by K. E. Mills
There was no point arguing. “Yes, all right. But I’m not making any promises.” And now it was time to change the subject. He looked at Uncle Ralph. “I must admit I haven’t been paying a lot of attention to the Splotze-Borovnik fuss, sir. I’m still working on that big project for—” Just in time he remembered Aylesbury, who was employed by Ottosland’s largest international trading company and didn’t possess the right kind of government clearances. “That’s to say, I’ve been busy. D’you honestly think something as simple as a wedding can patch up more than two hundred years of disputes and skirmishes and the occasional all-out war?”
“I can’t say,” said Uncle Ralph, after a considering moment. “But at least it’ll give them something different to skirmish over. Weddings? From my experience they’re little more than an excuse to settle old feuds and start new ones.”
“Uncle Ralph, are you saying there’s going to be trouble?” Bibbie said, pushing her emptied dinner plate away. “Because with Melissande not going to Splotze, and New Ottosland not wanting to risk various trading concessions, now it’ll be King Rupert flying the flag at the wedding and it would be awful if something happened. He’s the only brother Mel’s got left and she’s terribly fond of him.”
“There!” said their mother, signalling Cheevers to start clearing the table for the dessert course. “That is precisely what I’m talking about. Your friend’s brother. King Rupert. What is he if not a perfectly good unmarried monarch cluttering up the landscape? If this Princess Melissande was really your friend, Emmerabiblia, she’d introduce you to him. Monk, why haven’t you arranged it?”
“Mama …” He sighed deeply, ruefully resigned. “Probably she would, if I asked, but even if I did, as a rule kings don’t marry commoners.”
“Commoners? With the blood of Thackerays and Markhams coursing through her veins, Monk, your sister is anything but common!”
“I know,” he said patiently, because at times like this their mother required careful handling. “Only, Mama, you can’t be serious. I mean, if Bibs married Rupert she’d have to go and live in New Ottosland.”
“And get all excited about butterflies,” Bibbie added, wrinkling her nose. “Because according to Mel, that habit’s stuck. So I think I’ll pass on Rupert, thanks all the same.”
“And you know, Sofilia,” Uncle Ralph added, “she’s not likely to find the right sort of chap at this bloody Splotze-Borovnik affair. It’ll be crawling with foreigners of dubious lineage. Last thing this family needs is Emmerabiblia making sheep’s eyes at someone unsuitable from Graff or Harenstein or Blonkken.”
Being careful to keep his expression safely amused at indignant Bibbie’s expense, Monk looked at their important, powerful uncle and wondered. For all his joviality, there was a shadow in his eyes. So either something was bothering him about the Splotze-Borovnik wedding … or else some other cloud was looming on the thaumaturgical horizon.
But what could it be? I’ve heard no rumblings. And if something was up, Gerald would’ve told me.
At least, he’d like to think so. Only things between him and Gerald hadn’t been entirely comfortable since their return from the other Ottosland. They were keeping mismatched work hours, and when their paths did cross, in the kitchen or on the stairs of his inherited town house, it never seemed to be the right time for a fraught conversation. And anyway, he had no idea what to say.
I know you tried to kill me, mate, but no hard feelings. You weren’t yourself. And incidentally, how’s that grimoire magic working out for you? Had any more overwhelming homicidal urges lately?
No. No, he couldn’t say that. Trouble was, it seemed he couldn’t say anything that didn’t run the risk of revealing a harsh truth: that every time he looked at his best friend, just for a split second he remembered that hideous killing hex, the cruelty in Gerald’s face, the pain and the disbelief and the horror of impending death … and was afraid.
So, perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken against Jennings’s extraction procedure after all.
Pushing aside the sharply painful memories, Monk returned his attention to the family dinner. Cheevers and his underling were leaving the dining room, having served up the final course of raspberry fool, and Aylesbury was banging on about the importance of the wedding with regards to the stability of international trade.
“—exactly my point, Uncle Ralph. It might not be an ideal solution, but something has to be done. The Splotze-Borovnik Canal is a vital shipping thoroughfare. I hate to think how much money’s been lost thanks to all those wasted years of bickering.”
