Free Accidental Sorcerer by K. E. Mills Page A

think I
know
when I'm being railroaded? I
couldn't
fight him. He made it damned clear what would happen if I caused any more trouble. I had no choice but to sneak away with my tail between my legs. And if you think I'm
happy
about that, well -'
    'No,'said Monk.'Sorry. Wasn't thinking.'
    His brief spurt of self-righteous anger fizzled and died. Slumping, he picked up his fork and stabbed another piece of chicken. 'It's all right,' he muttered.
    'So,' Monk said after a moment. 'What happened?'
    In a strange way it was a relief to tell his friend everything, right down to the final humiliation of his magic not working at all in Scunthorpe's office.
    By the time he was finished Monk was struggling not to laugh. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's not funny, I know. But Gerald, in trying to stop Stuttley's from blowing up you blew it up. Admit it, that's a bit bloody ironic'
    '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