The Accidental sorcerer

'It's not ironic, it's typical,' he retorted. 'Every job I touch turns from gold to shit. I'm a jinx, Monk.' 'Well, I wouldn't go that far…' 7 would.'

Monk poked thoughtfully at his dinner. 'It is strange. I mean, there's no way you should've been able to handle that much raw thaumic energy or those First Grade staffs. No offence, mate, but Third Grade wizards…'

'None taken,' he said, shrugging. 'And it doesn't matter anyway. My wizarding career's over.' 'Who says?'

'Come off it, Monk. Who in Ottosland's going to hire me now? Even if I do what Scunthorpe said, lay low for a while, even for a whole year, it won't make any difference. I'll go to my grave as the idiot who blew up Stuttley's.' He shook his head. 'I was a fool to think that a tailor's son from Nether Wallop could amount to anything in wizardry'

Scowling as ferociously as his unpleasant brother, Monk shoved his chair away from the table and started pacing, automatically avoiding his various and scattered experiments. 'Bollocks! Who was it conducted your thaumaturgical aptitude test?' He blinked.'What?' 'Your aptitude test, the test that — '

'I know what it is! Drableys tested me. The correspondence school people.'

Monk dropped back into his chair, eyes alight with a feverish enthusiasm that boded no good. 'Well, don't you see? They got it wrong. No genuine Third Grade wizard would've survived depolarising that inversion. You'll have to get tested again to find out what your grading should be. On decent equipment this time. Department equipment, it's the best there is. It'll explain that weird feeling you had in the factory and give us an accurate reading of your potential. And if you don't test as a top-rate First Grader I'll eat Errol Haythwaite's underwear.'

A First Grade wizard. Ha! 'Nice thought, Monk, but after Stuttley's I wouldn't get one foot inside the Department's front door. And no, you're not smuggling me in there. Or the Department's equipment out. Bad enough I've scuppered my own career. I won't be responsible for scuppering yours too. And how much do I owe you for the takeaway?'

'Bollocks to the takeaway' said Monk. 'I'm not going to sit back and let you chuck your career down the boghole.'

Gerald choked. 'What career? I told you. It's scuppered. Nobody — '

'In Ottosland will hire you. I know,' said Monk, impatiently. 'I heard you. And much as I hate to agree, you're right. You won't get another job here, at least not until the fuss dies down.'

'In other words, never. They'll be talking about Stuttley's into the middle of next century. They'll put me in textbooks under "Stupid Things No Wizard Should Attempt".'

'You're exaggerating… but not by much.' Monk drummed his fingers on the table. Nobody took no for an answer less willingly than Monk Markham. 'Fine,' he said after a moment's racing thought. 'So you can't work here for the next little while. But Ottosland's not the only country that employs wizards. You'll just have to go overseas until the coast is clear. A year or two at the most. Trust me, Gerald, sooner or later there'll be another stupendous arse-up and Stuttley's will be yesterday's news. The minute you're off the hook you can come back, I'll retest your aptitudes myself and you can start again. Clean slate. Brand-new leaf.'

Gerald tried not to resent 'another stupendous arse-up'. 'Overseas where, Monk? I'm not multilingual. I'm not even Mingual. And if you take the other day into account I don't speak wizard very well, either.'

'Yes, but I don't take the other day into account,' Monk said briskly. 'And you don't need to be multilingual. Practically everyone speaks Ottish these days, and the people who don't aren't the kind of people you need to worry about.' He was looking demonically cheerfuclass="underline" a dangerous sign.

Gerald watched him leap up from the table again and rummage through his briefcase. 'What are you doing?' 'Getting this week's Orb! said Monk.'Catch!'

He snatched the magazine out of the air. Errol Haythwaite was on the cover, smirking about his invitation to join the Masterful Company. His fingers itched for a pen so he could indulge in some juvenile disfiguring…

Monk flopped back into his chair. 'You haven't read it yet?'

In the never-ending struggle to make ends meet he'd stopped buying the Wizarding Orb as soon as he'd started working for the Department. There'd always been a copy floating round the tea room. 'No.'

'Well don't just sit there admiring Errol's haircut. What jobs are on offer?'

He flipped to the Positions Vacant section and quickly scanned it. 'None that'll suit me, I'll guarantee you. Face it, Monk, there's not exactly a huge demand for Third Grade wizards. Especially ones with a talent for blowing things up.'

'Stop being so defeatist. Here. Let me look.' Monk grabbed the magazine. 'Bloody hell,' he muttered after a quick perusal. 'They don't want much, do they? Second Grade or above, with a minimum ten years' experience — demonstrated talent for cloud manipulations and seed propagation — good with children — '

The familiar tide of despair was rising again. 'See? I told you. It's hopeless. I mean, good with children? Ha! Five minutes after I met the Brierly twins I wanted to strangle them.'

Monk looked at him. 'Gerald, five minutes after she met the Brierly twins my mother wanted to strangle them. And coming from the woman who gave birth to Aylesbury that's saying something.' Scowling, he kept on reading. 'What's this one? "Prefer someone with connections to royalty." Well, I trod on a visiting prince regents toes at a ball last Wizard Eve, does that count?'

Disconsolate. Gerald poked his fork into his now lukewarm dinner and half-heartedly tried another mouthful. 'It's no use. I just have to face facts, Monk. It was fun while it lasted but — '

'Ah haY Monk stabbed the Orb with his finger. 'Here we go! This one's got your name written all over it!'

He dropped his fork, treacherous hope flaring. 'What? Which one? Where? Show me.'

Ignoring him, Monk began to read. '"Wanted: Wizard. His Most Esteemed and Sovereign Majesty King Lional the Forty-third — "'

Hope died. 'Markham! Have you completely lost your mind? What king is going to want me?'

Monk lifted his gaze for a brief glower then kept on reading. "'- the Forty-third, sovereign ruler of New Ottosland, requires the services of an honest and upright wizard. Grading irrelevant and no experience necessary. Personality more important than pedigree. Must be flexible, adaptable and willing to muck in. Fondness for butterflies an advantage. To apply call crystal ball vibration blah blah blah".'

Gerald snorted. 'Very funny Monk. Kick a bloke while he's down, why don't you. Fondness for butterflies? That's low, that's really low'

'Here,' said Monk, offended, and threw the Orb at him.'Read it yourself if you don't believe me.'

After a moment's undignified hunting and pecking through the columns he found the advertised position. Monk hadn't been kicking him when he was down. The ridiculous job was right there in black and white. He looked up. 'New Ottosland?'

'Our one and only colony. You must've heard of it. Established four or five centuries ago. In the good old days, when dashing about the world nicking other people's real estate was considered a suitable occupation for gentlemen and kings.'

'Oh yes. Now I remember. Isn't it in the middle of a desert?'

'Is it? Geography was never my thing,' said Monk, supremely indifferent. 'But even if it is, who cares? At least it'll be warm. And it's a job, Gerald. A job with a king. Think of the snob value. Once you've got "royal court wizard" on your resume you'll be beating 'em off with a stick, Stuttley's or no Stuttley's. Trust me. Call them.'

'Right,' he said, with a glower of his own. 'Trust me. This from a man trying to measure ambient tetrothaumicles in the fourteenth dimension. Does the Department know you're mucking about with the fourteenth dimension, Monk? I'll bet it doesn't. I'll bet if they knew you were — ' 'Geraldl Make the bloody call!'