I'm one of the good guys. That means I'm doing good.

"You need to listen to me now, Errol. Are you listening? Can you hear me?"

"Oh, yes," said Errol. His altered face was quite blank. Waiting for someone to write his thoughts upon it.

Slowly, carefully, Gerald reconstructed the evening's events. "We've been working here all night, Errol. Just you and me. Working on the Mark VI prototype. We haven't set so much as a toe outside of the lab complex. You made me stay behind and work with you to make up for the time I took to go into town. You were very angry about that, Errol. You thought I had no business leaving the laboratory. Do you understand me?"

Errol nodded. "Yes."

"How did you feel about me leaving the laboratory, Errol?"

Slowly, Errol's face contorted. "b.l.o.o.d.y Dunnywood," he said, contemptuous. "Have to twist his arm practically out of its socket to get a decent day's work from him. Well, I won't have it, you mingy little t.u.r.d. I'm in charge of this facility and you'll b.l.o.o.d.y well work all the hours I say. You'll work till you drop, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mister Haythwaite," he said, letting his voice cringe. "I'm sorry, Mister Haythwaite. Of course I'll work back with you, as long as it takes, Mister Haythwaite."

"Yes indeed, you will," said Errol. "Or I'll see that Ambrose sacks you first thing in the morning."

"Good, Errol," said Gerald, and patted his shoulder. "That's what you remember. That's all you remember. And Haf Rottlezinder is nothing to you but a vague memory from your youth. You didn't know he was in the country. You had no idea what he was up to. Do you understand me, Errol?"

Errol nodded. "Yes, I understand."

Gerald let out a long, unsteady breath. Lord, this is despicable. Even in a good cause. "Excellent. Oh! Yes!" He'd nearly forgotten. "One last thing, Errol. If anyone asks, what happened tonight wasn't my fault. In fact, I did everything I could to help you prevent this horrible accident. Ah... yes... which wasn't much, because I am a thoroughly useless lump of a Third Grade wizard... but still. I tried. Right? You got that?"

"Right," said Errol. "Got it."

He nodded. "Good. So I think that's everything. Now, Errol, you mustn't worry. You're perfectly safe."

Using his staff this time, he washed a filtering protective wall around them, leaving it just porous enough for authenticity. Then, on a deep breath, he destabilised the hovering Ambrose Mark VI airship prototype... and watched it explode. Felt the rolling wave of thaumic discharge tumble through the carefully calibrated protective shield and leave the appropriate amount of thaumic residue all over himself and Errol. Not enough to hurt them-though he did feel his eyebrows frizzle-but a sufficient quant.i.ty to completely obscure what still remained of the residue from the old boot factory's destruction.

Ears ringing, exposed skin smarting ever so slightly, he satisfied himself that Errol was unharmed then looked at the totally ruined prototype airship. Another one. How many did that make now? Four? No. Five. Fresh scorch marks seared the laboratory walls. Smoke swirled beneath its buckled ceiling.

After deactivating the protective barrier he turned back to Errol. Snapped his fingers again, severing the docilianti's hold. Errol's eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped where he stood, his head rapping too hard on the laboratory's unforgiving concrete floor. He'd have a nasty goose-egg for sure. Ah well, Just another touch of authenticity.

Feeling bleak, Gerald stared down at him.

Reg is right. I'm far too good at this. n.o.body can know just how good at this I am.

And then he went to make his panicked phone call to the authorities. On the whole, it wasn't going to take much acting.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A great deal of fuss and chaos ensued.

Some time later... he wasn't sure exactly how much time had pa.s.sed, he wasn't keeping an eye on the clock and besides, he had a thumping headache... Ambrose Wycliffe and his sister Permelia arrived to force their loudly bl.u.s.tering way through the milling Department inspectors and ambulance orderlies.

"Mister Dunnywood, is it?" Ambrose Wycliffe demanded. "What is the meaning of this? What's going on? Who are all these people and why are they here before me?"

"Before us," said his sister sharply. "Well, young man? Answer my brother!"

