Dazed, he spun about to look behind him. To the ordinary eye the wizard's hexes were invisible, but he could sense them in the ether, thaumic barbed wire, slashing claws and tearing teeth.

That shouldn't be possible. I shouldn't have done that. Could anybody do that... or is it just me?

In the pit of his belly, a faint, sickening tremble. If that wasn't something any First Grader could do... if what he'd just done was a trick reserved for rogue wizards...

What else can I do that we don't know about yet? And how long will it take for my own side to start thinking I'm more wizard than they can handle?

Horrible thoughts... but he'd have to think them through later. Right now he had to get inside the factory and find out what Errol and Haf Rottlezinder were planning next.

With enormous care he cloaked himself in another obfuscation hex; not Reg's, this time, but one he'd learned from Sir Alec. The good news was that it m.u.f.fled his thaumic signature until he was practically invisible. The bad news was that it interfered with his potentia, but he'd have to live with that. Secrecy was the most important thing right now.

He looked up. There, just as Reg had said, was the faint trace of light leaking between the top floor windows' shutters. That was where he needed to be, and quickly. Before Errol and Haf concluded their treacherous business.

Scarcely daring to breathe, he eased himself into the abandoned boot factory. It was pitch dark inside, like being smothered with black velvet. His half-blindness wasn't much help, either... but he didn't dare try an illuminato incant.

The tracer crystal.

He dug it out of his pocket and held it in front of his good eye, squinting. The tracer glowed steadily, indicating Errol's nearby presence, but it wasn't bright enough to make a difference to the dark.

d.a.m.n.

Shoving the useless thing back in his pocket, he reached out with his m.u.f.fled senses and began to pick his way across the floor to where he thought, he hoped, the stairs were located-heart-thuddingly aware that time was ticking past, that Errol and Haf could be planning another devastating portal attack and he wasn't anywhere near enough to overhear and stop them.

Come on, come on, Dunnywood. Get a move on. Don't let them win.

He found the stairs and, tread by uncertain, unseen tread, climbed them. Up one floor. Then another. Another. He was breathing in dust and who-knew-what kinds of filth; he wanted to sneeze and cough, but couldn't. His sinuses were burning. His legs were burning too-climbing stairs was hard work and he'd never been an athlete. Maybe Reg should have nagged him a little harder about getting outdoors for some healthy fresh air and calisthenics.

As he reached the top floor at last, the blood thundering through his veins and arteries, he heard raised voices. Errol and Haf Rottlezinder were arguing. Under the cover of their anger he crept along a little faster, guided by the spill of light from a room at the end of the corridor that led off from the staircase.

"-always were one of the best, Haf," Errol was saying. "But is this any way to prove it? I thought you'd learned your lesson five years ago."

"I'm not trying to prove anything," Rottlezinder sneered. "That was your game, as I recall. Appearances always mattered to you. They always will. Me? I don't care how a thing looks. I never did. The world is a lie. Everyone is a liar. Even you, Errol. Especially you, I think."

The ether shivered again, teeth and claws returning.

"I don't know what you mean, Haf," said Errol, sounding cautious again.

"Of course you do," said Rottlezinder, softly dangerous. "Don't treat me like one of your pathetic subordinates, Errol. We both know you didn't ask to see me because you changed your mind."

A gentle sigh. "You're right," said Errol. "I didn't. I've no intention of joining you, Haf."

Gerald froze, shocked to a standstill. What? Errol wasn't involved? But- "You're a fool," said Rottlezinder, contemptuous. "We are talking about a great deal of money."

"I don't care about the money!" Errol spat. "I've got plenty of money. I care that the wrong people are asking questions about me!"

"So let them ask. What is that to you? You don't have anything to hide, do you, old friend?"

Rottlezinder's voice was taunting now. What the h.e.l.l was going on? Gerald stared at the open doorway. It was six feet away but he didn't dare creep any closer. Obfuscated or not, the risk was too great.

