The Mysterious Mr Wylie: Wonky Inn Book 6 Page 12

  “Where are we?” Silvan was asking, and I followed the sound of his voice to join them in a different part of the structure. It reminded me in part of some science-fiction dome, forged from hexagonal shapes. A kind of ‘my-great-grandmother’s-new-greenhouse-meets-an-oversized-beehive’ thingie.

  The larger dome housed a laboratory of some description, replete with refrigerator sized computers, giant floating TV display screens and more-oddly, an old-fashioned carpenter’s workbench. Boxes of metal scraps were scattered around the place, and tools of every size littered each worksurface.

  “I’m afraid I can’t share much information with you. This is all highly secret. I’ve had to obtain explicit permission to bring you here. You can’t ever talk about this with anyone else. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course,” I reassured Mr Wylie and he looked relieved.

  “What I can tell you is these are my quarters. All the wizards in my order have a similar space. Novices share accommodation.”

  This smaller dome was therefore Mr Wylie’s personal space. It contained little more than a bed and a squishy sofa. That was it.

  Now I moved from the smaller dome to the larger one to join Silvan and Mr Wylie, and—to my surprise—Mr Hoo.

  “What’s he doing here?” I asked in alarm. The last thing I wanted was my owl loose in space somewhere.

  Wait. Am I in space? Do I want to be in space?

  The thought had my head spinning once more, and for once I didn’t push Silvan away when he came over to take my arm. “Here. You can sit on this chair,” he said, and I gratefully sank onto a hard-wood chair with a curved back and bowl. I supped at my ginger drink some more, my hands trembling slightly.

  “I think Mr Hoo fancied a change of scene,” Silvan said.

  “Hooo ooo,” Mr Hoo called in evident satisfaction.

  “Don’t worry about this little fellow. He’ll be fine,” Mr Wylie chipped in.

  I groaned. “Why isn’t anyone else as sick as me?”

  “It’s unfortunate, but the jump through time and space does upset some people more than others.” Mr Wylie commiserated.

  Silvan however, merely tittered. “You’re obviously a delicate flower, Alfhild. More at home in the forest than in space.”

  I glared at him. How could he feel so at ease here? So naturally at home everywhere? It irked me that he could be so adaptable, so flexible, permanently in his comfort zone. The man was impossible.

  “This is my planodome,” Mr Wylie continued. “As I’ve said, unfortunately I really can’t offer you much in the way of detail. This is all confidential. But I was granted special dispensation to bring you here so that you could help me.” He smiled down at me. “When Alfhild is feeling better I’m going to take you to the maxidome which is a kind of central hub. You’ll have the opportunity to meet some other members of my order.”

  “I’m fine.” I drained my drink. “I feel much better.”

  “If you’re sure?” Mr Wylie regarded me doubtfully.

  “Lead on.” I smiled to show him how wonderfully well I’d recuperated.

  “This way, then.” Mr Wylie took a few steps forwards and clicked his fingers. The floor parted, exposing a well-lit staircase heading down to a pristine area below.

  “Excellent,” Silvan exclaimed, his face gleeful like a small boy at Christmas. I fell in step behind him.

  “Hoo woo. Hooo-ooo.”

  “You can pipe down,” I told my owl. “You got me into this mess in the first place.”

  The maxidome was reached via the staircase and an extremely long tunnel. It reminded me in part of the London Underground—a similar sort of arched shape to the walls, and lots of white tiling. But this was spotlessly clean and there were no posters on the walls. In fact, there was very little to break up the monotony of all the shiny white surfaces, apart from other staircases, also tiled in white, and the odd silver door in the ceiling.

  Given the length of the tunnel and the distance we needed to cover, as well as the shifting unease of my stomach—how I now regretted the extra-large slice of Florence’s blueberry cake I’d polished off after dinner—I was pleased to see a small open-topped buggy waiting for us at the foot of Mr Wylie’s staircase. We climbed inside, Mr Hoo perching on the safety railing. The driverless vehicle took off at a relatively sedate 20 mph.

  Silvan kept the secretive Mr Wylie in conversation, quizzing him about the planodome and such things, but I don’t think he made much headway. In any case, I zoned them out, speculating about what exactly Mr Wylie had in mind for us.

