious and sensitive to the limitations of his less fortunate friend. Stinging only a little bit, Gerald edged his way around a set of hiccuping test tubes, sidestepped something that looked like a cross between a mouse and a dandelion doing somersaults in its cage, and sat at the gate-leg dining table. On the nearby windowsill sat Monk's crystal ball. It was pulsing a gentle red. 'You've got incoming here.'

  Monk had his head in the crockery cupboard under the sink-and-hotplate arrangement in the corner. 'Play 'em back for me, would you?' he said, muffled. 'New password's confabulation.'

  A hand wave over the crystal ball and the muttering of Monk's password unlocked its warding. The crystal ball hummed, the red swirl cleared, and the image of a face formed within its depths. It bore a spurious resemblance to Monk but was a year or so older and graced with an immaculately barbered beard, drop-pearl earrings and a starched neck ruff of outrageous proportions.

  'Monk, you wart-ridden little toad! the scowling face growled, 'why aren't you there, it's so early it's practically midnight. Are you there? Answer the ball, runt, I don't have all morning!

  Gerald paused the message, grinning. At times like this being an only child was a positive advan
tage. 'It's your brother.'

  Monk finished sharing out almond rice into two chipped bowls and started on what smelled like chicken in green sauce. 'Prat. What does he want? Turn up the volume, I can't hear.'

  He increased the ball's volume, unpaused the message and sat back, prepared to be entertained. Aylesbury Markham's peevish grumble boomed. 'All right then. Listen up, you, because I'm not calling back. The olds are hosting a flash dinner party this weekend for some visiting foreign muckety-muck. Attendance is non-negotiable. So for the love of witchcraft get a sodding haircut, scrub the ink stains off your fingers and make sure you've got something halfway decent to wear, 'cos I'll be buggered if you embarrass me by turning up looking like something a paralytic cat dragged in backwards through a gorse bush, right? Right. I'm warning you, toadstool. Ignore me at your peril!

  'Pillock,' said Monk, squashing empty cartons into the rubbish bin. 'Anything else?'

  Aylesbury's elegantly menacing face faded away, leaving the crystal ball as innocuous as a lump of glass. 'Doesn't look like it.'

  Monk stuck a fork in each steaming bowl and carried them over to the table. 'Good. Dig in.'

  Gerald practically inhaled the food. After two days of charcoaled and barely buttered stale bread, the savoury chicken and rice was almost enough to make him cry. 'This is great, Monk. Thanks.'

  'Uh huh,' said Monk, and sat back. 'So. You going to tell me what happened at Stuttley's?'

  Damn. Couldn't Monk leave sleeping dogs lie? As soon as he could trust himself not to spit rice everywhere he said, 'I thought you'd have heard by now.'

  'I'm interested in what really happened, not a garbled fourth-hand gossip-raddled version flavoured with malice.'

  He avoided answering by filling his mouth with more chicken.

  Monk said, 'Is it true Scunthorpe booted you?'

  He nodded. Suddenly his masticated mouthful couldn't get past the lump in his throat. 'Mmm.'

  'Pillock,' said Monk, and speared another piece of curried octopus. 'If they handed out medals for covering your arse, Scunthorpe'd be world champion ten years on the trot. Still… I'm a bit surprised you went. At least without a fight.'

  Gerald threw down his fork. 'Really?'

  'Yeah. I mean, there must've been something you could do.'

  'Says the certified genius and golden boy of the R and D division whose family entertains visiting heads of state every other night!' he retorted. 'Well, here's a newsflash, Monk! I'm not you, I'm a barely qualified Third Grade wizard from a long and distinguished line of men's tailors! Don't you think I wanted to fight Scunthorpe? Don't you think I know when I'm being railroaded? I couldn't fight him. He made it damned clear what would happen if I caused any more trouble. I had no choice but to sneak away with my tail between my legs. And if you think I'm happy about that, well—'

  '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…'

  'I 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 guarante
e 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'