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Authors: K. E. Mills
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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.'
Haythwaite blinked. 'That's
it?
That's
all?
You're
sorry?
By God, Dunwoody, if you think you're sorry now, just you wait until I'm done with you! There won't be a hole small enough for you to crawl into here or -'
'Oh Errol, put a sock in it,' said a cheerful voice. 'If your family can't rustle you up a new First Grade staff for the ceremony you can borrow one of mine. I must have three I've never so much as breathed on and I'm pretty sure one of 'em's a Stuttley. Bloody manufacturers keep on sending them to me for gratis, hoping I'll give 'em a public endorsement.
And since I'm a Masterful Companion myself of course, there'll be no questions asked.'
Haythwaite closed his mouth, his expression curdled. Gerald turned round.
Monk Markham, released at last from the bowels of Research and Development. As usual, his friend's long dark hair was falling over his face in unkempt disarray and there were smudges of something dubious on the end of his aquiline nose and down the front of his shabby blue corduroy jacket. Behind the aggressive cheer he looked bone-tired. Fragrant smells wafted from the brown paper bag he carried in one hand. The other clutched the handle of his battered, bulging briefcase.
Composure recovered, Errol stared at him coldly. 'Markham. Too kind, I'm sure, but it won't be necessary'
'Suit yourself,' said Monk, grinning, then turned. 'So Gerald, I picked up some Yoktok curry and rice on the way home. Fancy sharing?'
For the last two days Gerald had existed on coffee and toast. He had to swallow a bucketful of saliva before he could answer. 'Uh - yes.'
'Excellent! Catch you later, Errol. Give me a shout if you change your mind about the staff. Come on, Gerald. My octopus is getting cold.'
Monk being Monk he occupied a plush apartment on the club's second floor with three rooms, several windows, ample headspace and no smelly chamber-pot or nightly serenade from the plumbing. Not that Monk ever really noticed his surroundings. He'd have been perfectly happy in one of the shoeboxes under the roof, except for the lack of space to continue his incomprehensible mucking about with things metaphysical.
'Careful,' he said, dropping his briefcase as Gerald tripped over an oscillating octogram spinning hysterically between the living room's sofa and bookcase. 'It took me three days to get that bloody thing to hold its axis properly'
Gerald pushed himself off the wall and rubbed his banged elbow. 'What are you trying to measure?'
'Ambient tetrothaumicles in the fourteenth dimension,' said Monk, cat-stepping around a tangle of test tubes.
He swallowed an unworthy lump of envy. 'Of course you are. Isn't everyone?'
Squashed into his kitchenette, Monk grinned over his shoulder as he started unpacking the bag of food. 'Hope not.
If
it comes off it means an article in
The Golden Staff!
The Golden Staff?
Good God. To date, the youngest person ever permitted to publish in
The Staff
had been forty-eight. The idea of a twenty-four-year-old wizard getting the nod from
The Golden Staff
was unthinkable.
Unless, of course, you knew Monk Markham.
'Well, good luck.'
Monk rummaged in a drawer for
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.'
Haythwaite blinked. 'That's
it?
That's
all?
You're
sorry?
By God, Dunwoody, if you think you're sorry now, just you wait until I'm done with you! There won't be a hole small enough for you to crawl into here or -'
'Oh Errol, put a sock in it,' said a cheerful voice. 'If your family can't rustle you up a new First Grade staff for the ceremony you can borrow one of mine. I must have three I've never so much as breathed on and I'm pretty sure one of 'em's a Stuttley. Bloody manufacturers keep on sending them to me for gratis, hoping I'll give 'em a public endorsement.
And since I'm a Masterful Companion myself of course, there'll be no questions asked.'
Haythwaite closed his mouth, his expression curdled. Gerald turned round.
Monk Markham, released at last from the bowels of Research and Development. As usual, his friend's long dark hair was falling over his face in unkempt disarray and there were smudges of something dubious on the end of his aquiline nose and down the front of his shabby blue corduroy jacket. Behind the aggressive cheer he looked bone-tired. Fragrant smells wafted from the brown paper bag he carried in one hand. The other clutched the handle of his battered, bulging briefcase.
Composure recovered, Errol stared at him coldly. 'Markham. Too kind, I'm sure, but it won't be necessary'
'Suit yourself,' said Monk, grinning, then turned. 'So Gerald, I picked up some Yoktok curry and rice on the way home. Fancy sharing?'
For the last two days Gerald had existed on coffee and toast. He had to swallow a bucketful of saliva before he could answer. 'Uh - yes.'
'Excellent! Catch you later, Errol. Give me a shout if you change your mind about the staff. Come on, Gerald. My octopus is getting cold.'
Monk being Monk he occupied a plush apartment on the club's second floor with three rooms, several windows, ample headspace and no smelly chamber-pot or nightly serenade from the plumbing. Not that Monk ever really noticed his surroundings. He'd have been perfectly happy in one of the shoeboxes under the roof, except for the lack of space to continue his incomprehensible mucking about with things metaphysical.
'Careful,' he said, dropping his briefcase as Gerald tripped over an oscillating octogram spinning hysterically between the living room's sofa and bookcase. 'It took me three days to get that bloody thing to hold its axis properly'
Gerald pushed himself off the wall and rubbed his banged elbow. 'What are you trying to measure?'
'Ambient tetrothaumicles in the fourteenth dimension,' said Monk, cat-stepping around a tangle of test tubes.
He swallowed an unworthy lump of envy. 'Of course you are. Isn't everyone?'
Squashed into his kitchenette, Monk grinned over his shoulder as he started unpacking the bag of food. 'Hope not.
If
it comes off it means an article in
The Golden Staff!
The Golden Staff?
Good God. To date, the youngest person ever permitted to publish in
The Staff
had been forty-eight. The idea of a twenty-four-year-old wizard getting the nod from
The Golden Staff
was unthinkable.
Unless, of course, you knew Monk Markham.
'Well, good luck.'
Monk rummaged in a drawer for
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