Wizard Undercover

by K. E. Mills

  His heart sat in his chest like a lump of ice. “Ah … sir … is that wise?”

  “Wise?” Lips tightening, Sir Alec snapped his fingers over the small crystal ball, relegating Abel Bestwick’s fear and pain to memory. “Of course it’s not wise, Mister Dunwoody. It’s the most reckless thing I’ve done all year. And given what I’ve done recently …”

  Shackled together by secrets, they stared at each other across the severely neat desk.

  “I understand why you’d want to handle it this way, sir,” Gerald said at last, still unhappy. “What with Melissande’s convenient connections. It’s not like we have a lot of time up our sleeve. And doing it this way keeps things all in the family, so to speak. Less complicated. Fewer explanations and cover ups if I have to … get clever.”

  Sir Alec gave him a look. “Indeed.”

  But he still didn’t like it. “I don’t suppose …” He shifted in his chair. “Look, is there any chance Bestwick’s … I don’t know. Misread the situation?”

  “And then what?” Sir Alec said tartly. “In a fit of embarrassed remorse stabbed himself to make his story more plausible?”

  No, probably not. “Sir, you must admit his claim is nebulous. Has there been any independent confirmation of trouble?”

  “None,” said Sir Alec. “I’ve had Mister Dalby running down every last source he can think of, but so far no new information has come to light. As best as we can ascertain, both Splotze and Borovnik are in transports of delight at the prospect of this wedding.”

  He thought about that. “Maybe,” he said eventually. “But Splotze and Borovnik have neighbours. Graff, for example. Not a month goes by that they aren’t kicking up some kind of dust with Borovnik. Up till now, Splotze has never bothered itself over those problems. The wedding might change that. New family loyalties, and so forth. Borovnik might assume that from now on Splotze will weigh in on their side of any future disputes. Graff won’t like that. And then there’s Blonkken, and its special relationship with Splotze. Whenever Splotze gets control of the Canal, Blonkken’s shipping tariffs go down. What if Borovnik sweet-talks Splotze into keeping the tariffs high? That’s hardly going to put a smile on Blonkken’s face. And while they might all be signatories to the UMN accords, that’s not to say they can’t, or won’t, get creative with their thaumaturgics if tempers really start to fray. Or worse, go all sly and secretive with them. Midnight assassinations, that kind of thing. And what about us? Ottosland can’t afford—”

  Halting him with a raised hand, Sir Alec favoured him with a look that might almost be called approving. “At least you’re familiar with the current geopolitical landscape. That will save a certain amount of time. Now, touching upon the details of this assignment. There’s nothing you can tell Miss Cadwallader about the protocols and particulars of travelling as a royal. I expect you to be guided by her in that regard. Obviously you’ll conduct yourself with all due restraint. Under no circumstances can you betray the fact that you are acquainted with Miss Cadwallader and Miss Markham in any personal sense.”

  “No, sir, of course not.” And then a thought occurred. “Sir, it’s highly unlikely anyone in the wedding party will know me. They probably won’t even look at me. That sort never notice dogsbodies. But Bibbie? Miss Markham, I mean? Leaving aside her—ah—” He cleared his throat. “Well, to be blunt, sir, her beauty … with the number of international personages who’ve been entertained at the Markham mansion over the years—”

  “Miss Markham will need to be suitably obfuscated,” said Sir Alec, betraying irritation. “Although not by Mister Scrimplesham. The fewer people who know of this, the better. I’m sure that you and Miss Markham can arrange matters so that even her parents wouldn’t recognise her.”

  Yes, that should work provided Bibbie went along with it. And he rather thought she would. Remarkably, there wasn’t a vain bone in her body. And he had the sinking feeling she’d do a lot worse than give herself a few warts if it meant the chance of playing at janitors.

  Oh, lord. This is such a bad idea.

  “Ah—speaking of her parents, sir. They’re content that you’re involving her in this?”

  The question came out far more accusing than he’d intended. But really, what Sir Alec proposed was madness. For all her precocious brilliance, Bibbie was an innocent. She hadn’t been forged in the kinds of fires he’d faced, and Monk had faced, and Melissande too. The thought of Bibbie being scorched by such flames hurt him.