  The buggy came to a stop outside a pair of double doors. Unlike the rest of the doors I’d spied in the tunnel these were black, so there could be no mistaking them. Little cameras spied down on us from the ceiling, and Mr Wylie waved. Eventually the doors opened, and the buggy was able to pass through. I lifted my arm so that Mr Hoo could settle on the back of my wrist and then we disembarked. We found ourselves in the most enormous glass structure I have ever seen.

  We’d been under the impression that the Cosmic Order of Chronometric Wizards consisted of a dozen or so time travelling souls. At first glance it seemed we couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Everywhere I looked there were groups of saffron-clad robe-wearing men and women working industriously at small shining stations. They gazed up at screens or pointed at maps. They donned goggles and produced tiny explosions of light. As we walked past the first of these stations, I could see that the enormous map here was actually a constellation. The wizards were talking, with a great deal of gesticulation and passion, about stars and a route through them.

  Mr Wylie followed my gaze as we walked past them, my head swivelling to keep watching them even once we’d passed.

  “They’re students,” he explained. “They’re learning the best way to move through a particular galaxy. We wouldn’t want to scramble our signals by travelling through an unexpected asteroid belt, now, would we?”

  I grimaced, liking the idea of time-travel less and less. “No, I don’t suppose you would.”

  The deeper into the dome we ventured, the more incredible everything appeared. We walked through an area dedicated to workbenches. Wizards were busily employed, some with mallets and hammers, other with delicate surgical implements. There were tools displayed on floating boards that gracefully weaved in and out of those working here—containing implements of every conceivable shape and size and in every possible metal. For the most part, the wizards here had their heads bent over tiny hand sized machines that looked very similar to Gorde’s Gimcrack.

  There were conveyor belts rolling along on tank tracks containing cogs and spokes, springs and clips. Wizards would dash across and inspect the wares on offer and then pluck one or two pieces, perhaps discard one, and then race back to the workbench to add it to their creation.

  Dotted here and there were wizards in darker orange robes but with similar decoration. They pushed brooms around, sweeping up pins and screws and shavings of metal from the glimmering floor. There didn’t appear to be a speck of dust anywhere. Florence would approve.

  “Does every wizard create their own Gimcrack?” Silvan asked, and I stared at him in surprise. He’d hit the nail on the head. Of course, that’s what these men and women around us were doing.

  Mr Wylie nodded. “Well spotted. Any wizard worth his or her salt is going to be able to get their head around the complexity of the Gimcrack.” Mr Wylie halted at a bench to our right so that Silvan could get a better look at what the wizards were building here. The creation seemed similar to Gorde’s Gimcrack, but it lacked the refinement, the meticulous placing of the components that made Guillaume’s so intricate and specialised.

  Even I could see that.

  But that in itself raised an interesting question in my mind.

  “Gorde wasn’t the first to make one?” I asked. It stood to reason that Guillaume wasn’t the first time-travelling wizard. How had these wizards moved around before he invented the Gimcrack?


  “Gorde’s Gimcrack is the archetype. It has yet to be improved upon,” came Mr Wylie’s curt response. But it didn’t answer my question. I looked across at Silvan to see whether he had noticed the avoidance of my question and he smiled devilishly at me, but also gave the tiniest of headshakes.

  A frisson of relief flowed through me. I’d felt uneasy since our earlier encounter with Mr Wylie, but if Silvan was playing it cool, I had nothing to worry about. After all, he was no fool.

  Mr Wylie led us through increasingly sterile areas until at least we came across a screened-off space. An older woman, in the usual saffron robes regarded us with interest as we approached. “These are our guests?” she asked, and Mr Wylie nodded.

  “Come through, come through,” she sang, and the screens pulled back to reveal what I can only describe as a stage set, within the bigger dome. Taking the shape of an ordinary domestic room it was as far from being sparsely furnished as it was possible to be. It remined me in part of Wizard Shadowmender’s peculiar house in Surbiton. Setting foot in here, with no knowledge of what was going on in the immediate vicinity behind you, you might actually have imagined yourself inside a brick constructed dwelling. The walls suggested such. They were oak panelled at the bottom, and then covered in a dark wine brocade above a line of beading that continued all the way around the ceiling. It made for an odd effect, inducing slight claustrophobia. Peculiarly, there was a dentist’s chair in the middle of the chequered floor. It had been hooked up to numerous screens and a large computer. The only other items of furniture were an old desk and a pair of scruffy wooden chairs.