"Why should you worry?" Rottlezinder continued. "The records were sealed. What we did-what you did-was winked at. Youthful indiscretions, isn't that what they call them?"

"It's what they were, Haf!" Errol was close to shouting. "I was young and ignorant and I never would've dabbled in that-that business if it hadn't been for you. Why do you think I turned you down this time? Do you think I'm stupid? You used me at university and you wanted to use me again."

"Ah... you hurt my feelings," said Rottlezinder, mocking.

"Believe me, Haf, I'll hurt a lot more than that if you don't stop this insanity," said Errol. "I told you not to get involved with this mess. But you couldn't resist, could you? Not the money, and not the chance to make the little people squirm. You always were greedy. Well, friend, now your greed is threatening me and I won't put up with it. I have a reputation, Haf. I am one of Ottosland's elite. And I'll not stand idly by while your hatred and greed threaten what I've worked so hard to achieve!"

"Oh, such a typical Haythwaite response," said Rottlezinder, contemptuous again. "Errol, you have not changed a bit. Always you are so-so predictable. All your outrage reserved for yourself. None left for the little people caught up in the madness."

"I'm not interested in your personal opinion of me," said Errol. "I'm interested in watching you leave the country."

Rottlezinder laughed. "I'm not leaving. I still have work to do."

"No, you haven't. Get it through your thick skull, Haf. This ends here tonight. I'm ending it, is that clear?"

As Rottlezinder laughed again, Gerald felt the hair p.r.i.c.kle on the back of his neck. Careful, Errol. Can't you tell he's dangerous? He's not some Third Grade minion you can order around. But that was Errol's problem, wasn't it? His arrogance was blinding.

"Oh, Errol," said Rottlezinder, spuriously sad. "You think you're so much better than everyone else, don't you? You think because you have old blood, because the roots of your family tree go down so deep in Ottosland's rotten soil, you can snap your fingers and everyone will fall in line. You think I will fall in line. This is not true."

"Yes, it is," said Errol, his voice strained to breaking point. "Did you not hear today's news? Your sabotage of the Post Office portal failed. Now the net's closing around you, and if you don't leave you'll be caught. For old times' sake I'm giving you this once chance to escape. But if you don't take it-well..."

So close to the open door, to Errol and Rottlezinder, Gerald felt another ominous shiver in the ether. Even m.u.f.fled he felt it, blowing through him like a wind full of knives.

Oh, lord. That's not good.

"Errol... Errol... what did you do?" Rottlezinder whispered. "Did you call the authorities? Did you tattle on me?"

"Of course I b.l.o.o.d.y called them, Haf! What choice did you leave me?" Errol demanded. "It was only a matter of time before somebody died!"

"How could you?" said Rottlezinder. He sounded... bemused. "After I turned to you for help. After everything I shared with you. Everything we did. This is how you thank me? With betrayal?"

"I haven't betrayed you, Haf," said Errol. "n.o.body knows you're here. n.o.body will know. Not from me. Do you think I want anyone knowing I'm involved with this madness? Just... leave. I'm begging you. Let it all end tonight."

"I am a fool," said Rottlezinder, his voice thickened with rage. "I let sentiment defeat pragmatism. Get out, Haythwaite, and do not come back. Next time my wards will tear you apart."

"I'll go when you do," said Errol, defiant. "Come on, Haf. It's over."

"No, it is not over!" shouted Rottlezinder. "Not until I say so!"

"Then you are a fool!" Errol retorted. "You're forcing me to stop you. And you know I can, Haf. You know-"

And then Errol let out a shout of pain.

Flattened against the cracked corridor wall, Gerald felt Rottlezinder's potentia flare, felt the saboteur lash out at Errol with an incant full of flame and fury. He heard Errol shout again, felt his instinctive defence. Felt the ether writhe and shudder as Errol fought back.

"Haf! Are you mad? Stand down, man, before you trigger that b.l.o.o.d.y hex!"

His head snapped up. What? What b.l.o.o.d.y hex? What did Rottlezinder have in that room? Surely not another incant destined to destroy a portal?

