Wizard Squared (20 page)

This time he gave her a scorching glare. “
Reg!
Do you
mind
?”

“Just stating the bleeding obvious, sunshine,” said Reg. “Or did you think neither of the very intelligent women in this jalopy had noticed?”

He swallowed. And what did that mean? Did it mean
Bibbie
knew that he had feelings for her? And if she did know was she wondering why he’d not
declared himself? Was he hurting her the way Monk was hurting Melissande?

Oh, blimey. Why wasn’t I born a turnip?

“It’s all right, Gerald,” said Melissande. “Your not terribly secret secret’s safe.” She glanced at Reg. “Well. With me, anyway.”

Bloody Reg.
“All I meant,” he said, in a valiant attempt to get the conversation back on track, “is that there are some clients who might best be dealt with by a man. Nothing to do with competence, just—”

“Don’t,” said Melissande. “Really, Gerald? Just
don’t
. Because if you think I’m in the mood to be told that women can’t do the job like a man then you’re nowhere near as clever as you look.”

“Um—” All of a sudden it was very important to concentrate on the rainy street in front of them. “Yes. All right.”

“And speaking of Arnold Frobisher,” Melissande added, still snippy, “just how many of our clients
are
Sir Alec’s fault?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t have a clue. Sir Alec doesn’t tend to confide.”

And if that’s not an understatement, I don’t know what is.

As he slowed them down again, getting ready for the awkward dog-leg turn that would put them onto Tapster Street which would then lead them circuitously to Daffydown Lane, Melissande folded her arms in that particular way she had.

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” she said sourly. “However, be that as it may, leaving Sir Alec’s procurations aside—and no matter how troublesome the inconveniently concupiscent Mr. Frobisher has proven to
be—we needed his business. In case you’ve not noticed, Gerald, being taken over by the government hasn’t precisely made us
rich
. We’re still s. WIn scrambling, and as far as I can tell we’re going to keep on scrambling for the foreseeable future.”

“Yes, I know, only…” He cleared his throat, feeling fresh guilt. “It’s all part of our cover story, remember? Sir Alec did explain.”

“Yes, and now
I’m
explaining,” Melissande retorted, a positively martial light in her eye, “since it seems to have escaped your keen wizardly observational skills, that like it or not Bibbie’s blood-pressure raising attributes are an asset to the establishment. Just like me being related to a king is an asset. And assets exist to be exploited.”

“Oy!” said Reg, and she sounded offended. “What about me? I’m the third witch of Witches Incorporated. Technically. I’m the technical advisor. I’m an asset too, ducky, and don’t you forget it!”

“That’s true,” Melissande admitted. “You’re cheap to feed.”

This time Reg’s silence lasted all the way to the end of Tapster Street, into Daffydown Lane and to Witches Incorporated’s front door.

Relieved, Gerald pulled the jalopy over to the pavement and shifted the gearstick into neutral so the engine could idle. If he was smart he’d bid the girls good night right now and pretend he’d never noticed the tension between Melissande and Monk.

But then nobody ever accused me of being smart, did they?

Besides. They were his friends, and in his line of work friends were hard—if not impossible—to come
by.
And
he’d introduced them. It was his fault they’d met. So he had a vested interest in making sure things worked out, didn’t he?

He cleared his throat again. “Look. Melissande. About you and Monk…”

“Oh, Gerald,” she groaned. “Please, can’t you—”

“I know, I know,” he said hastily. “It’s none of my business. Except that it
is
my business because I care about both of you a great deal and I want you to be happy. So if it would help for me to talk to Monk then—”

“Don’t you
dare!
” she gasped, horrified. “How would you like it if I took Bibbie aside and nattered to her about
you
?”

Despite all the reasons why that was a terrible idea he nearly said,
Oh, would you?—
but he managed to bite his tongue. Reg was aching for an excuse to poke her beak in and the thought of her giving Bibbie romantic advice about him…

I’d be better off sticking hot needles in my eyes.