  Most striking of all were the sheer number of clocks in the room. Some were free standing—tall Grandfather and smaller Grandmother clocks, others—Swiss cuckoo clocks and their ilk—had been hung on hooks. Still more, many dozens more, had been arranged on shelves.

  I gaped in astonishment. The clocks ticked and tocked, clicked and whirred, and I was reminded of the clock shop in Celestial Street.

  Footsteps behind us alerted me to a pair of newcomers. Two young wizards, physically strong if not magickly so. The screens swished closed behind them. One of them nodded at me, the other looked only forwards. Guards?

  Why did we need guards? Instantly I was on high alert.

  The woman cleared her throat gently, diverting my attention.

  “Pardon me for not coming to meet you sooner. Unfortunately, we are experiencing a number of issues with the main timeframe software. I am Acting High Wizard Ballulah Borodov, and I am honoured to make your acquaintance.” She bowed slightly and smiled at first Silvan and then me. “Mr Wylie has been acting under my instructions. As you are probably already aware, we have been trying to track down the whereabouts of Guillaume Gorde for many decades. In fact, as we stand here in this instance of time, we have been searching for centuries.”

  Centuries? We’d jumped forwards in time? No wonder my stomach was having a hard time coping.

  “We’ve had no luck. Ms Daemonne?” Ballulah scanned my face. “Your great-grandmother, with the aid of Gorde’s magic staff, was able to create a monumentally powerful forcefield. That in itself would have kept him hidden forever, or at least until Whittle Inn was razed to the ground.”

  I eyed the Acting High Wizard thoughtfully. I didn’t like the way she’d said that.

  “Hoooo.” Mr Hoo, still on my wrist, ruffled his feathers. I soothed him with my free hand. He obviously sensed some ulterior intent behind the Acting High Wizard’s words, too.

  “In-and-of-itself that powerful magick was no bad thing. The problem only came about when the forcefield was breached and Gorde’s Gimcrack was stolen,” Ballulah continued, “and that is our property which we have no alternative but to retrieve.”

  She regarded us solemnly. “Given that your great-grandmother is now deceased and cannot aid us further with our enquiries, we need your assistance.”

  “I’m sure we’re happy to try and help you,” I nodded at Ballulah, wondering what form our help could take. A scratching feeling on the top of my scalp had me feeling uncomfortable.

  Ballulah smiled, and this time there was a hint of steel in her eye. “I’m afraid there is no try. To put it plainly, we must succeed. The fate of our Order hangs in the balance.”

  Silvan shifted his weight slightly beside me, a hint that his defences were up. “For the sake of Gorde’s Gimcrack? Surely if all wizards make their own gimcrack then—”

  Ballulah raised her hands. “There is no more discussion to be had.” She nodded at the wizard guards behind me and quick as a flash one of them had hold of me by the upper arms, and the other had pulled a hessian sack over Mr Hoo.

  Silvan reached for his wand but Ballulah reached out an arm and stopped him. “I do apologise, Mr Silvanus. I had your wands confiscated when you both arrived.”

  I glared at William Wylie. What mess had he mired us in? He had the grace to drop my gaze and look a little shamefaced.

  “Mr Silvanus, if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat, here?” Ballulah indicated the chair I’d likened to a dentist’s chair. I suppose it was actually more of a reclining leather couch in blue leather.

  Silvan’s gaze raked over first me and then the wizard who held me in an iron grip, and finally the sack containing a fluttering and flustered and hissing Mr Hoo. “You know, there’s really no need for this,” he snarled at Ballulah. “We’re happy to assist you, but this—”

  “Please take a seat,” Ballulah repeated smoothly. Silvan’s ire did not bother her in the slightest. When he didn’t move, the smile on her face disappeared. “Nobody will come to harm here. Your cooperation is appreciated. Now please,” Ballulah indicated the seat once more and reluctantly Silvan climbed onto it.