Oh, no. This madman could blow up the whole building. Lord, he could blow up half of South Ott.

Heart pounding, Gerald tried to control his panicked breathing. Booming in his ears, Sir Alec's inviolate first rule: Never ever compromise your ident.i.ty.

But if he didn't do something... people were going to die.

Sorry, Sir Alec. I don't have a choice.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

But as he took a deep breath and stepped into the open doorway Errol and Rottlezinder hurled grotesque hexes in a desperate attempt to vanquish each other. Colliding, the hexes ignited in an eye-searing thaumic explosion.

The etheretic wave trembled the factory on its foundations. Tossed him into the corridor's far wall. His head thwacked the rotting plaster so hard he saw stars. Teeth rattling in their sockets, he dropped to his hands and knees. Dazed, giddy, he looked up-and choked on a shout.

Errol and Rottlezinder lay crumpled on the room's filthy floor. On a rough workbench near its shuttered window sat a clear crystal container, and inside the container-pulsing malevolently-was Rottlezinder's next portal hex: activated and close to discharge.

"Oh, no."

He could feel the hex's matrixes coalescing... constricting... drawing in a deep thaumic breath before exhaling annihilation.

This wasn't like Stuttley's. He wouldn't survive this explosion. He had to get out. He had to get Errol and Rottlezinder out. But there wasn't time-there wasn't time-he could save one man, but not both. So who? Rottlezinder, the saboteur, who could unmask his employer? Or Errol, who wasn't guilty. Not of this crime, anyway.

Inside its crystal prison the wicked hex began to shudder. The ill-lit room washed with red light, and all around him the ether started to scream.

Gerald threw himself into the room, grabbed hold of Errol's ankles and dragged him into the corridor. Haythwaite was insensible, blood trickling from his nostrils, his face sweaty and chalk-white. Bending over him, Gerald grabbed Errol's wrists, hauled him upright then let him topple over his shoulder. Staggering like an inebriate he made for the staircase at the end of the corridor.

Not having to hide any more, he panted out the illuminato incant, his spine buckling under the strain of running with Errol on his back. He could feel the ether torquing, feel Rottlezinder's hex warping and distorting its delicate fabric.

Down the stairs, three treads at a time, sobbing for air, sobbing for speed, punishing his bones and muscles, knowing he had scant moments... knowing he might die. That Rottlezinder would die. Another death at his door. How many more before he'd not be able to open it?

A scream was building in his chest and throat, terror and pain and despair throttling him. Blinding him. He skidded down the final staircase, almost fell as he hit the floor, blundered across the refusescattered factory entrance towards its partially-boarded front door. He had enough wit and strength left to smash the door with a demolishing incant, then staggered through the rain of splinters into the chill night air. The illuminato floated with him like a tethered balloon.

Five steps closer to the deserted street, Haf Rottlezinder's portal hex exploded. Gerald felt the unravelling in the ether as the malevolence of the hex reached its destructive peak. He let his knees fold. Let himself and Errol crash to the stony, brick-strewn ground, bright lights of pain bursting behind his closed eyes. Trapped air escaped his lungs in an agonised grunt. He managed to reach for a warding incant, managed to raise it partway...

... and then the shock wave from Rottlezinder's detonated hex rolled over them. Gerald folded himself across Errol, wrapped his arms round his head and held his breath.

Going to die now. We're going to die.

Great booming echoes of sound, loud enough to hurt his eardrums. A silent shrieking of thaumic energies, released. The thud and clatter and deadly rainfall of debris, plaster and brickwork and tiles and tin. The retching stink of overheated thaumicles, of scorched ether, of burning wood. The grinding, groaning collapse of the ruined boot factory.

After a little while, Gerald sat up. Everything hurt, but he wasn't dead. Errol wasn't dead either, he was twitching and moaning. He had cuts on his face and a swelling bruise on his forehead. His shamelessly expensive black cashmere overcoat was ruined.

Faintly, in the distance, the sound of sirens, wailing.