“Then let me say this, Melissande, and then I promise I’ll shut up,” he said. “Whatever’s going on with Monk—whatever the reason is that he hasn’t—that he’s not—it isn’t because he doesn’t care. He really does care. But this business with his uncle—”

Sighing, Melissande tugged on her long, rust-red plait. “It’s all right, Gerald. There’s no need to fuss—or defend him, either. Monk’s old enough to do his own talking. As for me, I’m a big girl now too, which means I can fight my own battles. So if you don’t mind I’d rather not talk about sot Asit any more. Or about Mr. Frobisher, the old coot. I’ll handle him.”

He patted her hand. “I know you will, Your Highness. You’re brilliant.”

There was enough street-light filtering through the windshield for him to see that she was blushing. “Yes. Well.” She shoved her spectacles back up her nose. “As it happens, Gerald, since we’re talking agency business, there is a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. A note in her voice. An ominous undertone. “Yes?” he said, wary.

“When does Sir Alec intend sending you on another janitorial assignment? I mean, he bullied Witches Inc. into becoming part of his wretched Department and now here we are, nearly three months later, and you’re
still
pretending to be a Third Grade wizard. I was under the impression you were supposed to be an occasional thaumaturgical contributor, not a permanent fixture. So what’s going on?”

It was a very good question—and he had no answer. “Tired of having me around, are you? Eager to see me off the premises for a while?”

“Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “Even pretending to be a common or garden not terribly special locum you’re as much an asset to the firm as Bibbie’s blue eyes or my soppy brother.”

“I am? You mean as a mere male I’m good for something after all? Aside from taking out the rubbish, I mean.”

“Target practice, if you’re not careful,” Reg muttered from the back seat.

Melissande tossed her plait off her shoulder with an impatient shrug. “Of course you are. Because even though it pains me to admit it, you’re right. Sometimes the best woman for the job is a man. Mr. Arfenbacher’s
little embarrassment, remember? He was never going to talk to a witch about that. And Lady Grune? A total stranger to the concept of sisterhood, that bloody woman. You saved the day there too, Gerald.”

“Oh,” he said, and was surprised to find himself ridiculously pleased. “Well. You know. Just doing my bit.”

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” said Melissande. “Because the more you keep
doing your bit
the more clients are going to ask for you to work on their case. You’ll turn into your own walking billboard and we won’t need to mention you in our advertising even as a footnote. Which is going to make running the agency that much harder, if I can’t say for certain whether you’re going to be available. What if I give you a terribly important job and then in the middle of it Sir Alec whisks you away? What happens to us then? To our reputation?”

“You’d manage,” he said. “And Melissande, Sir Alec did explain that—”

She slapped the jalopy’s dashboard. “Yes, Gerald, I
know
what he explained. I was there, remember? I signed the paperwork. In triplicate. But the plain unvarnished truth is that we’re a better agency
with
you than
without
you so just answer the question, would you? Please?
When
are you likely to be sent away on Department business?”

He shrugged. “Honestly, Melissande, I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s not good enough!”

“I’m afraid it’ll have to be. Sorry.”

She snatched up her plait and bit the end of it, savagely. “Well, it’s
not
. I’ve a good mind to make an appointment with your precious Sir Alec and—”

“No! No! Melissande, you can’t!” Horrified, he
stared at her. “Really, you can’t. You promised you’d stay out of Department business, remember? Don’t you know how close-run a thing it was, you and Reg and Bibbie and Monk getting mixed up with the Wycliffe affair? The favors Sir Alec called in to protect all of us—to keep the agency open and you from being sent home to Rupert in disgrace—Melissande,
please
. You can’t.”

“I didn’t know there’d been that kind of trouble,” she said after a long silence. Then she tilted her chin, and behind her spectacles her eyes glittered dangerously. “Why didn’t you tell me there’d been that kind of trouble? Is that why you’ve not been sent on an assignment yet? Are you being punished because of what happened with Wycliffe’s?”