  With practised ease, Ballulah slipped manacles around Silvan’s wrists, effectively strapping him to the chair.

  “What are you doing?” I cried and wrenched free of the goon holding me. “We said we would help you if we could. This is coercive!” The wizard guard made to grab me again, so I kicked him hard in the groin. He doubled over with a shriek. I gave him another for good measure.

  “Ms Daemonne—” Ballulah called.

  I swivelled on the balls of my feet and directed a short sharp punch of magick—effectively a hard slap on the cheek—at the guard holding my owl in his hessian sack. Ballulah sent a blocking spell his way to stop me making contact with him but she wasn’t fast enough. He dropped the sack and I quickly extracted an indignant Mr Hoo, who fluttered to the top of a Grandfather clock and began grooming his feathers with a hitherto unseen fury.

  I turned back to Ballulah. “Ms Daemonne—” she warned.

  “This is just not civilised,” I said and lifted my hands to cast a spell her way. So what if she’d taken our wands? Any witch who knows her onions can easily use her hands. I’d knock her on her backside if she insisted in carrying on with this charade.

  Instead she threw back her head and laughed in delight and began to applaud. Mr Wylie smirked, too. At the same time, a screen, previously invisible to the naked eye flew down from the ceiling and floated in the air in front of us. It blinked on and Wizard Shadowmender’s face smiled down at me.

  “Hello, Alf,” he boomed at me.

  “Wizard Shadowmender?” I glanced around in confusion. The guard on the floor, his eyes watering, was being helped to his feet by the other one. “What’s going on here?”

  “I do apologise for all the subterfuge, my dear. I have been trying to convince Acting High Wizard Borodov that it wasn’t necessary, but she feared you might be a little meek and mild for what she intends to ask of you.”

  Ballulah laughed again and pointed at the guard I’d wiped out. “I happily admit to being wrong. This pair have plenty of backbone.” She nodded at Mr Hoo’s tormentor, “Miguel, please release Mr Silvanus.”

  As he moved to do so, I peered up at Wizard Shadowmender. “I was worried there for a minute.”

  “Alf, as you’ve correctly surmised, there is more to Gorde’s
Gimcrack than meets the eye. If I might have a word with your… friend?”

  Silvan came and stood beside me, cocking an eyebrow my way in amusement.

  “You remember Wizard Shadowmender?” I asked him, pointing at the screen. He nodded at me, so I mouthed the words ‘be nice’ at him so that no-one else would overhear.

  “I do.” Silvan turned to the screen. “Good to see you again, Sir.”

  “Likewise, young Horace,” Shadowmender beamed down at us. “Horace, if it is at all possible, Ballulah would like to harvest some of your memories.”

  “Which ones specifically?” Silvan looked a little worried, and not without cause. I could understand that. As a rogue and a scoundrel, it stood to reason Silvan’s memories were a cesspit of shadiness.

  “We understand you performed a little necromancy the other night?” Shadowmender trod carefully. It was not something our order particularly approved of.

  Silvan glanced sideways at me and I shrugged. I’d mentioned to him before that there were never any secrets at Whittle Inn.

  “I did,” Silvan’s voice was clear and calm, without the faintest hint of guilt. I’d never known him to be phased by any situation. I certainly admired him for that. “I really wasn’t able to find much out.”

  Ballulah shuffled forwards once more, her whole appearance had changed from the haughty Acting High Wizard we’d met before to a friendlier more open and earnest version. “Our advanced technology can replay your memories to look at what happened that night. We’ll be able to re-examine the electrical trace energy that you found, and with any luck we can pinpoint a more precise moment that Gorde’s Gimcrack was removed from the room and find out who removed it.”

  “Perhaps even prevent it happening,” Mr Wylie chipped in.

  “Do you use that machine?” I asked, indicating the dentist’s chair.

  “Yes, but I can assure you it doesn’t hurt at all.” Mr Wylie patted the chair and looked expectantly at Silvan.

  Silvan looked from me to Ballulah and then up at Wizard Shadowmender. Shadowmender nodded. Silvan turned to me and winked.