CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

Half-way through his very expensive dinner with Bibbie, Attaby called from Government House.

"What?" he demanded, striding back into the Cabinet room. His head was splitting. Bibbie hadn't taken at all kindly to her intimate supper being disrupted. Sometimes he wondered about her, he really did. He'd thought she understood what he was doing. The scope of it. The sheer majesty of it. But then she'd turn around and whine...

"Gerald, when do I get to do some proper magic? Gerald, when do I have a Department of my own? Gerald, you said we'd rule Ottosland together as husband and wife. So when are we going to get married, Gerald?"

She'd started up again on their way to Government House from the restaurant, so he'd doubled back and taken her home. He had enough on his plate without listening to her whine.

I wonder what the Bibbie from next door is like? She can't possibly be more irritating than mine. Maybe I'll swap them. I can't do any worse.

Attaby was staring at him like a mouse facing a cat. "Sir, there's been another communication from Viceroy Gonegal." A nod at the Cabinet room's crystal ball. "It's recorded."

He felt the blood thundering inside his aching skull. "You dragged me away from dinner for that twit?"

Shadbolted Attaby flinched. "Yes, sir. I thought it advisable. Perhaps you should look at the message, sir."

"Fine," he said glowering. "Now bugger off. The sight of your hangdog face makes me sick."

"Sir," said Attaby, and wisely retreated.

He activated the crystal ball. Gonegal's face swam into focus. "I'm told your name is Gerald Dunwoody," said the old fool, his eyes narrowed. "I'm told your potentia is unlike that of other wizards. And I'm told you've polluted yourself with grimoire magic. That is unfortunate. You should know, Mr. Dunwoody, that Babishkia is now protected from your predations. You should also know that the United Magical Nations has expelled from its ranks all those member states who have foolishly allowed themselves to be suborned by you. They are now facing... sanctions." Gonegal smiled, like a tiger. "That especially includes Jandria. Jandria is closely watched. And finally you should know that an armed fleet of airships is poised to bring Ottosland to its knees. Stand down, Mr. Dunwoody. Awaken from your outlandish dream of world domination. Spare yourself and your people the consequences of our wrath."

Fury turned the Cabinet room to scarlet. With a shout of rage he smashed the crystal ball to dust and shards.

"Attaby! Attaby, get in here!"

Attaby came running. "Sir? Yes, sir?"

Bone and muscle burned with his anger. "Get your staff back here. I want every desk manned and every man working. I want every single portal in the country closed down. All portal travel is suspended, is that clear? I want armed airships patrolling our borders and the limits of the city. I want every thaumic monitor pointed at UMN headquarters. Send a message to Tambotan: I want his airship fleet patroling with ours by sunrise, or else."

"Yes, sir," said Attaby, nodding. His eyes were wide and fearful. "I understand."

"Are preparations completed at the ceremonial ground?"

Attaby nodded again. "They are."

"And the unshadbolted wizards and witches?"

"Under lock and key in Ott's main prison, sir," said Attaby. "Ready for transport first thing in the morning."

A little of his anger receded. "Good. That's something. I need a lorry."

Attaby goggled. "Sir?"

He clenched his fist and cracked lightning around the room. "A lorry, a lorry, you know what a bloody lorry is, don't you?"

White and sweating, Attaby screwed his eyes shut. "Sir. Yes, sir. Of course I know what a lorry is."

"Well, I want one!" he said, and leaned into Attaby's face. "D'you hear me? I want a lorry and a driver at my front door no later than seven tomorrow morning! Can you manage that, Attaby? Or is that too complicated for a prime minister to arrange?"

"No, sir," whispered Attaby. "I can arrange that."

"Good!" he spat. "And I want another car and driver to take Bibbie to the parade ground at eight. Can you manage that? Or will doing two things at once give you a nosebleed, my lord?"

"No, sir," croaked Attaby. "A lorry and a car. You'll have them."

"I'd better," he said, heading for the Cabinet room door. "Or there'll be one more exhibit gracing Ott's parade ground. Understood?"

Thanks to the curfew there was no traffic to impede him on the way home. Searchlights stabbed the cloudy night sky, illuminating the armed airships as they ceaselessly prowled. His fingers were bloodless around his car's steering wheel. His own harsh breathing filled his ears.

