With the last curse absorbed, the book joined Grummen's Lexicon on the carpet.

So. That was two down and four to go. There was no point in turning back now, no point at all in trying to resist. Whatever Lional knew he had to know, or he'd have done this for nothing. Killed the other Gerald for nothing. And he'd stand no chance of killing Lional in revenge.

One by one, dear Reg's learn-it-fast hex sped up to the point where he'd stopped seeing the actual words, he read the rest of Lional's forbidden library. A Compendium of Curses. Charming. Foyle's Foilers. Wittily barbaric, that one. Who'd have thought a mass murderer would have such a sense of humor? Madam Bartholomew's Little Surprise. A hex in forty-six parts, each one more horrible than the last. And finally, sickeningly, a grimoire almost as appalling as the Lexicon: Jonker Trinauld's Guide to the Unnatural.

Bloated beyond bearing with the filthiest incants ever devised by witch or wizard, Gerald tossed Trinauld's dreadful leatherbound observations aside and slid from Lional's bed onto the floor. He had a headache like a railway spike driving into each temple, pain so powerful and purposeful he couldn't see straight. Exploding behind his closed eyelids bright starbursts of agony, exquisitely timed with the hammer beats of his heart.

And beneath the pain, beneath the starbursts, his potentia seethed and bubbled.

No wonder Lional had gone mad. No man was meant to contain these kinds of magics. Not all at once. He was coming apart at the seams himself, all those dark magics prisoned inside him, boiling and bubbling and yearning to be free. If he opened his eyes would he see his skin, fissuring? Would he see cracks appearing and glimpse the evil within? His potentia had been force-fed full to vomiting, was crammed to its limits with incants and hexes that should never have been born. And now it seethed and surged the hot blood in his veins, demanding expression. Screaming to be heard.

On his hands and knees, fingers tangled in the black carpet's deep pile, Gerald opened his eyes. Felt the pain behind them. Heard the roaring in his skull. A storm was building inside him, strong enough to smash his bones and spill his blood. Strong enough to kill him if he didn't let it out.

The carpet beneath his hands was starting to smoke.

Lurching to his feet he threw back his head and let out a howling shriek. The ether erupted-and he erupted with it. In a burst of blue flames, the curtains caught fire. The carpet caught fire. Lional's vast crimson bed went up in smoke and sparks. Behind the burning curtains the windows exploded.

He watched as the blue flames fed greedily on Lional's private chamber. Smiled, and snapped his fingers, and turned the flying shards of glass to ice. The ice melted, steaming. The fire continued to burn. In his veins, in his arteries, his newly blackened blood burned wildly with it. Now he stood at the heart of a thaumaturgical conflagration-sublimely untouched and untouchable as the blue flames roared his delight.

"Good," he said, nodding. "That's good. That feels right."

Smiling, he went in search of Lional.

CHAPTER FOUR.

The other Ottosland, the same day Right," said Melissande. "I've had just about enough of this."

Monk sighed. "I did warn you. Look, Melissande, they'll get to us when they get to us so there's no point-"

"No, Mr. Markham, there is every point! Because at the rate your precious Department's going I'll have qualified for the pension before they come to a decision!"

And stop calling me Melissande. Just because in a moment of weakness I sniveled all over you, that doesn't mean you get to take liberites.

Except apparently it did, because she couldn't quite bring herself to reprimand him out loud.

Squatting between them, Reg refluffed all her feathers and said, "Oh, give it a rest, you two, or I'll do both of you a mischief."

They were sitting uncomfortably side by side by side in a drab gray waiting room outside some official chamber or other in Ottosland's antiquated Department of Thaumaturgy building. Apart from the back-breaking chairs there wasn't a stick of furniture. Neither were there windows to look out of or any tedious old magazines to read. The room was cold and stuffy and not designed to succor its occupants.

Oh lord. I wish I knew what was happening to Gerald.

Shivering, she glanced through the open door to the drab gray corridor beyond. "Where the hell has Rupert got to? It doesn't take this long to use the lavatory."

"Ha," said Reg. "He's probably been side-tracked by a moth."