Gerald, sitting at one of the central aisle benches, flicked an apologetic glance at the junior ambulance attendant who was pressing a strip of sticking plaster to his forehead. "It's-ah-it's Dunwoody, actually, Mister Wycliffe," he said, at his most humble. "And I'm sorry, but I thought proper procedure was to inform the authorities in the case of a thaumaturgical accident. So I did."

"An accident?" said Permelia Wycliffe. "What are you talking about? What kind of accident?"

Gerald arranged his face into an expression of servile distress. "We lost another Mark VI prototype, I'm sorry to say. We-"

"What do you mean we?" Ambrose Wycliffe interrupted. "Who is we, pray tell?"

"Mister Haythwaite and myself, sir," said Gerald, earnestly. "We-"

"Mister Haythwaite?" echoed Ambrose Wycliffe, his florid face paling. "D'you mean to tell me Errol's been blown up?"

He bit his lip. Yes indeed, Ambrose, that's exactly what happened. In fact, our Errol's been blown up twice. In one night. I wonder if that's some kind of record? Throttling the urge to laugh-am I in shock?-he cleared his throat.

"It's all right, Mister Wycliffe. Mister Haythwaite's not dead. Some other ambulance officers are taking excellent care of him."

Dazed, Ambrose Wycliffe fished a large blue handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his forehead. "Oh. I see. Good. What a relief."

"The accident, young man!" snapped Permelia Wycliffe. "What happened?"

"Well, we stayed back, you see, to do some more work on the prototype's engine," he explained, glancing uncertainly at Ambrose's intimidating sister. If her brother was florid, she was pale as snow. In her eyes, the most unnerving glitter. "Ah-Mister Haythwaite was very keen to see that little-er-little hiccup in the thaumic regulation chamber sorted before-"

"What?" said Ambrose Wycliffe, startled out of his bewilderment, and glared at the junior ambulance orderly who was packing up his little tin of plasters and salves. "Be quiet, Dunwoody! You're discussing private company matters in front of witnesses, you dolt!"

"Oh," said Gerald. "Sorry, sir. I'm not thinking straight, got rather a nasty b.u.mp on the head."

But if he was hoping for some sympathy from the Wycliffes he was wasting his breath.

"Let me see if I understand you, young man," said Permelia Wycliffe. "You and another wizard were working here alone in the laboratory tonight?"

He nodded. "Yes, Miss Wycliffe. That's correct."

"All night?"

"All night, Miss Wycliffe," he said virtuously. "We never left. Everyone else left, but we stayed behind to work. As Mister Wycliffe knows, Mister Haythwaite is devoted heart and soul to the Ambrose Mark VI and he particularly ordered me to a.s.sist him. And of course I was only too happy to obey."

Now Permelia Wycliffe was staring at him with the most peculiar look on her face. As though she'd swallowed a whole swarm of flies and couldn't quite believe it.

"You never left?" she said. "Not even for a late supper?"

"No, Miss Wycliffe," he replied. "Mister Haythwaite wouldn't hear of it."

"I'm sorry," said Permelia Wycliffe. "But I-"

"Oh, do hush, Permelia," snapped her brother Ambrose. "You're a gel. You can't possibly understand my wizards' dedication and loyalty. Good lord, woman, you shouldn't even be here. You know perfect well that gels interfere with-"

"Yes, Ambrose," said Permelia Wycliffe sharply. "But I think tonight, of all nights, we can make an exception. Don't you?"

Surprisingly, Ambrose backed down. "Ah-yes, well, perhaps this once," he mumbled. "But only this once."

"Actually, sir," said Gerald, remembering Melissande's outrage, "I'm pretty sure the notion of gels upsetting the thaumic balance has been thoroughly disproved by-"

"Who asked for your opinion, Dunwoody?" Ambrose shouted, spittle flying. "Keep your mouth shut, you Third Grade ignoramus. You've already said quite enough for one evening." He rounded on the waiting ambulance orderly. "You there. What is Mister Haythwaite's condition? He's my best First Grade wizard. The man without whom Wycliffe's resurgence is doomed! I demand to know-"

The orderly leaned away from Ambrose's rabid intensity. "Ah, sorry sir, I'm not permitted to discuss the-"

"Don't you stand there telling me what you're not permitted! I want to know how he is!"