“No, of course not,” he said, even though there were moments when he had his suspicions. “It’s just the way things go in the janitor business. The right kind of assignment hasn’t come along, that’s all.”

“Good,” said Melissande. Then she frowned at her lap. “Although, to be honest, Gerald, I hope it never does. I don’t want you disappearing into the underworld of black market thaumaturgics or international skullduggery or whatever catastrophe comes along next.”

“But that’s my job, Melissande,” he said gently. “My
real
job. The agency—it’s just camouflage.”

Staring out of the passenger window, she sighed. “I know.”

“And when that Sir Alec does get around to sending you on another mission, even if you could turn him down you wouldn’t,” said Reg. “Would you?”

“Is she right?” said Melissande, when he didn’t answer.

Reg hopped from the back seat onto the back of the driver’s seat, behind his left shoulder. “Don’t be a tosser, madam. Of course I’m right. Our Gerald’s getting antsy—aren’t you, Gerald? You’re starting to feel cooped up.
Bored.
And even though that Sir Alec’s got you jumping through hoops once a week out at Nettleworth, it’s not the same. It’s not enough. You’re as bad as that Markham boy, drat you. You don’t like having your wings clipped any more than he does. You, Gerald Dunwoody, are pining for action.”

Melissande raised an eyebrow at him. “Exactly. What she said.”

Rats.
“Well,
she
happens to be wrong,” he retorted. “I’m not pining for anything and I don’t have wings, clipped or otherwise.”

“Oh, pishwash, Gerald,” said Reg. “Pull the other one. With any luck it’ll come off and then I can smack you over the head with it.”

Scowling, he let himself slump until his knees hit the dashboard. “Fine. So you’re right. But what difference does it make? I can’t
force
Sir Alec to s> S hisend me out on assignment, can I? And anyway…”

This time it was Melissande’s turn to prompt. “Yes? And anyway what?”

At this time of night Daffydown Lane was as silent as the grave. As he stared out at the darkness the drifting drizzle hardened, turning into proper rain. The sound of it drumming on the jalopy roof and the lane’s cobbles was oddly comforting. A childhood sound of warm blankets and steaming hot cocoa and his mother tucking him in with a kiss.

“The problem is,” he said at last, “that I’m neither fish nor fowl. I never have been, really. When I
was a Third Grader I scraped by as a compliance officer, just, but I was never going to climb the ladder of bureaucratic success. And then came Stuttley’s, and New Ottosland, and suddenly I’m the most powerful wizard in the world, apparently, which means I’m too dangerous to be let loose without supervision. The thing is, I’m starting to suspect it’s not that there
aren’t
any missions Sir Alec could send me on. There are. The problem
is
he’s afraid to.”

“Sir Alec? Afraid?” Melissande shook her head. “Sorry, but he doesn’t strike me as the fearful type.”

“Fine. Then not Sir Alec, but the men he answers to. He’s got clout, a lot of it, but he’s not autonomous.”

“Told you that, did he?” said Reg. “Over crumpets and a nice cup of tea?”

Not in so many words. Sir Alec had turned being cryptically circumspect into an art form. But there had been some hints, since the Wycliffe affair—some gaps in the conversation he’d been able to fill. And once or twice Mr. Dalby had given away more than he realized.

And then of course there’s how the other janitors look at me, when they think I’m not looking. The truth is I don’t bloody well belong anywhere.

“Something like that, Reg,” he said, shrugging. “The point is they really don’t know what to do with me. I
think
if I accidentally fell under a bus tomorrow there’d be a lovely funeral and sighs of relief all around.”

“Oh, Gerald,
surely
not!” said Melissande, genuinely shocked. “
Surely
they appreciate your immense value to Ottosland. To the world. Certainly to thaumaturgics. They
can’t
be so short-sighted as to let
their fear of the unknown override what they’ve got in you?”

Reg cackled. “Of course they can, ducky. They’re politicians, aren’t they?
And
bureaucrats. The most dangerous combination of criminals in the world.”