CHAPTER SEVEN
'Gerald?' Reg whispered. 'I don't trust that look. Just say goodbye to the nice king and back out of the chamber, slowly. You don't need this job, there are other jobs. Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it. At once.'
He ignored her. Ignored too the pleading look he could feel from Princess Melissande. All his attention was focused on King Lional's cat.
Can I do it? On the strength of one anomalous, out of character First Grade achievement, do I even dare try? Vm a Third Grade wizard, with the certificate to prove it. I nust he deranged to be considering a Level Twelve transmogrification.
More than deranged. To be thinking of this he was certifiably bonkers. Rowing up shit creek without any oars. Off his tiny rocker. Stark staring doolally. Desperate. A Level Twelve transmogrification was the most complex and convoluted incantation of its kind. Moreover it was a highly guarded government secret; how Reg had got hold of it was a mystery she had steadfastly refused to solve. And performing it was illegal without an Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy Special Licence.
Wlien you 're in Ottosland. But I'm not in Ottosland any more.
No, he was far far out in unknown territory and he didn't have anything approaching a map. He was utterly mapless. Making things up as he went along. If this doesn't work…
He wouldn't have to worry about being unemployed because he'd most likely be dead. Wizards who mucked around with a Level Twelve transmog and got it wrong weren't noted for their longevity, they were noted for the footnotes that got written about them in textbooks and medical journals.
But if this does work then I'm set for life. I'll be able to unite my own ticket. I'll never be in danger of polka-dots again.
He had to try. Had to. Because the alternative wasn't anything he wanted to contemplate. Not sober. Not sane. Time to find out what he was really made of.
Let's hope it's not lots of squishy red stuff and a few mysterious tubes…
Heart pounding, Gerald plucked Reg from his shoulder and thrust her at the princess.'Here, Your Highness. Just in case.'
Princess Melissande stared at dangling Reg. 'Just in case what? Professor — '
'It's simply a precaution. You're not in any danger, I assure you.' As the princess hesitated he added,'Don't worry. She doesn't peck.'
The gleam in Reg's eye belied that assertion but the princess took her anyway Gingerly perching Reg on her shoulder she said crossly, 'If I'd known you were going to be this much trouble, Professor…' He spared her a swift smile.'Sorry'
On his dais, the king heaved a theatrical sigh. 'You will be, I promise, if you don't do something magical right now!
Blimey, the man was such a pillock. Do I really want to work for him? The answer was swift and certain. No, but 1 want the job.
He nodded at Lional the Forty-third, handsome and spoilt and the answer to his prayers. 'Yes, Your Majesty. Sorry, Your Majesty'
The king's horrible cat was now washing its face. Gerald pulled his Stuttley s-scarred cherrywood staff from its pocket inside his coat. It was nowhere near strong enough to contain the energies of a Level Twelve transmog but with luck it'd get him started, at least. After that… Saint Snodgrass, patron of wizards, deliver me.
Raising the staff above his head he took a deep breath. Let the air out slowly and summoned the words of the transmog incantation to his tongue, adjusting them to the specifics at hand.
'Innocuasi cumhadalarum. Amina desporato animali contradicta rexoriV
Deep within him something powerful stirred from slumber. No pyrotechnics this time, no twisting and tearing. Just a flash like a firefly in the darkness of his mind. A tease, a hint, a whispered promise…
'Yes?' said King Lional, arms tightly folded. 'And? Well? Was that it?'
Gerald shivered. His skin was crawling, the firefly flash stronger now, sustained and growing. As though the first words of the incant were some kind of trigger, punching a tiny hole into a reservoir of raw power hiding somewhere inside him. 'No,' he said. 'Wait.'
'Wait?' echoed the king, impatient and offended. 'I have been waiting, Professor, and as yet nothing has — '
'Don't interrupt, Lional, you might make something go wrong,' said Princess Melissande. 'Get on with it, Professor, quickly!'
Barely aware of her presence, of the king's temper, of Reg gurgling in alarm on the princess's shoulder, he bowed his head. The tiny hole was widening, he could feel the power pouring out of that hidden reservoir and into his blood, bolder and faster and increasing in urgency with every staccato heartbeat.
He had to keep going or the incant would collapse and with it any chance of his staying in New Ottosland as King Lional's court wizard.
'Incantata magicata spellorantum infinatuml Enlargiosa lionara expellecta domesticiaV In a single slashing move he pointed his staff directly at the king's hissing cat. Incandescent power poured out of him like a river in full flood, transfixing the animal where it crouched on the dais. He felt as though he were being emptied, as though all his insides had melted and were streaming through his outstretched arm, into the staff and out again. The copper-banded cherrywood began to glow, hotter and brighter with each passing second. Surely his hand should be burning, but no. It was cool. Whole. Dimly he was aware of Reg's hysterical squawking, Princess Melissande's attempts to calm her, the king's shouted questions. He couldn't respond to any of them, could only stand there and let the incredible power do what it willed and hope it didn't kill him before it was done.
Overcome at last, the cherrywood staff crumbled into cinders and drops of melted copper. Gerald watched its charred remains fall piecemeal to the carpet, vaguely aware of sorrow, regret. The staff had been a present from his mother.
Its destruction didn't stop the power pouring from his body. On and on, lighting him up from the inside out like a firework. At last, though, it ran dry. As his knees buckled and his body swayed like a drunken sailor's, the air around the fat orange cat began to thicken like fog. Then it started to shimmer, suffusing with green and purple light. There came a sense of relentless pressure, as though an invisible fist was tightening itself around the room, squeezing, squeezing. Then the pressure released in a blinding flash and an eardrum-popping soundless explosion.
When the coloured fog cleared moments later, King Lional's fat orange cat was gone and in its place sat an enormous tawny lion wearing an expression of extreme apprehension.
'Saint Snodgrass preserve me,' said the princess, breaking the stunned silence. 'Professor Dunwoody, what have you done?'
'Kept my job,' he said, dazed. It worked, it worked, I can't believe it, it worked. 'I hope. Your Highness.'
With an hysterical flapping of wings Reg launched herself from the princess's shoulder to fly dizzy circles round his head. 'A lion? A lion? You're mad, sunshine! Stark staring crazy bonkers! Off your bloody trolley with bells on! That was a Level Twelve tmnstnogV
He snatched her out of the air and shoved her under his arm. 'Sorry, Your Majesty,' he said to the king.'Terrible vocabulary her previous owner taught her. I've done my best but I can't seem to fix her.'
King Lional ignored him. His gaze was trained on the lion, and in his eyes a bold bright burning. 'Tavistock?'
The lion mewled, hauled itself to its feet and butted its head against him.
With an effort, Gerald stood to attention. When he'd recovered from the shock he was going to do some serious celebrating. It wasn't a fluke, Stuttley's wasn't a fluke. I am a First Grader, no matter what my certificate says. How it was possible he didn't know, didn't care. It was a pettifogging detail, he'd worry about it later. There's a First Grade staff out there with my name on it! Pity it won't be a Stuttley's…
'Your cat is quite unharmed, Your Majesty. And he's still Tavistock on the inside. Of course I can reverse the transmogrification if you — '