"That's not funny! Whatever you may think of him he really loved his butterflies, you horrible bird! And Lional killed them and now he's grieving for them. He's probably got his head buried in a towel right now, crying his heart out for those stupid, stupid insects!"

Monk, carelessly presumptuous and dangerously attractive, gave Reg a look. "You know, you're really not helping."

With an effort Melissande pulled herself back from the brink of embarrassment... and didn't object when Monk took her hand in his. Even though she should. Even though public displays of affection were highly irregular. It was a wonder the bird wasn't screeching about that, along with everything else.

"Nobody's helping," she muttered. "It was stupid to come here. Gerald had no business forcing me to come here. I should be at home, fighting for New Ottosland. After all, I'm prime minister and practically the queen!"

Not that she wanted to be. She couldn't think of anything worse. I wonder if I'll have to change my name to Lional...

Reg roused out of her slump. "Don't you worry about New Ottosland, ducky. Gerald's taking care of it. He's a wizarding prodigy, he is. And we'll be hearing from him any moment. You'll see."

She exchanged a mordant glance with Monk over the top of Reg's head. Clearly the bird didn't believe her own pep talk. I don't believe it either. It'll take more than a prodigy to beat Lional and his dragon. It'll take a miracle... and I'm not sure they exist.

Monk tightened his fingers. "Don't give up, Meli-I mean, Your Highness. The Department will come through for us. It's just going to take a little time. It's all such a bloody mess. At last count we've got five different nations involved and three of them aren't officially talking to each other."

Ah, politics. I am sick to death of politics. I think I'll ban it when I'm queen. She pulled a face at him. "I'm not giving up. And call me Melissande."

Despite his own imperfectly concealed worry, Monk's lips quirked in a brief grin. "Thought you'd never ask. Look, do you want me to go hunting for Rupert while-"

The main chamber's large double doors opened. "Come in, please," said a discreet secretarial type dressed in sober black. "Lord Attaby will see you now."

Abruptly aware of appearing less than her best, Melissande slid off the chair and lifted her chin, defiant. "And not a moment too soon. I was just about to make a Scene."

As Reg hopped onto Monk's waiting shoulder she marched past the discreet secretary and into the chamber. Stalked across the room's dingy carpet, Monk and Reg at her heels, and halted in front of the long polished oak conference table on the far side of the room. There was a click behind her as the secretary closed the double doors.

To her fury she saw the Ottosland officials at the table had been drinking tea and eating biscuits. Tea and biscuits while my kingdom is dragged to hell in a hand-basket. How dare they? "Right," she said, glaring at the three men ranged before her. "Which one of you is Lord bloody Attaby?"

The man in the middle, reeking of affluence and self-importance, inclined his head fractionally. His thinning silver hair was slicked to his skull with something smelly and expensive. "I am Lord Attaby, Minister of Thaumaturgy for the Ottosland government."

She looked left then right at his silent bookends. "And these two?"

"My colleagues," said Lord Attaby blandly.

"I see. And do they have names?"

"None that are relevant to these proceedings," said Lord Attaby. "Madam."

She snorted. "I'm not madam, I'm Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande, Prime Minister of New Ottosland and-and-Queen Presumptive."

Lord Attaby laced his fingers before him, frowning. "Or so you claim."

"Claim?" she demanded. "What, you think I'm lying?"

"I think you are a young foreign woman lacking both identification and requisite travel documentation who has entered this country by dubious and possibly illegal means," said Lord Attaby, looking down his nose at her. "And who, it would appear, has suborned one of its citizens into breaking some very, very serious laws."

Monk stepped forward. "No, she hasn't, Lord Attaby. That's all on me. And she is who she says she is, I can vouch for that. Unless you think I'm lying too."

Lord Attaby's chilly expression plummeted below freezing. "It would appear, Mr. Markham, you have been laboring under the mistaken apprehension that your illustrious family name would afford you unlimited protection in this matter. Allow me to disabuse you of this naive-"

The man on Lord Attaby's right lowered his almost-imperceptibly raised hand. Melissande looked at him more closely; anyone who could halt an aristocrat mid-tirade was worth examining. He was extremely... nondescript. Unlike Lord Attaby, whose shirt was silk, he wore plain cotton. His watchband was leather, not gold, and he altogether lacked a pampered air. His hooded gray eyes were years older than his round, faintly lined face and short, mousy brown hair suggested. He didn't look like an enemy. He didn't look like a friend. More than anything he looked like a greengrocer, or some other kind of inoffensive shopkeeper.