Everyone within earshot of Ambrose Wycliffe jumped, even Permelia. Well. Everyone except for Dalby, who was hovering around the edges of the lab, bruised-looking and completely unremarkable. Gerald let his gaze glide right over the man, then turned again to the quaking orderly.

"Look, I'm fine. Just a few bruises," he said. "And I'm not important, I'm just Mister Haythwaite's lowly a.s.sistant. I think-"

"Ha!" said Ambrose Wycliffe. "His former lowly a.s.sistant, you mean! Dunwoody, you're sacked. I never want to see your incompetent face again. Getting the government involved in private Wycliffe company business-not having the courtesy to call me, your employer, before these interfering government busy-bodies-it's outrageous! And I have no doubt this accident is your fault, just like-"

"Now, now, Ambrose," said Permelia Wycliffe. The peculiar expression still hadn't quite left her face. "I think you're being a bit hasty. The young man is right, he is required by law to inform the authorities first. Doubtless they instructed him not to tell anyone else, even us." She turned. "Isn't that so, young man?"

Gerald blinked. Permelia was protecting him? How odd. But since the popular theory was not to go kicking gift horses in the teeth... "Yes, Miss Wycliffe. That's exactly right, Miss Wycliffe. It'd be my licence if I disobeyed the authorities, Miss Wycliffe."

She gave her brother a sharp, satisfied nod. "You see, Ambrose? And besides, you don't know what caused this unfortunate explosion. You won't know until you've spoken with Mister Haythwaite. You can't sack a man who might be innocent of wrong-doing. That flies in the face of everything Wycliffe's represents. Father would never have stood for it, you know."

Ambrose Wycliffe's face burned an even brighter red. "Really? Well, Permelia, in case you've not noticed, Father's not here any more. But I am and I say-"

"That you've had a horrible shock," said Permelia Wycliffe, and took her brother's arm. "You're quite overset, Ambrose, and who can blame you? But what kind of a devoted sister would I be, to stand by and let you make a poor decision without trying to stop you? Can you imagine I'd ever do such a thing?"

Ambrose Wycliffe stared at his sister, and she stared back. Some of the hectic colour died out of his jowly, whiskered face, and he cleared his throat. "No. Of course not," he said hoa.r.s.ely, tugging his arm free. "Very well. Mister Dunwoody here is not sacked outright." Recapturing his authority, he puffed out his chest. "But you are suspended, Mister Dunwoody. Pending a thorough investigation into this disgraceful affair."

"Suspended with full salary and benefits," Permelia Wycliffe added smoothly. "In fact, don't think of it as a suspension at all, young man. Think of it as a nice little holiday, to help you recover from your nasty experience. After all, it's a wonder you weren't blown to pieces."

"Ah-yes-thank you, Mister Wycliffe. Miss Wycliffe," Gerald said, very carefully not letting his gaze touch on the still-hovering Dalby. "I-ah-well, it has all been a bit upsetting. In fact, is it all right if I go home now? I've spoken with the men from the Department of Thaumaturgy. They know where to reach me if they need anything else."

"All right," said Ambrose Wycliffe, grudgingly. "You can go. But I don't mind telling you, Dunwoody, you've handled this whole thing poorly. Very poorly indeed." His disgruntled gaze swept around the now brightly-lit lab complex, crowded with busily investigating outsiders. "You might well have done irreparable harm to this establishment's reputation. And if that proves to be the case-" Ambrose Wycliffe leaned close. "Not even my tender-hearted sister will save you."

With an effort, Gerald kept his face under control. "I understand, Mister Wycliffe."

"You'd better," snapped Ambrose Wycliffe, then glared at the ambulance orderly. "And you. Take me to Errol Haythwaite at once."

As the orderly hesitated, Gerald nodded. "Truly. I'm fine. I'll be right as rain come the morning."

