Free Accidental Sorcerer by K. E. Mills

cutlery. 'Thanks. I need it.'
    No, he didn't. He was just being typically Monkish: modest, unpretentious and sensitive to the limitations of his less fortunate friend. Stinging only a little bit, Gerald edged his way around a set of hiccuping test tubes, sidestepped something that looked like a cross between a mouse and a dandelion doing somersaults in its cage, and sat at the gate-leg dining table. On the nearby windowsill sat Monk's crystal ball. It was pulsing a gentle red. 'You've got incoming here.'
    Monk had his head in the crockery cupboard under the sink-and-hotplate arrangement in the corner. 'Play 'em back for me, would you?' he said, muffled. 'New password's
confabulation.'
    A hand wave over the crystal ball and the muttering of Monk's password unlocked its warding. The crystal ball hummed, the red swirl cleared, and the image of a face formed within its depths. It bore a spurious resemblance to Monk but was a year or so older and graced with an immaculately barbered beard, drop-pearl earrings and a starched neck ruff of outrageous proportions.
    'Monk, you wart-ridden little toad!
the scowling face growled,
'why aren't you there, it's so early it's practically midnight. Are you there? Answer the ball, runt, I don't have all morning!
    Gerald paused the message, grinning. At times like this being an only child was a positive advantage. 'It's your brother.'
    Monk finished sharing out almond rice into two chipped bowls and started on what smelled like chicken in green sauce. 'Prat. What does he want? Turn up the volume, I can't hear.'
    He increased the ball's volume, unpaused the message and sat back, prepared to be entertained. Aylesbury Markham's peevish grumble boomed.
'All right then. Listen up, you, because I'm not calling back. The olds are hosting a flash dinner party this weekend for some visiting foreign muckety-muck. Attendance is non-negotiable. So for the love of witchcraft get a sodding haircut, scrub the ink stains off your fingers and make sure you've got something halfway decent to wear, 'cos I'll be buggered if you embarrass me by turning up looking like something a paralytic cat dragged in backwards through a gorse bush, right? Right. I'm warning you, toadstool. Ignore me at your peril!
    'Pillock,' said Monk, squashing empty cartons into the rubbish bin. 'Anything else?'
    Aylesbury's elegantly menacing face faded away, leaving the crystal ball as innocuous as a lump of glass. 'Doesn't look like it.'
    Monk stuck a fork in each steaming bowl and carried them over to the table.'Good. Dig in.'
    Gerald practically inhaled the food. After two days of charcoaled and barely buttered stale bread, the savoury chicken and rice was almost enough to make him cry.'This is great, Monk.Thanks.'
    'Uh huh,' said Monk, and sat back. 'So. You going to tell me what happened at Stuttley's?'
    Damn. Couldn't Monk leave sleeping dogs lie? As soon as he could trust himself not to spit rice everywhere he said, 'I thought you'd have heard by now.'
    'I'm interested in what really happened, not a garbled fourth-hand gossip-raddled version flavoured with malice.'
    He avoided answering by filling his mouth with more chicken.
    Monk said, 'Is it true Scunthorpe booted you?'
    He nodded. Suddenly his masticated mouthful couldn't get past the lump in his throat. 'Mmm.'
    'Pillock,' said Monk, and speared another piece of curried octopus. 'If they handed out medals for covering your arse, Scunthorpe'd be world champion ten years on the trot. Still ... I'm a bit surprised you went. At least without a fight.'
    Gerald threw down his fork.'Really?'
    'Yeah. I mean, there must've been
something
you could do.'
    'Says the certified genius and golden boy of the R and D division whose family entertains visiting heads of state every other night!' he retorted.'Well, here's a newsflash, Monk! I'm not you, I'm a barely qualified Third Grade wizard from a long and distinguished line of men's tailors! Don't you think I
wanted
to fight Scunthorpe? Don't you