  An odd look crept into Sir Alec’s eyes. “Miss Markham has already obtained her parents’ permission for the trip to Splotze. And I have no doubt she’ll play her part satisfactorily.”

  He might not, but I do. He’s never seen Bibbie when she gets carried away.

  “Does that mean they know Bibbie’s mixing herself up in Department business?”

  Sir Alec’s lips thinned. “What Miss Markham’s parents are aware of is not your concern.”

  In other words, probably not. And probably they weren’t going to find out, either, because Sir Alec would do or say whatever he had to in order to ensure that Bibbie played her useful part in the quest to find Abel Bestwick and unmask the villains wanting to destroy the marital union between Splotze and Borovnik.

  He really is the most appallingly ruthless bastard.

  “Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec, very sharply. “Were you in Abel Bestwick’s shoes right now, hurt, possibly hunted, would you not wish me to do everything in my power to see you brought safely home, and the assignment for which you spilled precious blood followed through to a successful conclusion?”

  Yes. He would.

  So does that make me an appallingly ruthless bastard, too?

  Discomfited, Gerald cleared his throat. “Then you think Bestwick’s still alive, sir?”

  Sir Alec slid out from behind his desk and crossed to the window. The drab, inconsequential little suburb of Nettleworth spread its bleak streets beyond the dirty glass. It was barely past midday, but the sun looked tired already.

  “Until I am provided with evidence to the contrary, Mister Dunwoody, I always assume that my agents are still alive.”

  He was touched by unexpected shame. “Of course.”

  “Tell me,” said Sir Alec, with his back almost turned. “How are you, after Mister Jennings’s procedure?”

  Coming out of the blue, the question surprised him. Immediately wary, he resisted the urge to fold his arms.

  “It didn’t kill me.”

  Sir Alec flicked him a look. “Obviously. Mister Dunwoody—”

  “Well, what d’you want me to say, sir? I mean, you’re sending me on this assignment. You must think I’m fit for duty. Surely that’s all that matters.”

  Gerald waited for a reprimand. Taking that kind of tone with Sir Alec was more dangerous than juggling sharp knives with his one good eye closed. But instead of snapping out a reprimand, Sir Alec breathed a soft sigh.

  “I gave Mister Jennings instructions not to discuss with you the results of the hex extraction.”

  He frowned. “I know. He said.”

  “Mister Dunwoody, you astound me,” Sir Alec said, turning. “Will you sit there and tell me you don’t have any questions about what was done to you?”

  “No, sir. But since I don’t expect you’ll give me honest, straightforward answers, what’s the point in asking them?”

  “You won’t know if I’ll answer you honestly and straightforwardly if you don’t ask, Mister Dunwoody.”

  “Fine,” he said, no longer caring about his tone, or sharp knives. “All right. The procedure failed. Mister Jennings didn’t manage to extract all the grimoire hexes. But is that because he couldn’t? Or because you wouldn’t let him?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Bloody hell, Gerald!” Monk breathed, awestruck. “You actually said that? And what did Sir Alec say?”

  Up to his elbows in sudsy dishwater, Gerald took a moment to scrub the bottom of a pot. For all her besetting sins as a cook, at least
Bibbie was keen. And for once her sausages, mashed potatoes and onion gravy had been edible. Only it did mean spending rather a long time in the kitchen afterwards, cleaning up.

  “Gerald!” Monk prompted, snapping his tea towel in a vaguely threatening manner. “What did the cagey bugger say?”

  He put the scrubbed pot on the sink’s drainer, then glanced at the ceiling. “I wonder how much longer the girls are going to be? I mean, I know your sister’s a raving beauty but it shouldn’t be taking her this long to brew up the right obfuscation hex. I never should’ve let Melissande shut the door in my face. Or throw smelly socks at you until you ran away. I tell you, those two are up to something.”

  “And in other startling news,” Monk growled, “water is wet. Gerald, what is going on? Why won’t you answer a simple question?”

  Why? Because the question wasn’t simple, and neither is the answer.

  I was mad to start this conversation.

