Accidental Sorcerer (6 page)

Another smile. 'In the meantime, Melly, I have you.'

She nearly swallowed her tongue. 'Me? Lional, are you ma-' No, no, no. Don't say it. Dungeons were rumoured to be uncomfortable places. '- making a mistake?'

'Are kings capable of making mistakes?' her beautiful brother mused. 'No, I don't believe they are. Melissande, my darling little sister, you cannot refuse me.The kingdom needs you.'

'It needs a council more. Look, Lional, I appreciate your thinking of me but you need to think again. I'm not cut out for -'

'Oh, but you are. Intellectually you are as a giant to my former councillors' antish, ancient little minds,' said Lional blithely. 'And you're terribly organised. It used to irritate me, you know, the way you sat your dolls alphabetically by name along your toy shelf, but I see now I misjudged you. You're a born pettifogging administrator, Melly. And as New Ottosland's inaugural prime minister you'll -'

'Prime minister? You want to make me
prime minister?'
She knew her voice was squeaking but she couldn't help it. 'Lional, you can't! It's against tradition!
And
I'm a girl!'

Lional's lips pursed. 'Are you sure? I thought girls wore dresses.'

'Oh, ha ha,' she said, feeling desperate. 'Lional, seriously, you can't make me prime minister.'

'I'm the king, Melly,' snapped Lional. 'I can do whatever I want. And what I want is to drag us into the modern era and onto the international stage, kicking and screaming if necessary.'

She folded her arms. 'Not to mention foaming at the mouth. Lional -'

Ignoring her, he traced the edge of Tavistock's ear with a fingertip. His perfectly sculptured lips were curved in a dreaming smile. 'I have such plans for this kingdom. A splendid vision.'

'Then you need to get your eyes checked, because if you're really seeing me as prime minister then -'

The smile vanished.
'SilenceV

She flinched and shut her mouth. Scowling, Lional shoved Tavistock off his lap, heedless of the cat's indignant yowling, and leapt lightly down from the dais.

'Save your breath, sister dear, for I'll entertain no further debate,' he said, pacing. 'You are henceforth Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande, Prime Minister of New Ottosland. Feel free to choose an office of your own, provided it's not too large, and decorate it however you like except expensively, because in case you hadn't noticed Father left us virtually
bankrupt,
the old coot. And after that make sure the kingdom continues to run like clockwork. That's all I ask.'

Dazed, she sat heavily on the edge of the dais. 'That's
all':'

'Well, it is a very
small
kingdom, Mel. I can't imagine it'll be
that
hard.'

She felt like tearing her hair out. 'And I suppose in my spare time you'd like me to whip you up a plate of meringues?'

'I don't like meringues,' said Lional, and leaned against the wall. 'I'd not say no to half a dozen eclairs, though. With extra chocolate and cream.'

She nearly threw Tavistock at
him/Lional ...!'

Joining her on the dais, he slung his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. 'Oh, come on, Melly. It's not like you won't have help. I'm sure I saw dozens of minions loitering about the place somewhere. It's about time they earned their keep. You'll love it. Giving orders from dawn till dusk. Bullying entire government departments into shape. You'll think you've died and gone to heaven.'

She let herself slump against him.'Only if I can come back and haunt you. Lional ...'

Another rallying squeeze. 'You can do this, Mel. I know you can. I meant what I said about having a vision. We could be a great country, you know. Influential. Powerful. A major player on the world stage.'

'I know you think that,' she said carefully, after a moment. 'And it's a nice idea, Lional, really, but please be serious for a moment. You said it yourself: the treasury's practically empty. What's more, we're hogtied and shackled by outdated traditions that'll get us laughed right off the world stage. Face it. We're a backwater colonial collection ot rustics living in the middle of a bloody great desert and nobody cares what we do, or think, or say. Even the old mother country's almost forgotten we exist!' She pulled a face. 'If you really want me to be your prime minister then fine. I'll be your prime minister. But as for the rest ...'

Lional dropped a kiss on the top of her head and stood. 'You let me worry about the rest, Mel. I'll make it happen, you'll see. And a lot sooner than you think. Tradition?' He snapped his fingers.
'That
for tradition! Right now, though, we need to concern ourselves with an important new development.'

Groaning, Melissande got up and shoved her hands into her trousers' capacious pockets. 'I'm almost afraid to ask.'

Lional grinned. 'The Kallarapi are coming.'

She looked out of the nearest window, alarmed. 'Now?'