Threaten me, Gonegal? You and your friends at the doomed UMN? Bloody hell, you'll be sorry. You won't know what's hit you.

Bibbie had taken herself off to bed, but Melissande was still awake. She looked up from blacking the cooking range as he strode into the kitchen.

"I want tea."

She put down the blacking and the brush then wiped her hands on a cloth, warily watching him. She was always wary these days. Not without reason. "Yes. All right."

He watched as she put the kettle on, spooned tea leaves into the pot and got a generous mug out for him. Dumpy, frumpy bloody woman. She had no business being a princess. If a woman was a princess she was meant to look like Bibbie.

Gonegal threatens me? My God. How does he dare?

Waiting for the kettle to boil, Melissande slid him a sideways glance. "Where's the other Gerald?"

"None of your business," he said, glowering.

She swallowed. "He's not-you haven't-"

He kicked out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. "No, of course I bloody haven't. God, you're an idiot. Not much point half-killing myself to get him here just so I can snuff him out, is there?"

She stared at her red and work-roughened hands. There was boot black under her fingernails. "I suppose not."

"And like I said. He's none of your business."

The kettle had started to steam, very slightly. She fetched a jug of milk from the icebox and the sugar bowl from the pantry.

"I wish you wouldn't do this, Gerald," she said quietly. "Whatever it is you're planning to do."

"Really?" he said, drumming his fingers on the table. Fury burned beneath his skin. Gonegal. "And what makes you think I give a fat rat's ass about what you wish for?"

"Nothing," she said, flinching. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

He grinned. "You're right. It doesn't. And neither do you."

Her breathing hitched. "I know, Gerald. You've made that abundantly clear."

The kettle was belching steam now, so she took it off the range and poured water into the tea pot. "He'll stop you, you know." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "The other Gerald. He's not you. He's better than you. He's a good man, a lovely man, and he'll-"

"He'll what?" he said, as the fury broke free. "What exactly will lovely Gerald do? Save you from this?"

But she couldn't answer him. He'd stolen her breath. And as she gasped for air he tightened his fist harder. The shadbolt, tightening with it, crushed her skull like an egg. She hit the kitchen floor like a sack of wet sand.

He finished making his tea and took the steaming mug up to bed. Beautiful in the lamplight, Bibbie lowered her magazine. "So what was the emergency?"

"Nothing I couldn't deal with," he said, shrugging. "No need to worry."

She rolled her eyes. "I wasn't worried. I just want to know if it was worth missing dessert for."

Her skin was glowing, translucent like pearl. Her eyes had the luster of the world's best sapphires. And her lips... her cherry lips...

Suddenly he wasn't interested in tea any more. Suddenly the fury knew where to find a home.

Laughing, pique forgotten, she threw back the blankets. Tossed aside her magazine and welcomed him in. Later, clothed in darkness on the trembling edge of sleep, he pressed her fingers to his mouth and kissed them.

"Mmm?" she murmured, drowsy. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just I forgot to mention something."

She sighed. "What?"

"That you'll need to find someone else to throw eggs at."

"What? Oh, Gerald..." Bibbie turned over. "Well, that's a bore, isn't it." She yawned. "G'night."

Their counter-plan was terrifying in its simplicity: kidnap evil twin Gerald before he conquers the world.

Because if the other Gerald's plan came to fruition he'd succeed in shadbolting every wizard and witch in Ottosland to his service. And once he'd done that, he'd have no trouble bending the whole world to his will. With the power of thousands and thousands of potentias at his command, nothing and nobody would stand in his way. Not even the combined resistance of those UM nations who'd not sold their souls to side with him would be enough to prevent disaster.

But to kidnap the other Gerald, first they had to get the other Monk's dreadful machine to work. The notion of trying to fool the man was out of the question.

Banished to the thankless role of spectator, at least for the time being, Gerald sat on the bedroll with the other Reg in his arms. Heedless of passing time and how long he'd been awake, Monk worked frantically on stage one of the plan: finishing the instant-shadbolt gizmo so that together they could rig it to judiciously backfire. Their Reg was helping him, passing him tools and bits and pieces of stuff on his barked command, offering unsolicited advice and tolerating his impatient rudeness with remarkable restraint. So far she'd only threatened his unmentionables four times.