How very odd, she thought. I wonder who he is?

The man on Lord Attaby's left took advantage of the silence and said, "Your part in this, Monk, will be dealt with in due course. For now let us focus on the reason for Her Highness's unorthodox appearance in the country."

Melissande glanced at Monk. He was subdued now and ever-so-slightly pink around the edges. "Yes, Unc-Sir Ralph."

"Lord Attaby," said Monk's important relative, properly deferring. "Do continue, sir. I believe time is a commodity in short supply."

"Time, Lord Attaby, has pretty well run out!" she said hotly. "At least for your citizen Professor Gerald Dunwoody! I'm assuming you do care about him at least, even if you couldn't give a toss about the five dead wizards or the people of Kallarap or my people, in New Ottosland, some of whom are already dead because of this string of disasters! You know, none of this would ever have happened if people like you hadn't failed to monitor Pomodoro Uffitzi more carefully! If he hadn't got his hands on those dreadful grimoires I wouldn't be standing here thaumaturgically related to a dragon!" She tilted her chin at him. "Now what have you to say about that?"

Lord Attaby sat back, thinly smiling. "A great deal, as it happens." His fingers drummed the table, making his teaspoon dance on its saucer. "Am I to understand, Your Highness, that you... and your government... accept no responsibility for recent events? Are you claiming that your brother King Lional bears no culpability whatsoever for the murder of five wizards, one of whom was an Ottoslander, or the deaths of your unfortunate citizens and his intended invasion of your peaceful neighbor?"

Melissande felt herself turn red. "No," she said curtly. "Of course Lional's culpable. He's also crazy. I'm not making excuses, I'm just giving you the facts."

Lord Attaby's smile was remarkably unpleasant. "In my experience, Prime Minister, facts are malleable things. They can be massaged to fit any number of scenarios depending upon a variety of preferred outcomes."

"Really?" she said, seething.

He nodded. "Really."

"How very interesting. Because in my experience that's known as falsifying evidence. Manipulating the truth. To be blunt, Lord Attaby, it's known as lying. Also covering your ass."

The nondescript man on Lord Attaby's right looked down, lips twitching. Monk's illustrious relative frowned disapprovingly. Lord Attaby scowled, his pouchy face burnished dull crimson. "Young woman-"

"No, not 'young woman,'" she snapped. "You were right the first time. Do at least try to keep the protocol intact." Leaning her fists on the oak conference table she thrust her face into his. "Now let's get something straight, my lord. As far as I'm concerned there's plenty of blame to go around for this fiasco. And when it's over by all means, let's sit down with tea and biscuits and parcel it out like lumps of sugar. But before that, if it's not too much to ask, could you and your hoity-toity Departmental chums here stop pointing fingers for five seconds and do something constructive?" She raked them with a furious gaze. "Because in case you've forgotten, gentlemen, people are dying! And in light of that, how I got here and so on and so forth is just a steaming pile of bollocks!"

"I'm so sorry, gentlemen," said a brisk voice from the doorway. "You mustn't be offended. My sister has a temper but her heart is in the right place. And as it happens this time I agree with her. We don't have time for recriminations."

Melissand spun around. "Rupert? Rupert, where the hell have you been?"

As the discreet secretary closed the doors again Rupert walked towards her, one hand outstretched. "Darling Melly." He still looked ridiculous in his ruined blue velvet knickerbockers and orange silk shirt but even so... something was different. He'd changed. The way he carried himself, the look in his eyes. Even the sound of his voice was different. No longer shrinkingly apologetic, but sure and strong. Reaching her, he took her hand and kissed her cheek. "I've been sorting out a few things. Lord Attaby?"

Horrible Lord Attaby was on his feet. So were his bookends. "Your Majesty," he murmured. "I take it you and the Prime Minister have reached an agreement?"