  “Sir Alec didn’t say anything,” he said, scrabbling around the bottom of the sink to make sure he’d not missed a teaspoon. “Mister Dalby burst in, all hot and bothered about some hiccup in Fandawandi, which meant I became superfluous to requirements. So I toddled home to read up on the history of Splotze and Borovnik, and practice bowing like a minion.”

  Monk lifted the drained pot and started towelling it dry. “Oh.”

  He’d left no teaspoons behind. Playing for time, trying to avoid possible unpleasantness, he emptied the sink of sudsy water, then started wiping down the table.

  With nothing else to dry, Monk put the pot in its cupboard then hung the damp tea towel on its hook. Glancing at him, Gerald saw that his friend’s usually open-as-a-book face was firmly closed. Damn.

  “Look … Monk. I really am sorry I didn’t tell you I was going through with the extraction procedure. Only—”

  “I know,” said Monk. “You said. Let’s not beat the dead horse, Gerald.”

  “No, let me finish,” he insisted. “You were right. Jennings’s procedure is bloody risky. I was afraid that if you had another go at talking me out of it, well … I might listen.”

  “Oh.” Monk hooked his ankle around the nearest kitchen chair, pulled it away from the table and sat down, back to front. Then he rested his chin on his folded arms. “D’you wish I had, now? Talked you out of it?”

  Remembering the startled fear in Errol’s face, the treacherous pleasure of it, the whispering seduction of power in his blood, Gerald began wiping down the nearest bench. “No.”

  Silence, while he pretended to care about spotless benches and his friend brooded. At last, Monk sat up.

  “So what d’you think? Did Sir Alec hobble Jennings?”

  Gerald shrugged. “I don’t know. And I don’t suppose it matters, does it? What matters is that Mister Jennings didn’t manage to extract all the hexes, which means I have to find a way to live with what’s left until you find a way to get rid of it.”

  “And I will, mate,” Monk said darkly. “My word as a Markham. Only first I have to clear my desk of a few things I can’t afford to shove onto a back burner.” He dragged the fingers of one hand through his unruly hair. “Is that all right?”

  It’d have to be, wouldn’t it? “Sure.”

  “Good,” said Monk, not quite hiding his guilty relief. “Ah— don’t suppose you can tell which hexes got left behind, can you?”

  Finished wiping benches, Gerald fussed over rinsing the cloth. It was hard to meet Monk’s eyes, talking about this. He wasn’t to blame for trying to kill his friend, he knew that, but even so …

  “It’s tricky,” he said at last, “I can tell which hexes Jennings managed to extract. Like—the power to control a First Grade wizard? That one’s definitely been knocked on the head.”

  Monk hooted, not very amused. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Catch the Department letting you hang onto that one. What else?”

  “There were a lot of shadbolt hexes. They haven’t gone, exactly, but they’re kind of … smudged. I can’t read them any more.”

  “Shadbolts.” Monk shuddered. “You’re well rid of that muck, mate. Trust me.”

  Yes, he certainly was. “I’ve lost the compulsion hexes, too. Before my encounter with Mister Jennings, if the fancy had struck me I could’ve made you cut out your own tongue with a pair of rusty garden shears.” His turn to shudder. “Or Melissande’s. Bibbie’s. Anyone’s.”

  Monk was staring, wide-eyed. “Bloody hell!”

  Finished rinsing, Gerald turned to the kitchen hob. Should he mention bumping into Errol? Confide in his friend how the urge to smash the arrogant bastard had risen in him like a scarlet tide and threatened to sweep away both conscience and humanity?

  No. No, I don’t think so. Things are complicated enough as it is.

  Monk grimaced. “So you’ve no idea what got left behind?”

  “Not no idea,” he said, still wiping. “Those hexes the other me used to punish witches and wizards who crossed him?” He tapped his temple. “They’re still stuck in here, like burrs. Mister Jennings couldn’t budge them for love or money. And I think—” He swallowed. “I think it might be easier to kill, now.”

  “Oh,” said Monk.

  They stared at each other, both remembering the other Ottosland and the killing hex that neither of them could escape, even though it had failed. Monk was the first to look away.

  Damn. “And there’s other stuff,” Gerald said quietly. “Only I can’t put my finger on it. It’s a feeling, more than anything. I know more than I did. I just don’t know what I know. Y’know?”