Although he was so tired his eyelids kept trying to slam shut, he made himself stay awake. Kept himself alert by catching up on events with the other Reg.

"I don't understand," he said softly, not wanting to distract Monk and his Reg. "I know your Melissande told her Rupert to keep out of this, but... surely someone else in the government could've tried asking Kallarap for help? I mean, the jury might be out on whether their gods actually exist, but there's no denying Shugat's got a lot of power at his fingertips."

Sighing, the other Reg rubbed her beak against his coat, a gesture of affection far more frightening than pleasing. Lord, she felt so fragile beneath his hands. She'd never been a plump bird-vanity saw to that-but with what this Reg had endured since New Ottosland... well, she was feathers and skin and hollow bones and not much else.

"Don't be daft, Gerald," she said. "That ratty old holy man Shugat got one whiff of my Gerald back in New Ottosland and that was that. He wasn't having any of it. Not even when the Butterfly King found out madam was in trouble and ran bleating back to Zazoor. I think the poor gormless twit thought that since Zazoor and Melissande were almost engaged for two minutes that'd make some kind of difference."

"But it didn't?"

"Of course not," she said, scornful. "Shugat's answer was to seal Kallarap inside one of his poncy magic bubbles and leave the rest of us poor infidels to sink or bloody swim."

He shook his head. "And what did your Gerald have to say about that?"

"Not a lot," she said, after a moment. "He just laughed. 'Shugat and Zazoor can hide, but they can't run. I'll get to them." That's all he said."

"Reg..." He looked over at his Monk and their Reg, up to their elbows inside that infernal invention. "None of this is your fault, y'know."

She heaved another mournful sigh. "I never should've gone back to Ottosland with madam and the others. I never should've left you to face that pillock Lional on your own. I deserted you when you needed me the most, Gerald. And look what's come of it. Of course it's my fault."

Gently, so gently, he lifted her until they were eye-to-eye. "No. It's not. I-he-your Gerald-had a choice and he made the wrong one. Nobody twisted his arm. Nobody held a staff to his head and said: steal Lional's pilfered grimoires or you're a dead man. He chose to do that. It's on him, Reg. Not you."

Her dull eyes brightened. "Why didn't you choose that, Gerald? Did I-did she-"

"I don't know," he said shrugging, and lowered her to rest again in his lap. "Maybe my Reg said something different, or did something different. Maybe Monk did. Or Melissande. I honestly don't know. I don't know why your Gerald lost faith in himself, lost his courage, and I didn't. And I don't suppose it matters now. We are where we are. All that matters is stopping him before it's too late."

"If we can," the other Reg muttered. "He's strong, Gerald. You know, sunshine, you've felt him. He's a rogue wizard with a very bad attitude. In all my years I've never met anything like it." She sniffed. "Speaking of which, how are you doing with that muck he made you swallow?"

He smoothed a finger over her head. "Like I told Monk. I'm fine."

"Ha!" she retorted, with a tiny flash of the spirit he loved so much. "And when was the last time you managed to lie to me?"

"Never," he said solemnly. "And we both know that's because you and I only met a few hours ago."

She chattered her beak. "Smart-ass. Gerald-"

"Yes, Reg?"

"Gerald, are you happy?"

"Right now? No, not terribly."

"Gerald Dunwoody-"

Laughing softly, because he didn't want to weep, he picked her up again. "I'm as happy as I can be, Reg, under the circumstances."

"All this rogue wizard malarkey," she said, sounding anxious now. "It's not-nobody's tried to-you aren't-"

"It's... complicated," he said at last. "But no, I'm not in any danger." Or I wasn't before this happened. What I'll face when we get home again is anybody's guess. "You don't have to worry."

"Good," she whispered. "Gerald-"

He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. "Yes, Reg?"

"My Melissande. She's not really fine, is she?"

Damn. "Reg, from what I can see, nobody who lives in this world is fine. Not while my evil twin is free to do what he likes."