'You are excused, Prime Minister,' Lional said grandly, still smiling, and waggled his fingers. 'Ta ta!'
Marching out of the audience chamber, head whirling with dread premonitions of lurking obstacles yet to be discovered, Melissande throttled a shriek of frustration.
Prime minister? Prime minister? Whatever had she done to deserve this? And what had possessed her to accept the appointment? She'd only had the job five minutes and already she had a migraine. If only she'd said yes to finishing school…
But it was too late now and regrets were pointless. She was Princess Melissande, Prime Minister of New Ottosland, and the Kallarapi were coming. Time to get to work.
CHAPTER FOUR
For two endless days Gerald lurked in his cramped bedsit, trying to work out what exactly had happened at Stuttley's. Trying to recreate that incredible sensation of transformation, of incandescent power welling up and thundering through him. All he did was give himself an incipient hernia. He couldn't even trust his Third Grade incants to work reliably. His power trickled, it sputtered, it sulked and wouldn't play.
Depressed, defeated, he gave up trying to recreate the miracle and instead fretted about Reg's continued absence. He'd gone from worry to anger and back again so many times he was permanently dizzy. She'd never stayed away this long before. Something must have happened. She was lying in a ditch somewhere, injured and delirious. Dying. Or she'd been captured by a travelling circus and imprisoned in a cage, forced to do tricks for food.
Or she just got sick of your ineptitude and flew off to greener pastures.
Whatever the reason, the result was the same. Reg was gone, he had no way of finding her, and he was turning into a crazy person staying cooped up in his tiny room. He needed to get out. Needed fresh air. A change of scenery.
And after that he needed to look his current predicament square in the face, accept it, and start the disheartening business of finding yet another job. Somewhere that had never even heard of Stuttley's Staff Factory. If there was such a place.
Oh lord, he thought, sitting on the edge of his horrible bed with his head in his hands. Wliat I need is a drink. Two drinks. Lots and lots of drinks, and sod the dwindling bank balance…
He went down to the club's public gallery. One glance through the doors and he nearly ran back upstairs. At the far end of the genteely shabby room, gathered around the sooty fireplace toasting crumpets and scoffing pastries, sat the appalling Errol Haythwaite and his equally appalling friends.
Thanks to the good fortune of being born into the stratosphere of wizarding society, the ineffably smug little group had risen swiftly to the top of the profession, leaving their less-favoured colleagues behind like so much skim milk. Like cream, they were smooth and lumpless and rich.
Like cream, he reminded himself, they cause bloat, spots and apoplexy.
Excruciatingly aware that to this group he wasn't so much the skim milk as the nasty bits at the bottom of the bottle once the skim milk had been fed to the cat, Gerald sidled further into the gallery, hoping to be overlooked. But just as he took his first step towards the solace of alcohol a hearty cry nailed his feet to the floor.
'1 say, look who's finally crawled out of hiding! DunnywoodV
Damn. Haythwaite was never going to tire of that stupid play on words. Whose bright idea was it anyway to nickname any outside toilet a dunny? And why wasn't toilet humour beneath Errol, along with servants, Third Grade wizards and anybody who couldn't trace his family tree back to the packet the seed came in?
If only he could ignore the man… but that, sadly, was out of the question. Third Grade wizards did not snub First Graders in public, with witnesses. Not if they ever wanted to work as a wizard again.
He turned, grittily polite. 'Good evening, Errol. What a surprise to find you here. And it's Dunwoody!
Errol Haythwaite, tall, thin and elegantly saturnine, waved a negligent hand. 'Of course it is,' he drawled nasally. 'I say, come and join us why don't you, old bean?' 'Thanks, Errol, but — '
'No, really,' said Haythwaite. Even trom a distance it was clear the smile on his lips wasn't touching his eyes. 'I insist.'
Of course he did. Reluctantly Gerald joined the gruesome trio at the fireplace.'Yes?'
Typically perverse, Haythwaite ignored him. As though he was a butler, or Mr Pinchgut. '- how many times I have to say no. I mean, it's all very well the Potentate of Aframbigi offering me the position of Wizard at Large, but the old boy s put a few noses out of joint down at the Department and there's a whisper of sanctions.'
'Then of course you can't accept,' said Cobcroft Minor, reaching to the cake cart for a jammy doughnut. 'Once you've fallen foul of the Department it's all over. One might as well shut up shop and find a job in the provinces as a tailor, or something equally menial!'
As Haythwaite and Co chortled merrily, carefully not looking at him, Gerald swallowed a string of expletives. 'Well, it's been wonderful catching up with you, Errol, but — '
'Not so fast,' said Haythwaite, whose cut-glass accent had acquired a new and sharper edge. 'I've a little something to say to you.'
Sarkiness was unwise but he couldn't help it. The remnants of his self-respect demanded he not play the doormat. 'Sometime this century, I hope.'
Despite the leaping flames in the fireplace and the general air of warm crony camaraderie, the ambient temperature dropped ten degrees. Haythwaite's pale green eyes narrowed. 'I wouldn't go trying to be clever, Gerald. Not if I were you. Not after your recent debacle.' 'It was an accident, Errol.'
Kirkby-Hackett snorted. There was a gobbet of chocolate sauce on his receding chin. 'So was granting you a wizard's licence, Dunnywood.'
This time he bit his tongue. Seriously antagonising these three would be… unhelpful. Between them, their prestigious families had fingers in every last one of Ottosland's wizardly pies… and at least a half-dozen more abroad. If he didn't endure the insults he really would be headed home for a life of provincial tailoring.
Haythwaite leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. 'Next week, Gerald, I'm to be inducted into the Masterful Company of Wizards.'
'I know, Errol. Didn't you receive my note of congratulations?'
The note was waved away like so much grubby scrap paper. 'The Masterful Company, Gerald, is the most exclusive wizarding organisation in the country, if not the world.' Haythwaite's expression was mild, his voice mellow, but even so Gerald flinched; Errol's impeccably well-bred urbanity never quite managed to hide the pirate within. 'Membership is restricted to First Class wizards, naturally, and is achieved by invitation after nomination by an existing member, a rigorous selection process and personal scrutiny by the committee. Presidents and prime ministers have been known not to make the cut. An invitation to join the Masterful Company of Wizards, Gerald, is an honour to which few may aspire.' The look on his face added, And you're not one of them.
Somehow, he managed to keep his own expression apologetic.'I know that, too.'
Still piratically smiling, Haythwaite continued. 'Central to the induction ceremony is the presentation of one's especially commissioned and crafted First Grade staff, Gerald. I was due to take delivery of mine tomorrow. Sadly, according to a somewhat hysterical missive from one Mr Harold Stuttley, my new staff is little more than a melted thimbleful of slag spread thinly over the charred remains of his ruined factory. What have you to say to that, Gerald?'
Any number of things, none of which he could utter. From the looks on Kirkby-Hackett and Cobcroft Minor's faces anyone would think he'd murdered Haythwaite's firstborn son. Bitterly regretting the impulse to set foot outside his bedsit for at least the next ten years, Gerald shook his head. 'What can I say? I'm truly sorry, Errol.'