"Right," he said, and was surprised to hear that his voice still worked. "Probably it'd be a good idea to make ourselves scarce."

Groaning, Errol opened his eyes. Blinked into the illuminato's faint light. "What the h.e.l.l? Dunwoody, is that you?"

b.u.g.g.e.r. "No, Errol, it's your fairy G.o.dfather. Can you stand? We've got to leave before the authorities arrive."

"Dunwoody, what are you doing here?" said Errol, sounding querulous. "I was-I was-" His confused expression cleared, and he wrenched himself upright on a sharp gasp of pain. "Haf. I came to see Haf-where the h.e.l.l is he, we were fighting, he-"

Gerald grabbed Errol's shoulder. "Haf Rottlezinder's dead, Errol. He went up with the factory. Now come on. We have to go."

Shrugging free, Errol got his feet under him and managed to stand. Swaying, he looked at the charred and smoking remains of the abandoned boot factory, then turned. "What the h.e.l.l? Did you do this, Dun-woody? Did you kill Haf?"

Oh lord. Painfully Gerald pushed to his feet. "No. He killed himself. Errol-"

Errol took a step back. "How did you get here? Did you follow me? What's going on? What are you-"

"I can't tell you," he said. The sirens were inconveniently close now. "Errol, listen, there's no time, we have to-"

Stepping back again, Errol nearly tripped on a twisted section of guttering. "You get the h.e.l.l away from me, Dunwoody. I don't know what you're up to but I've had more than enough of you. I'll see you're decertified for this. I'll see you back in your family tailor shop by the end of the week. That's if I don't see you in prison first-and if I can, I will. You're a b.l.o.o.d.y menace. You always were. You must've bribed someone to get your Third Grade credentials, and I promise you this, too-I'll find out who it was. I'll see them in a prison cell beside you, I'll-"

Gerald let Errol's ravings wash over him. Took a deep breath, feeling his battered flesh and bones protest.

He'll never be reasonable. He won't let me explain. And anyway, I can't. Not without telling him the truth.

"Errol," he said quietly.

Errol ignored him, still ranting.

"Errol!" he said, and snapped his fingers in Errol's face. Recited a new incant under his breath. One word to trigger it. Just one word. The incant itself was a little more... complicated. A lot more treacherous. In anyone else's hands, internationally illegal. Gleaned, he'd been told, from an obscure proscribed text. Turned out it was closely related to the hex Lional had used on him to ensure his obedience. But that was all right, apparently. He was a janitor so he could be trusted with it. They only had to worry about bad people using that kind of thaumaturgy.

He hadn't wanted to learn the incant. Hated knowing it existed. Couldn't stand the idea of one day having to use it. Not after his first-hand experience with its effects.

"For emergencies only," said Sir Alec. "Most agents never have to resort to the docilianti. I understand your concerns, Mister Dunwoody, but you are going to learn it. After all, isn't it better to be safe than sorry?"

"Yeah? Well now I'm both," Gerald muttered to the still-agitated ether. "And for the record, Sir Alec? I think this is wrong."

His free will thaumaturgically suspended, hexed from man to compliant puppet, Errol Haythwaite smiled a vacant smile.

Gerald took him by the elbow and tugged. "I'm sorry, Errol. I really am." Then he sighed. "Come on. Let's go."

"More tea, Your Highness?" said Eudora Telford, hopefully brandishing the pot. It was covered in a badly-knitted puce and mustard yellow cosy, with a bobble on top.

Melissande shook her head. One more mouthful of tea and her bladder was going to explode. "No, thank you, Miss Telford."

Eudora Telford's face fell. "Oh." Then she brightened. "Then perhaps another macaroon?"

Saint Snodgra.s.s save her. Another crumb of Eudora Telford's macaroons and the chair she was sitting on was going to collapse. They were so lumpen they could easily be used to weight sacks full of unwanted kittens, for the drowning thereof. Or scuttle an entire fleet of the Ottosland Navy's battleships.