Tavistock had curled up on the throne with his tail wrapped round his nose. Lional pushed him off and sat again, right leg slung negligently over its padded arm. The cat jumped back up to his lap, disgruntled.

'Not quite. According to the message I received this morning they should be here in a day or two.'

'Which Kallarapi, do you know?'

'The holy man and the useless younger brother,' he said, examining his manicured fingernails.

'And are they coming with or without accessories?'

Lional's eyebrows lifted.'I beg your pardon?'

She folded her arms again, glaring. 'Are they bringing their army?'

He snorted. 'Oh, come along now, Mel. We don't owe them
that
much. Strictly speaking we don't owe them anything at all.'

'That's not how they see it.'

'I don't particularly care how they see it,' he said, admiring the way his ruby rings caught the sunlight.

She gave him a look. 'I know. I expect that's why they're coming.'

Typically, he ignored the look and the comment. 'As my prime minister, Melissande, it'll be your job to entertain them while they're here. Naturally it won't do for
me
to see them. An audience with
me
will give them entirely the wrong idea. You'll show them the sights of a civilised society. Remind them of our blood ties to the oldest nation in the world. And after that you can show them the relevant records proving that when it comes to trade tariffs
we're
the ones who've been robbed, not them. In short, I expect you to make our culturally challenged neighbours lift their ridiculous camel-train embargo. It's not helping our financial position
at all!

'That would be the point of it, Lional,' she said, and heaved a sigh. 'The thing is ... I know you're convinced we're in the right but I wish you'd reconsider. Our trading treaty with the Kallarapi has been in place for nearly four centuries and there's never been any dispute over who owes what to whom until now.'

'Meaning what, pray?' demanded Lional. 'That somehow
I'm
to blame for their rapacious greed? Why? Because I'm newly come to the throne? Must I remind you, Melissande, that the Kallarapi have also recently acquired a new ruler? And that all this trouble just happens to coincide with Zazoor's ascension to the throne, or the stuffed camel-hump, or whatever it is he sits on?'

She pressed her fingertips to her temples. 'I know. And that's the problem, isn't it? You and Zazoor have hated one another from your first day at boarding school. Now, instead of behaving like sober, responsible potentates, you're treating this disagreement like just one more of your playground scuffles! And it's not! People's livelihoods are at stake here, Lional. Our very kingdom is at stake! Don't you understand?
Now
when you punch Zazoor
everybody
gets a nosebleed!'

Tavistock yowled, lashing his tail. Lional patted his head. 'My sentiments exactly, Tav. Have a care, Melissande. There are ways and ways one may talk to a king. Some of them lead to unfortunate consequences.'

'Like being fired, you mean?' she retorted. 'Oh, please. You'd be doing me a favour. All I'm saying, Lional, is that like it or not they've got the advantage over us. The terms of the treaty are specific and binding and there's nothing we can do to change them!'

Lional's immaculate fingernails drummed the arm of his throne. 'I suppose you have a point,' he admitted at last, grudgingly.

'Yes. I have a point. I have lots of points, but not as many as the Kallarapi army. They've got thousands, each one at the end of a sword!' Feeling pressured, Melissande shoved her hairpins back in her bun again. 'I'll take a good long look at the tariff books myself, Lional, and I'll talk to the Kallarapi delegation when it gets here. But you have to be prepared to give some ground. Forget it's Zazoor you're dealing with. Remember you have a responsibility to your subjects.That's all I ask.'

Lional smiled, revealing his perfect white teeth. 'There. Didn't I say you'd make a splendid prime minister?' Scooping Tavistock into his arms, he stood. 'Very well. I'll do as you suggest - this time. But be warned, Mel. There's giving ground and then there's surrender ... and I'll see this verdant oasis of ours a charred and stinking ruin before I surrender it to anybody ... least of all Zazoor.'

Melissande felt her heart sink. He meant it. When it came to Sultan Zazoor, Lional wasn't entirely rational. He never had been, even as a child. What a shame the old sultan's heir had fallen into quicksand, leaving his second son to rule. She could foresee nothing but tantrums and fisticuffs for the next five decades or so.

It was a depressing vista.

'AH right, Lional,' she said, and dredged up a smile. 'I'll consider myself duly warned. Now is there anything else? Only it seems I've suddenly got a lot of reading to do.'

'In fact there is,' said Lional. 'I'm in need of a new court wizard.'

She stared.
'Another
one? Why? What happened to Bondaningo?'