Stirred again from dreams of fantastic thaumaturgics, their father slapped the table. “It’s the greatest mistake in history, that bloody Canal,” he declared, his deep-set eyes glittering. “All it’s done is give Splotze and Borovnik even more excuses to fight. And how stupid were they, eh, to sign treaties that prevent the use of thaumaturgical measures to keep the peace? Superstition and ignorance instead of enlightenment, and for no better reason than their etheretics are unreliable. I tell you, it’s been one misstep after another, ever since the day they opened their muddy ditch for business.”
Aylesbury stared, aghast. “But, sir—you can’t mean that!”
“I bloody well can,” their father retorted. “And if you’d stop wearing those stupid neck ruffs that make you look like a lachrymose poet, you’d get a decent flow of blood to your brain and realise I’m right.”
“But Father, you’re not right,” Aylesbury insisted, his colour dangerously high. Very fond of his neck ruffs, was Aylesbury. A stalwart aficionado of the romantical fashions. “Perhaps if you spent less time footling about with useless theoretical thaumaturgics, and more time out in the real world dealing with actual issues of economics and trade and politics, you’d—”
“Oh, blimey,” Bibbie murmured. “Here we go. Do something, Monk.”
“Why me?” he said, raspberry-and-cream laden spoon halfway to his mouth. But it was only a token protest. They’d never listen to Bibbie and there was no-one else. His mother and Uncle Ralph had long since given up when it came to keeping the peace between Wolfgang Markham and his eldest son.
But I’m the idiot who can’t help throwing himself into the fray.
As Aylesbury and their father paused to take a heated breath, Monk cleared his throat. “I say. I’ve been thinking. It’s pretty sad about Lady Barstow, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is,” their mother agreed, with an approving flicker of one eyelid. “Not my favourite person, it’s true, but she’ll be missed. Very good on a committee, was Persephone Barstow. You could always rely on her to provide edible biscuits.” She turned. “What has Gaylord to say about her death, Ralph?”
Uncle Ralph choked on a mouthful of dessert. “Sofilia, please, this is hardly the time or place to discuss—besides, I can’t—” Peevish, he dabbed pinkish cream off his chin with his damask napkin. “Dammit, I was hoping to leave work in the office for one evening, at least.”
Monk had to smile. “A forlorn hope, sir. Y’know—” He sat back, comfortably full of roast beef and raspberries. “Looking at the matter purely academically, I can’t help but be a bit impressed by the incant that did for Lady Barstow. Bloody ingenious, hexing her teapot like that. Your average punter won’t think past natural causes. How d’you suppose—”
“Ingenious?” Aylesbury shoved his own raspberry fool to one side, untouched. “Monk, you make me sick. The wizard responsible for this has to be stopped, not admired. Lady Barstow might’ve been a vacuous blot but she didn’t deserve to die like that.” He leaned forward. “Infantile adoration from thoughtless idiots like you is one of the reasons this thaumaturgical madman hasn’t been caught.” His lips curled in a sneer. “Perhaps instead of witlessly fawning over the man and his growing list of misdeeds, you could spare a little of your vaunted genius for catching him.”
Stunned to silence, the whole family gaped. One supercilious eyebrow raised, Aylesbury smiled, sardonic.
“Oh, co
me on, Uncle Ralph. Surely you didn’t think you could keep this nefarious wizard’s exploits under wraps forever? I might not be in the government’s employ, but I am still a Markham. And while I don’t pretend to be Monk, neither am I a cabbage.”
“Now then, Aylesbury, I don’t recall anyone ever calling you a cabbage,” said Uncle Ralph, shockingly subdued. “Your aptitude scores are nothing to wink at.”
Aylesbury sneered. “So I am right? When it comes to these odd deaths and thaumaturgical mishaps, the authorities know they’re not random? Someone is standing behind the curtain, pulling the strings?”
“Hmmph.” Uncle Ralph ran a finger round the inside around the edge of his collar. “Well. Since I know I can speak freely beneath a Markham roof … yes. But as for this damned black marketeer and his filthy hexes, while I can’t go into details, for obvious reasons, I will assure you the Department is doing all in its power to bring the man down.”