  “But you’re still you, mate,” said Monk. He almost sounded uncertain. “Right? You’re still our world’s Gerald Dunwoody.”

  And this was why he’d not wanted to talk about it. How could he possibly explain to Monk what it felt like to have his potentia so horribly tampered with? To no longer be sure that he was himself, that he could trust himself, from one breath to the next, when sleeping deep inside, too lightly sleeping, was the urge to obliterate whatever irritated him?

  Monk’s such a decent bloke, he’d never understand.

  “I mean, Sir Alec’s not a fool,” said Monk, sounding close to anxious. “If you weren’t all right he’d never let you out of his sight. He wouldn’t be sending you to Splotze if you weren’t all right. And you wouldn’t risk the girls, mate, would you? You’d stay home if you weren’t all right. Right?”

  And that was a far trickier question. The bald fact was, he had a great deal to prove. To Sir Alec. Sir Ralph. The Department. Most of all to himself. And he needed to prove it, soon, before doubt crippled faith.

  “Look, Monk,” he said, tossing the kitchen cloth into the sink. “I’m not going to lie to you. I do feel different. It’s as though there’s more of me inside my skin. And I feel darker, too. Like there’s a shadow in between me and the world. It’s not as thick as it was, but … it’s still there.”

  “I see,” said Monk, after a moment. He looked sick.

  “But I promise you, I swear, I’ll never endanger the girls,” he added swiftly. “If I thought for a moment I couldn’t be trusted to keep them safe I wouldn’t let Sir Alec mix them up in this wedding business.”

  “So …” Monk dragged a hand down his face. “There is something going on over there. This isn’t just Sir Alec with the wind up.”

  Gerald hid a wince. Careful, now. Careful. He mustn’t mention Abel Bestwick’s graphic message. If Monk got a bee in his bonnet he was perfectly capable of futzing the entire mission. As expected, he’d already gone spare over the notion of Bibbie playing janitor. It wouldn’t take much of a nudge to send him over the edge again.

  “All I can tell you is that our man in Splotze has landed himself in hot water. But we don’t know how hot, and we don’t know who’s boiling the kettle. It could all turn out to be a big misunderstanding. That’s why I’m going, to figure the lay of the land. But trust me, Monk, I won’t let the girls get within sniffing distance of trouble.”

  “O
h, yeah?” Monk snorted. “Think you can hobble those two if they get the bit between their teeth, do you?”

  He was saved from answering by Melissande’s return. “Are you two still in here?” she said, hands on hips in the kitchen doorway. “Honestly, how long does it take to wash a few dishes?”

  “Where’s Bibs?” said Monk, neatly side-stepping the domestic bear-trap. “Don’t tell me you’ve made her hex herself so hideous she can’t bear to show her face!”

  “On the contrary,” said Melissande loftily. “I’ve managed to kill two birds with one stone. Gentlemen, I give you Gladys Slack, lady’s maid to Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland.”

  She moved out of the way, and into the kitchen walked a modestly downward-looking young lady with glossy dark brown hair pulled into a bun and melting brown eyes framed by thick horn-rimmed spectacles, whose plain black skirt and prim cream blouse and sensibly low-heeled button shoes and knitted stockings did nothing to disguise the tempting figure beneath.

  “Well, that’s no good,” said Gerald, feeling his heart crash and bang against his ribs. “Where’s the hooked nose? The beady eyes?Where are the warts with hairs in them? Blimey, Melissande. She might not look like Bibbie but she’s still beautiful!”

  “Exactly,” said Melissande, as Bibbie stood like a mouse with her hands demurely clasped before her and her gaze still downcast. “She doesn’t look like Emmerabiblia Markham, which means if there’s anyone in the wedding party who’s ever dined at the Markham mansion they won’t think twice when they see her. But she’s still guaranteed to attract Crown Prince Hartwig’s wandering hands, which means they won’t be wandering over me this time, so I can avoid creating an international incident, which I’m sure Sir Alec will appreciate.”

  Gerald swallowed. What about him creating an international incident? He didn’t want Crown Prince Hartwig’s philandering hands all over Bibbie! Except he couldn’t say that, could he? He didn’t have the right.