'Wizard Greenfeather resigned in a huff late last night and returned home via the portal just before dawn,' said Lional, shrugging. 'I did my best to dissuade him but he was a most recalcitrant fellow. Refused point-blank to reconsider. I don't mind telling you, Mel: my feelings are hurt.'

'I don't believe it,' she said. 'He didn't even say goodbye. And I
liked
Bondaningo. Much more than any of the others. He wasn't as ancient as most of them and didn't talk to me as though I were six. Why did he resign?'

Lional waved a hand. 'I don't recall and it doesn't matter. He's gone. Find me another one, will you? Same specifications as before.'

She shoved her fists in her pockets. 'I've already found you five, Lional. At the rate you're going every wizard in the world is going to have "Former advisor to the King of New Ottosland" on his credentials.' Then, as Lional's face collapsed into displeasure, she added, 'All right, all
right]
I'll find you another one!'

'And quickly. It's very important.'

'Yes, quickly, I promise. But for the love of Saint Snodgrass,
please
don't fire or offend him until I've finished dealing with the Kallarapi!'

Lional smiled. It was like watching the sun break free of lowering storm clouds. 'For you, sister dear, whom I love as life itself? Of course.
Anything
for you.'

She'd never been able to resist Lional's smile, not even after he'd decapitated one of her dolls or torn the ears off her favourite stuffed donkey. 'Thank you. Now can I go?'

'You are excused, Prime Minister,' Lional said grandly, still smiling, and waggled his fingers. 'Ta ta!'

Marching out of the audience chamber, head whirling with dread premonitions of lurking obstacles yet to be discovered, Melissande throttled a shriek of frustration.

Prime minister? Prime
minister?
Whatever had she done to deserve this? And what had possessed her to accept the appointment? She'd only had the job five minutes and already she had a migraine.

If only she'd said yes to finishing school ...

But it was too late now and regrets were pointless. She was Princess Melissande, Prime Minister of New Ottosland, and the Kallarapi were coming.

Time to get to work.

Or she just got sick of your ineptitude and flew off to greener pastures.

Whatever the reason, the result was the same. Reg was gone, he had no way of finding her, and he was turning into a crazy person staying cooped up in his tiny room. He needed to get out. Needed fresh air. A change of scenery.

And after that he needed to look his current predicament square in the face, accept it, and start the disheartening business of finding yet another job. Somewhere that had never even heard of Stuttley's Staff Factory.

If there was such a place.

Oh lord,
he thought, sitting on the edge of his horrible bed with his head in his hands.
Wliat I need is a drink. Two drinks. Lots and lots of drinks, and sod the dwindling bank balance . . .

He went down to the club's public gallery. One glance through the doors and he nearly ran back upstairs. At the far end of the genteely shabby room, gathered around the sooty fireplace toasting crumpets and scoffing pastries, sat the appalling Errol Haythwaite and his equally appalling friends.

Thanks to the good fortune of being born into the stratosphere of wizarding society, the ineffably smug little group had risen swiftly to the top of the profession, leaving their less-favoured colleagues behind like so much skim milk. Like cream, they were smooth and lumpless and rich.

Like cream,
he reminded himself,
they cause bloat, spots and apoplexy.

Excruciatingly aware that to this group he wasn't so much the skim milk as the nasty bits at the bottom of the bottle once the skim milk had been fed to the cat, Gerald sidled further into the gallery, hoping to be overlooked. But just as he took his first step towards the solace of alcohol a hearty cry nailed his feet to the floor.

'1 say,
look
who's finally crawled out of hiding!
DunnywoodV

Damn. Haythwaite was never going to tire of that stupid play on words. Whose bright idea was it anyway to nickname any outside toilet a
dunny?
And why wasn't toilet humour beneath Errol, along with servants, Third Grade wizards and anybody who couldn't trace his family tree back to the packet the seed came in?

If only he could ignore the man ... but that, sadly, was out of the question. Third Grade wizards did
not
snub First Graders in public, with witnesses. Not if they ever wanted to work as a wizard again.

He turned, grittily polite. 'Good evening, Errol. What a surprise to find you here. And it's
Dunwoody!

Errol Haythwaite, tall, thin and elegantly saturnine, waved a negligent hand. 'Of course it is,' he drawled nasally. 'I say, come and join us why don't you, old bean?'

'Thanks, Errol, but -'

'No, really,' said Haythwaite. Even trom a distance it was clear the smile on his lips wasn't touching his eyes. 'I insist.'

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 advantage. '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 -'