“We know you’ll catch him,” said Monk, as his parents exchanged looks and held hands under the table. Funny how they always thought nobody would notice. “Word around the Department is that Gaylord’s got his best agents on the hunt.”
“What?” Uncle Ralph’s eyes bulged alarmingly. “D’you mean to tell me, Monk, that you and the rest of Research and Development’s ramshackle collection of reprobates spend the day gossiping about highly sensitive government matters that are none of your bloody business?”
“No—no, of course we don’t,” he said, leaning away from his irate uncle. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—that’s to say, I wasn’t— look, forget I mentioned it. My lips are sealed. I don’t know a thing.”
“Actually, Uncle Ralph,” said Bibbie, heroically rushing to the rescue, “I think it’s a bit insulting, the way you keep on referring to Ottosland’s mystery criminal as he. For all you know, your evil mastermind is a witch. I mean, when it comes to committing heinous thaumaturgical acts, you must agree that a witch is perfectly capable of being every bit as dreadful as a wizard.”
Their mother turned. “Wolfgang, darling, I don’t understand. Where did we go wrong?”
“Steady on, Mama,” said Monk, as Bibbie’s eyes widened with hurt outrage. “That’s not fair, y’know. Bibs—”
Ignoring him, their mother added, “I’ll tell you one thing, Wolfgang. Emmerabiblia’s zaniness does not come from my side of the family! She’s a Markham throwback, which means you’ll have to deal with her!”
“Thanks ever so, Mother, but I don’t feel like being dealt with,” Bibbie snapped. “I feel like going home. Monk, I’m off to warm up the jalopy. If you’re not sitting in the passenger seat by the time it’s toasty, you can walk back to Chatterly Crescent.”
And in the highest of dudgeons, she flounced out of the small dining room.
“Lord,” said Aylesbury, laughing. “I do love our family dinners. They save me from buying a ticket to the theatre.” He stood. “But even the best of entertainments must come to an end. I’ve a conference in Aframbigi tomorrow and a mountain of papers to read through before I leave. Good night, Mama.” He kissed their mother’s powdered cheek. “Good night, Father.” A perfunctory hand-shake. “Good night, Uncle Ralph.” A reserved nod of his head.
Their mother sighed. “Aylesbury dear …”
Aylesbury dear grimaced. “Monk.”
Monk waggled his fingers. “Aylesbury.”
“Really, Monk, you should try harder to get along with him,” his mother scolded, once his brother was gone. “Poor Aylesbury. He might not be a cabbage, but I’m afraid there’s no escaping the fact that next to you he is a trifle leafy.”
He shot his mother a sly look. “Perhaps he’s a throwback on the Thackeray side.”
“Really!” his mother said, then glanced at the dining room door and sighed again. “Oh dear. I suppose I should go and mend fences with your impossible sister. You know, Monk, it’s very poor of you to encourage her. I’m not at all sure it was the right thing to do, letting her live with you in Uncle Throgmorton’s house. Not after saying she could start that little witching business with that princess of yours. A great many eyebrows were raised both times, and I’m still waiting for most of them to come down.”
“Now, now, Sofilia,” said his father, taking her elbow before she could launch into a proper tirade. “You’re going to need some help, mending that fence. Give us a few minutes, Monk. And if you’ve some time in the next few days, you should drop back round. I’ve developed a new etheretic combinant meter, and I’d like your assessment.”
Monk grinned. Wolfgang Markham, world-renowned thaumaturgist, was an easy man for a son to admire … but sometimes hard to live up to.
But not now. Now being his son is the easiest thing in the world.
“Of course, sir. I’m free the night after next, if that suits.”
“Good,” said his father, and stood. “Come along, Sofilia.”
As his parents withdrew, Monk looked at Uncle Ralph. “Honestly, sir, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. The other lads and I don’t—”
“I know,” his uncle said heavily. “You’ve faults aplenty, but idle tongue-flapping’s not one of ’em. Don’t mind me, my boy. It’s been a long day.”
