by K. E. Mills
Gerald shoved the papers back inside his tweed coat. “Thank you! D’you know, I think I will!”
He’d memorised a suitably havey-cavey route from the palace to Abel Bestwick’s lodgings, one that made sure he took in some of the more popular attractions a visitor might wish to see in Grande Splotze. As the crow flew it was no more than a brisk three-quarter hour’s walk to his destination, cutting through various side-streets and alleyways, but it was the kind of route that only someone familiar with Grand Splotze would use. If Algernon Rowbotham was seen nipping along it smartish, like a man who knew precisely where he was off to, eyebrows would rise. And if they weren’t friendly eyebrows, well, the next thing being lifted might well be a knife. Not that there was any reason to think that Algernon Rowbotham, secretary to Princess Melissande, would be the object of scrutiny.
But under the circumstances, he couldn’t afford to take the chance.
On a deep breath, Gerald marched off to give his best impression of a gormless tourist-about-town.
Splotze’s royal capital was abuzz with a feverish anticipation of the upcoming wedding. Being very late in autumn, with a definite nip in the air but no picture-postcard snow to delight visitors from warmer climes, this was the time of year that tended to fall between two seasonal sightseeing stools. At least, ordinarily. But the pending nuptials between Hartwig’s young brother, Prince Ludwig, and Borovnik’s only daughter, the Princess Ratafia, had turned ordinarily on its head.
The people of Splotze were easy to spot, with their abundant hair in varying shades of chestnut red and the men sporting moustaches most walruses would gladly claim. But for every proud local, Gerald saw a face that didn’t belong. His own folk from Ottosland, with their indefinable yet distinctive cast of features. A great many dark-haired, dark-eyed Borovniks, which was only to be expected. They were very well behaved, for once. In startling contrast to their trim swarthiness were the floridly well-fleshed visitors from Blonkken, with their blond hair thick as straw. They were almost as well-fleshed as the tourists from Graff, with whom they shared a common ancestry and a great many squabbles. And if that weren’t enough to turn Grande Splotze into a human zoo, there were also ebony-skinned Aframbigins, wiry-haired Steinish folk and even a few silk-wrapped Fandawandins shimmering in the cool sunshine like Rupert’s late, lamented butterflies.
Indeed, Grande Splotze was so crushed and crowded with visitors that Gerald was slowed to a maddening hop-step-and-shuffle as he made his way from the palace to the township’s heart. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, just in case someone was watching, instead of causing a fuss when confronted by yet another pedestrian of the voluminously-attired female persuasion, he simply stepped into the gutter. Sadly, the city’s gutters weren’t empty. By the time he’d navigated the length of Palace Way and reached the junction with Bessleslitz Circus he was mired well over the instep with a variety of evil-smelling substances he didn’t dare investigate too closely.
Bugger, he thought, casting another look behind him at the cheerful crowd. If I am being followed, how will I know?
The thronged centre of Grande Splotze was gaily festive. Garlands swooped from lamp post to curlicued, wrought-iron lamp post, intricately entwined in royal blue, gold and crimson. In the middle of each swoop was a portrait of the prince and princess, and if a certain amount of artistic licence had been taken with Ludwig’s likeness, well, it was a wedding, after all, starring the prince as The Dashing Bridegroom.
And it wasn’t just the lamp post garlands that created the air of celebration. Every shop front was festooned with bunting, every window graced with a larger version of the happy couple’s official portrait. In the pastry shops’ displays he saw cakes baked in the royal likenesses, some of them terrifyingly life-like. One ambitious baker had produced a figured cake to actual size and standing upright, with Ludwig and Ratafia’s iced hands coyly clasped—which seemed on the whole to be a sad waste of flour, eggs and sugar. He couldn’t imagine anyone eating the thing. Surely they’d be tried for treason if they did.
With one last horrified look at the life-sized cake, acutely mindful of Sir Alec back in Nettleworth doubtless impatient for a report, Gerald hurried on, making sure that Algernon Rowbotham took a moment to stare admiringly at the famously mosaicked Town Hall, then ogle the surprisingly unclothed statues in the Groblemintz Gardens. Both times he risked lowering his shield again, but couldn’t detect any trace of untoward thaumaturgics.
Probably I’m not being followed. Probably I’m letting Bestwick’s message give me unnecessary collywobbles. But my motto from here on in is Better Safe Than Sorry …
The major landmark of interest in Grande Splotze was, of course, the Canal: source of so much prosperity and misery, and the ultimate cause of the upcoming nuptials. Thanks to a coin toss between the respective rulers of Splotze and Borovnik, back in the days when the Canal was still only a dream, it began in Grande Splotze.
Also thanks to his Department briefing notes, he knew that the actual nuts-and-bolts business of the Canal, the cargo barges, lived in a shipyard some safe fifteen miles down-water from the royal capital. It meant that this end was used mostly for sightseeing and celebratory business. Indeed, according to Melissande, there would be two spectacular fireworks displays launched from barges tethered in the Canal itself, one to see them off on the wedding tour and one to welcome them back. At least that was something to look forward to.
Assuming, of course, that he foiled the pending plot.
Reaching the Canal promenade, Gerald spied the lofty observation tower that, for a modest fee, visitors were invited to climb in order to enjoy a spectacular view of the city. Shading his eyes against the cheerful sunlight, he tipped his head back. Blimey, it was high. That meant a lot of stairs. But he had to climb it. Sir Alec had warned him that Abel Bestwick’s choice of lodgings had everything to do with strategy, and nothing at all with comfort. It might be a bit of harmless gawking for Algernon Rowbotham, but for Gerald Dunwoody, bereft of Reg and her useful bird’s eye view, Grande Splotze’s famous tower presented the perfect opportunity for him to get a look at his fellow agent’s neck of the woods before wandering off the well-trodden tourist path.
He paid his fee and started up the stairs. Four hundred and twenty-three treads later, jelly-legged and gasping, he staggered onto the viewing platform.
The first thing he felt was the wind whipping through the blond hair that startled him every time he looked in a mirror. Close on its heels came a punch of strong thaumaturgics from the safety barrier erected around the platform’s edge. Recovered enough to properly observe his surroundings, he shuffled out of the way of those folk who’d survived the climb in better shape than he had, then waited for a gap to appear in the three-deep crowd of tourists already ooohing and aaahing over the sights.
After waiting several minutes, he created a gap of his own. And while, yes, absolutely, it was the kind of thaumaturgical behaviour that often got frowned upon, he didn’t care. He wasn’t a sightseer, he was a janitor on a mission, and he didn’t have all day.
The most remarkable thing about standing so high above Grande Splotze was the chance to see, in person, just how close it was to Borovnik. He’d seen its proximity on a Department map of the region, of course. