Any Other Name

by Emma Newman

  She had to find out where they’d buried Miss Rainer but she didn’t want Bennet to know her need. It was a private thing and Cathy didn’t want to tarnish her personal pledge by exposing it to the air in clumsy words. She would lay flowers on Miss Rainer’s grave and thank her for giving her the courage to not only speak her mind but act too.

  Max sat on the wooden chair in the ballroom, waiting in a pool of light cast by the lantern near his feet. “No,” he called through the door.

  “Oh, come on,” the gargoyle’s voice rasped. “I can help.”

  “You’ll be a distraction.”

  “Exactly. She’ll drop her guard if I’m in there with you. You saw what she was like the night we got the Master of Ceremonies back. She couldn’t keep her hands off me.”

  Max folded his arms, eyes fixed on the wall ahead. “She scratched behind your ear. Don’t exaggerate.”

  “We could do the good cop, bad cop thing.”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” Max said, but as he finished the sentence a sense of two interrogators playing off each other surfaced in his mind.

  “You need to read more. And let me in.”

  Max pulled himself up with the help of his walking stick and opened the door. “Don’t get carried away,” he said to the gargoyle as it grinned at him. “Let me do the talking.”

  The stone creature stalked into the room, lowering its head as it sniffed the floor and gave it a predatory look. Max closed the door and locked it again, even though he knew Mr Ekstrand would be arriving shortly. He wanted to make the point that he took security seriously. Max pointed at a corner and the gargoyle went and hunkered down in it, grumbling.

  Moments after Max had sat back down, the door was unlocked and Ekstrand entered, wearing the same suit, cloak and bandanna across the face as he had the night they rescued the Master of Ceremonies. He carried his magnifying glass instead of the cane and noticed the gargoyle. “Should that be in here?”

  “The puppet seemed to like it, sir, and it may make her drop her guard.”

  “Don’t let her inspect the formulae too closely.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  As Ekstrand nodded, an outline of a doorway burned into the wall opposite him. Max reminded himself of the objective, got to his feet and readied himself for any foul play.

  The door materialised, opened and the puppet stepped through and closed the door quickly behind her. She was dressed in mundane clothes with satin gloves that looked out of place.

  “Good evening,” Max said.

  “Hey,” the gargoyle called from the corner.

  She looked at Ekstrand, swallowed and then waved in the gargoyle’s direction uncertainly. Her eyes flicked about the room before she looked at Max properly. “Good evening, Mr Sorcerer, Mr Arbiter.”

  “You know the drill,” Max said, approaching to frisk her, but she took a step back.

  “Just make sure you don’t touch my skin, whatever you do.”

  “I’ll check her,” Ekstrand said and beckoned her further into the room. “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can be more civilised than before,” he replied and she did so.

  He went behind her and peered through the magnifying glass. “Good grief,” he muttered, and then moved the inspection across her left hand. “Damnable things, wedding rings.”

  “You’re telling me. You can see it through my gloves?”

  “It’s cursed.”

  “I know. I daren’t take it off. I’m not wearing anything else that’s dodgy. Actually, can you tell if it’s linked to Lord Iris?”

  “Not actively, not this moment,” Ekstrand replied. “But it’s tied deeply to your soul. I’d be unsurprised if he knew when it was removed. Fascinating. The Irises take their marriages seriously, it seems. Other than that she’s clean.” He stepped away, tucked the magnifying glass under his cloak. “You can look again now.”

  She peered up at him, seeming braver. “I don’t know why you’re bothering with the face-mask thing. I’m hardly going to run off and tell people we’ve met, am I? And it’s not like I could bump into you on the street.”

  “It’s standard procedure when dealing with your kind,” he said, and Max noticed her wince.

  Ekstrand sat on an empty chair next to Max and gestured to the one in front of them. She scanned the shadows as she crossed the room and sat. “Is this where I was before?”

  Max ignored the question. “We have a lot to discuss, and I’m sure you don’t have a lot of time.”

  She nodded. “True enough. Why did you want to see me?”

  “You said the last time we dealt with each other that you wanted my help,” Ekstrand began. “I’m giving you the opportunity to earn it.”

  She folded her arms and crossed her legs. “I’m listening.”

  “We need to talk to one of the Rosas,” Max said. “We know some of them are hiding in Londinium or possibly London.”

  “Why do you need my help to find them? Don’t you have sorcerous means to do that?”

  “It’s not possible, in this instance,” Ekstrand said.

  “Why?”

  “That’s all you need to know,” Ekstrand replied.

  “The first time we met, you said you wanted protection from your family,” Max began. “You said you weren’t like them. Then when you returned from Exilium Sam told us you knew about things one of your kind normally wouldn’t. Can you explain how?”

  “I lived in Mundanus for a while.”

  “That’s not usual for a female puppet,” Ekstrand said.

  She swore under her breath. “Look, if we’re going to actually work with each other you need to stop calling me that. I have a name, it’s Cathy. It’s not my fault I was born into Society, it’s not my fault the bloody Fae are constantly screwing up my life. I’m a person, and not like all of the other people who live in the Nether.”

  “I apologise,” Ekstrand said.

  “Point taken,” Max acknowledged. She would always be a puppet though, regardless of how she chose to delude herself. “Can you explain why you spent time in Mundanus?”

  “Look, let’s get to the point here, I don’t have time to justify myself to you both. We need to make a deal and quick, before someone notices I’m gone. I ran away from my family, I lived in Mundanus for about three years. Lord Poppy, the bastard, found me and dragged me back into Society. I had a plan to make a deal with you guys that day you took me, so I could escape before I was married off. But because you were so busy playing your Us versus Them game and wouldn’t listen to me, I’ve been married off to a man I hardly know. Now, if you want my help you need to get me out of the Nether and protected from Lord Iris, Lord Poppy and the rest of the so-called Great Families before my husband rapes me in the name of consummating a marriage, or I’m going to be a lot less inclined to help you. Clear enough?”

  “We’ll get you out,” the gargoyle said, coming out of the shadows. “Right?”

  Max gave it a steady stare, willing it to back off. “You’ve made your point, pup… Cathy. You hid from your family, so you know the best way to hide using the Charms and artefacts available to those in Society, yes?”

  She nodded. “You want me to tell you how I did it?”

  “Yes,” Ekstrand said.

  “No,” Cathy replied. “I can’t do that.”

  “But you need to help us so we help you,” Ekstrand said. “What harm could it do to–”

  “No,” she repeated, more forcefully. “I can’t tell you, I’m sorry. It would break a promise. But I can still help. Do you want to speak to a particular Rosa, or just any?”

  “We want to speak to the head of the Gallica-Rosa line or the Alba-Rosa line,” Max replied. They were complicit in the plot against the Master of Ceremonies, and the two most powerful families in the Londinium Court. It stood to reason that one of them would know something useful.

  “If I tell you where you can find them, I want you to free me from this c
urse and hide me from the Fae in return. You can do that, right?” She was looking at Ekstrand. “I mean, you’re probably one of the few people in the Split Worlds who’d know how.”

  “I could,” Ekstrand said. “But I’ll only do that when I know I no longer need you in Fae-touched Society.”

  “But she needs to get away from them now!” The gargoyle’s voice was half-growl.

  “One more word from you and you’re out,” Ekstrand said, pointing a long finger at him. He looked back at the puppet. “This is just the first step to finding out what we need to know. The information you provide will help, but not solve the issue. If I’m to free you from the ties of your blood, you need to work harder than that.”

  “You’re all the same,” she muttered. “You don’t give a shit about people, we’re just the proverbial pawns on the chessboard.”

  “It’s the way of the Worlds,” Ekstrand said, without sympathy. “There is far more at stake than your happiness.”

  The puppet fidgeted for a moment and then said, “All right then, if you insist on being just the same as the Fae, how about this: I’ll tell you where to find the head of the Gallica-Rosa line but in return I want you to find all the information you can on an employee of the Agency. She was a servant, not a member of one of the Great Families, so it shouldn’t be hard to find out. Then if you need me to help with your Rosa problem, I will. In return you help me to get out of the Nether and hidden away from the Irises for good. Deal?”

  “Who do you want to find?” Max asked.

  “Deal?”

  “Yes,” Ekstrand said with an impatient wave of the hand.

  “She’s called – or was called – Miss Rainer. She was my governess for about ten years. She died about two years ago.”

  “She was involved with the Agency?” Ekstrand asked.

  “Duh, of course she was,” the puppet replied, and then her eyebrow twitched. “You do know the Agency provides all the staff, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Ekstrand said, but the puppet looked unconvinced. She was sharp.

  Max whispered in the Sorcerer’s ear, concerned that the longer Ekstrand stayed, the more of their ignorance he’d give away. “I think I should take it from here, sir.”

  Ekstrand nodded and stood up. “The Arbiter will deal with the details. I’m needed elsewhere.”

  The puppet nodded slowly, watching him leave, then looked at Max once the door to the rest of the house was shut and locked.

  “All right,” Max said. “So where do I find the Rosas?”

  She smiled. “At the Agency. They were rounded up the night we all spoilt their party.”

  “I knew that already,” Max said. “I need more.”

  “If that’s the case, why not just go and demand a search? Why bother to ask me for help?” She leaned forwards, the smile widening. “You don’t know anything about them, do you?”

  “No, we don’t,” said the gargoyle.

  “Go outside,” Max said to it.

  “She knows already, stop treating her like an idiot. There’s no time for this crap,” it replied. It went and sat next to her. It smiled and lowered its head, inviting a scratch behind the ears that she gave readily whilst smirking at Max.

  “He’s right,” she said. “OK, how about this: I tell you what I know about the Agency and help you to track down their headquarters and in return you bring me the information on Miss Rainer.”

  “There’s no other way to get to a Rosa?”

  “No,” she replied, but he didn’t believe her.

  “It would save time if there was.”

  “There isn’t.” She said it firmly enough to convince him she’d have to be persuaded in an unpleasant way to tell him. “Look, this way is mutually beneficial and we can start as early as tomorrow. I’ll send a note to their rep. Give me something to put in his bag or pocket, something you can track through the Nether. Have you got something like that?”

  He nodded. “I’ll get one and send it via your uncle, with instructions. I take it that method is still secure?”

  “Yep. OK, the Agency…”

  He listened as she described her understanding of the Agency and her interactions with its representative. He didn’t ask any questions or request any clarifications, letting his silence prompt her to speak more. When she was done, the puppet stood, brushed the gargoyle’s cheek with her thumb and went back towards the place in the wall she came through. “Are you going to open a Way for me?”

  He retrieved the Opener from its resting place under his chair and struggled to his feet.

  “We’ll do this as quick as we can,” the gargoyle said as Max hobbled over. “Don’t let that husband bully you into anything.”

  She didn’t reply, just looked sadly at the stone creature. “You’re sweet,” she said finally and kissed the top of its head as Max drove the Opener’s pin into the wall. She gave him one last glance after he opened it and went through.

  When the Way was closed and the Opener was back in his pocket, Max turned to the gargoyle. “I’m not sure that’s how good cop, bad cop is supposed to go.”

  The gargoyle’s shrug was made impressive by its huge stone shoulders. “I felt sorry for her.”

  “That’s what they’re good at making people do. It’s called manipulation.”

  12

  Will watched Catherine fiddle with the fingers of her gloves, newly made in a warm shade of gold silk. “Try not to be so nervous.”