"Very well, sir," said the orderly, reluctant. "But you should see your own doctor, soon as you can."

The Wycliffes followed the junior orderly to the other side of the laboratory complex, where two senior ambulance orderlies were still fussing over Errol. Permelia Wycliffe cast one last, puzzled look behind her. Gerald nodded and smiled gratefully, pretending not to notice anything was wrong.

Then he slid off his stool and made his circ.u.mspect way through the ongoing bustle to the lab's main door... making sure to catch Dalby's eye as he pa.s.sed.

Outside it was cool and much more quiet, the aftermath of the accident mercifully m.u.f.fled. Aching all over, his various sc.r.a.pes and bruises vigorously complaining, Gerald folded his arms tight to his chest and waited.

A brief increase in noise, as the doors opened then closed again. The sc.r.a.pe of boots on the pathway. A roughly cleared throat.

"Dear me," said Dalby sourly, very quiet. "What a hurly-burly to be sure. Never a dull moment when you're around, is there, Dunwoody?"

Gerald didn't turn. "Does Sir Alec know?"

"You could say that," said Dalby, with a soft, derisive snort. "He wants to see you. Soon as. Proper put out, he is."

Proper put out? I bet that's an understatement. "Fine. I don't suppose you could-"

"Don't make me laugh," said Dalby, and spat. "I've got to keep an eye on what's happening here. Take Haythwaite in when the leeches have cleared him. You'll have to make your own way to Nettle-worth, boyo."

Oh. In which case, he'd have to soup-up another scooter. But that still left the one he'd ridden to South Ott. Somehow he'd have to get it back here before someone noticed its absence.

d.a.m.n. Why can't anything ever be simple?

"Fine," he sighed. "Only there's one small problem, Dalby."

Another derisive snort. "No, there's not. The scooter you left across town's shoved in the garden, over there."

"You found it?"

"Course I b.l.o.o.d.y found it," said Dalby, scornful. "The amount of hexing you did on that thing, it's a wonder every b.l.o.o.d.y wizard in town didn't find it. b.l.o.o.d.y show-off, Dunwoody, that's what you are."

Gerald felt his face heat. "Thanks."

"Yeah," said Dalby. "That makes my night, that does."

And he went back inside.

Still aching, and now dry-mouthed with nerves on top of it, Gerald retrieved the scooter... and went to face the formidable Sir Alec.

"So you see, sir," he finished, at the end of his long and convoluted explanation of the night's events-keeping the girls out of it had been interesting, to say the least-"Errol Haythwaite is in the clear. But it looks like we'll have to take another look at the Wycliffes."

Leaning back in his chair, elbows propped on its arms, Sir Alec steepled his fingers and gazed at the ceiling. "Hmm. Yes. That certainly appears to be the case, doesn't it?"

The night was so late now it was very nearly morning. Beyond Sir Alec's office window the sky above Nettleworth was shifting towards dawn, blushing pale pearly grey with the merest suggestion of pink. Gerald was so tired he felt light-headed and not quite real. Strangely insubstantial, as though his bones were made of paper and his flesh of cotton stuffing. Thanks to some noxious brew Sir Alec had made him drink, his aches and pains were mostly subsided. But oddly, he was hungry... and he desperately wanted to sleep.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get Rottlezinder out in time," he added. "I know you were anxious to speak with him, sir."

Gaze lowered again, Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. "Anxious, Mister Dunwoody? I'm not in the habit of feeling anxious. Certainly it would've been useful if we'd been able to chat with Mestre Rottlezinder, but alas. In this business we quite often encounter disappointment. However experience has taught me that things often do work themselves out, though perhaps not as swiftly as one might prefer."

Gerald frowned. "I suppose," he said slowly, "the fact that Rottlezinder's dead will give us a bit of breathing s.p.a.ce. Finding his replacement won't be easy. Perhaps we'll get lucky, and the search itself will help us identify who's behind the portal sabotage. Ambrose Wycliffe, or whoever."

The faintest hint of weariness touched Sir Alec's cool eyes. "Indeed. In our business, success too frequently hinges upon fortuitous serendipity."