"We have," said Rupert. "Everything's arranged."

Dumbfounded, Melissande stared at Monk then Reg then back at Rupert. "I'm sorry," she said, and pulled her hand free. "What's arranged? Rupert, what are you-"

He kissed her cheek again. "I'll explain everything later. You have my word. But right now you need to come with me, all of you. We don't have much time if we're going to save Gerald."

Folding her arms, she shook her head. "Sorry, Rupert, but I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on. This has been a very long, very bad day, and I'm just about ready to-"

Without even so much as a courteous knock the drab chamber's doors banged open again and an alarmingly flustered minion scuttled in, a piece of paper clutched in one hand. Lord Attaby, freshly crimson, thumped a fist on the table. This time all three teaspoons, and the teacups, leaped and rattled in their saucers.

"Juby! What is the meaning of this? We are in private session! Have you taken leave of your few paltry senses, man, barging in here when-"

"I'm sorry, my lord. I'm terribly sorry," the minion wailed. He had an odd, squarish-shaped face and every inch of it was sweating. "But this couldn't wait." He thrust the piece of paper at outraged Lord Attaby. "From Priority Monitoring, my lord."

Lord Attaby flicked a glance left and right at his silently concerned bookends then took the piece of paper from Juby. Melissande heard an odd little sound beside her and turned, to see Monk easing a finger between throat and shirt collar. His eyes were wide and glassy with concern.

"What?" she murmured. "Monk, what's going on?"

"Dunno," he murmured back. "But it won't be good."

"Priority Monitoring means trouble?"

He nodded. "Big trouble."

"What kind?"

"Sorry. No idea."

"Reg?"

Still firmly ensconced on Monk's shoulder, the dratted bird ruffled her feathers and shrugged. "Don't ask me, ducky. Bang their snooty heads together if you want some answers."

Actually, that wasn't a bad idea. "Lord Attaby, what-"

"Hush, Mel," said her strangely altered brother, with an authority she'd never before heard in his voice. "Wait."

Lord Attaby was rereading the urgent note with a look on his face that said he hadn't believed it the first time and didn't want to believe it now. Was it a trick of the chamber's lighting or could she see sweat on his brow? Silently the minister pushed the note towards Monk's important uncle, who pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his inside coat pocket, placed them precisely on his nose and read the minion's urgent missive.

Monk's important uncle stopped breathing, just for a moment.

"If I may?" the nondescript third man at the table said quietly, and held out his hand. Without bothering to ask Lord Attaby's permission Monk's uncle passed the note to him. The nondescript man read it, just the once. When he was finished he closed his eyes. Melissande, watching him, thought it the most alarming thing she'd ever seen. Because in his eyes, before he'd hidden them...

Oh lord. Oh Saint Snodgrass. This is bad, isn't it?

"All right," she said, heedless of good manners and international protocol. "What exactly is going on? What's this Priority Monitoring station, and what's it monitored that's put all three of you terribly self-contained gentlemen into a tizzy?"

As the minion Juby's eyes bugged nearly out of his head at her tone, and Rupert touched warning fingers to her arm, and Lord Attaby sucked in a swift, offended breath, the nondescript man flicked the piece of paper across the table towards her.

"See for yourself, Your Highness."

"Sir Alec! I have not-"

"We can't hide it from them, my lord," said the mysterious Sir Alec, who looked like a greengrocer but clearly wasn't. "We might not like it but they are involved."

Before Rupert could take the note she snatched it off the table and scanned the scribbled message. "An unprecedented thaumaturgical event. What's that when it's at home?" She glanced at the note again. "Or in this case New Ottosland."

"Show me," said Monk, and plucked the note from her suddenly cold fingers. He read it quickly then looked up, every last skerrick of color drained from his cheeks. "Are you sure about this, Jubes? Somebody's not playing a practical joke?"

"Of course I'm sure!" said the minion Juby, his voice shaking. "I was bloody there, wasn't I, when the alarms went off. The gauges melted, Monk. They're nothing but etheretic goo. I'm telling you-" And then he choked to a halt as Lord Attaby thumped the table again. "I'm sorry, my lord. It's just-I never-"