  “You say that after spending most of the afternoon coaching me and saying how important it is every five minutes.”

  “Well, I felt you should know.” He twisted the cane; her nervous energy was leaching into him. “And you learned practically everything the first time so there’s nothing to worry about on that front.”

  “A bunch of names and anecdotes is hardly quantum physics. Sorry, you were trying to be nice again, weren’t you?”

  He sighed. “I’m trying to reassure you. You seem to need it.”

  “Look, I told you that I was a bad match. I told my family and no one listened. Just don’t go postal on me when I screw something up tonight, because you’ve had ample warning.”

  “‘Go postal’?” He waved away the explanation, noticing she said when rather than if. “Just don’t discuss politics or pick out any flaws and you’ll be fine.”

  “I know. I stick to fashion –” she mimed being sick in a most uncouth manner “– the joy of being newly married and the ‘delicious challenge’ of decorating our grand new house. You’d be better off paying a professional actress to pretend to be me, rather than me pretending to have any interest in these topics. Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Catherine.”

  She went back to glove-fiddling.

  “Do you like your dress?”

  “Well, I know what honeyed gold looks like now. If only my uncle could see me he’d weep with happiness.”

  “You look lovely.”

  “The dress looks lovely, William,” she replied. “Whereas you look handsome.”

  It was the first time she’d genuinely complimented him. “Thank you,” he said with a smile. If only she could accept a compliment given to her.

  At the tap on the roof from the driver they both readied themselves for arrival. Whilst he was taking care not to show it, Will was nervous too. They both had to make an excellent impression and also weigh up the opposition. Cornelius had given him vital information that would make it easier for him, but Catherine’s social skills were a concern and she would be on her own after dinner.

  The carriage slowed and he peered out of the window at the entrance to Hampton Court, dismayed by how much it looked like a ducal residence, even if it was out in the middle of nowhere.

  He got out of the carriage and helped her down the steps. The Tulipa butler greeted them and led them through a beautiful formal garden. “This is the reflection of the Privy Garden created in the reign of William III,” he said with pride.

  Of all th
e routes into the grand palace, Tulipa had picked this one. They were being reminded of the fact it was once owned by a King who was a puppet of the Tulipas.

  They were led into the grand Tudor buildings, guided through a variety of breathtaking chambers and then shown into a relatively humble receiving room. A man he recognised from Cornelius’s description as the Tulipa was handing a glass of sherry to one who was presumably the Viola. He wondered if he and Catherine had been given a slightly later time on the invitation so as to enable the Londinium residents to observe their entrance.

  “Mr and Mrs William Reticulata-Iris,” the butler announced and the doors were closed behind them.

  “Ah, excellent, now we are complete.” The host smiled and approached. “Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Bartholomew Semper-Augustus-Tulipa.” He gave a formal bow which Will duly returned.

  “Thank you for your kind invitation,” he said. “May I introduce my wife, Catherine.”

  He watched Tulipa kiss her gloved hand, taking the opportunity to study him. The host was tall and most handsome, with dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail by a short black ribbon and eyes so brown they were almost black. He wore clothes in the late-eighteenth century style, and wore them well. His elaborately embroidered red jacket and long waistcoat glittered in the sprite light. Cornelius had reported his true age to be over two hundred and fifty but Bartholomew looked like he was in his thirties. Will had felt nauseous when he’d heard the true age, realising he was to be pitted against a man who’d lived ten times longer than he.

  “A pleasure, Catherine,” Bartholomew said. “I welcome you both into my home. This is my wife, Margritte.”

  He was joined by a fairly attractive woman with auburn hair. When she smiled, her blue eyes sparkled and her cheeks dimpled in a most becoming manner. Will kissed the soft skin on the back of her hand.

  “And this is Mr Frederick Persicifolia-Viola.” He gestured to a barrel-chested man who appeared to be in his late forties, with greying black hair and dramatic mutton chops.