It was strange, really, being related to one of the most important government men in Ottosland. There was such a sharp line they had to draw, between their encounters at the Department, and then at family gatherings like this. Even stranger was being privy to things that by rights Ralph Markham should know, but didn’t, because him finding out would lead to terrible repercussions. Not an idle tongue-flapper?
Bloody hell, sir. You don’t know the half of it.
Uncle Ralph drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “That friend of yours. Dunwoody. Seen him today, have you?”
Monk felt a frisson of unease stir the hairs on the back of his neck. “No, actually. Ah … why?”
Instead of answering, Uncle Ralph seemed to debate with himself. Then he pulled a face. “He’s undergone a classified and slightly dangerous procedure, Monk. It means he might not be feeling quite himself, so be sure to look in on him when you get home.”
His mouth sucked cinders-dry. Bloody hell. The grimoire extraction. That was today? Why the hell didn’t Gerald tell me? “Yes, sir.”
“I can see from the look on your face you know what I’m talking about,” Uncle Ralph added, resigned. “So you know what it means. If you’re not satisfied with Dunwoody’s appearance, raise the alarm. But discreetly. Understand?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good lad,” said Uncle Ralph.
It was one of the most startling things he’d ever uttered.
Driving home with Bibbie, too preoccupied to pay much attention to her fuming complaints about overbearing, old-fashioned mothers, too numb to feel his usual terror at her recklessly extravagant driving, Monk gnawed at his bottom lip and wished he’d not eaten that third helping of roast beef.
Why hadn’t Gerald told him about the procedure? Was his silence another symptom of their ailing friendship? Doused in misery, as Bibbie rambled on he nodded in what he hoped were all the right places, offered an encouraging grunt every now and then, and felt his belly churn more and more nervously the closer they got to home.
Leaving his sister to garage the jalopy, he had her let him out by the gate. As he reached the bottom of the steps at the end of the path, he heard a familiar rustle of feathers.
“Evening, sunshine.”
Reg. She was perched on the big flowerpot by the front door, light from the window limning her long, sharp beak and making her eyes gleam.
“Evening,” he said, stopping. “What are you doing out here?”
Her tail feathers rattled. “Enjoying a little peace and quiet.”
There was something in her voice. “Oh. So … you know?”
“That our daft Mister Dunwoody spent the day having himself spring cleaned?” She sniffed. “Yes. I know.”
Monk folded his knees until he was sitting
on the nearest step. “You think getting rid of those foul grimoire incants was daft?”
“No. That was smart. Going it alone was daft.”
He couldn’t argue with that. “Have you seen him?”
“I spoke to him. From the other side of his closed bedroom door. He’s not interested in company.” Reg chattered her beak. “I’ll try again in the morning.”
Yes. Reg had often been the only one who could talk sense into Gerald. He just had to trust that at least that much hadn’t changed.
“I’m worried, Reg. He’s not the same.”
In the darkness, a cynical snort. “Neither am I, sunshine. And neither are you. We’re all of us different now, aren’t we, Mister Markham? One way or another.”
He realised then that he wasn’t ready to answer that question, or to talk in any meaningful way about what had happened in the other Ottosland. About the Reg who’d died there, or the Monk who’d died here and the Gerald who’d killed them both. Those things were too enormous. Still too close. He needed more time.
“Is Gerald all right, d’you think?”
“No,” said Reg, looking down her beak at him. “But you don’t need me to tell you that.”
Groaning, Monk dropped his head in his hands. “Oh, Reg. What are we going to do?”
Another rattle of tail feathers, and then a flap and a thud as she landed on his shoulder. “Right now? You’re going to pour me a brandy. Then we’re both going to take our beauty sleeps. And come tomorrow? Well. We’ll see.”
He stood, his knees creaking. “Don’t mention this to Bibbie. Or Mel, for that matter.”
“Ha!” said Reg, and whacked him with her wing. “Do I look like I came down in the last shower of turnips?”
“No, Reg,” he said humbly.
“No,” she echoed. “Now gee up. My brandy glass isn’t about to fill itself, is it?”
CHAPTER THREE
“Ooooh, Ferdie,” said Mitzie, breathless. “Should we? I don’t think we should. What do you think?”
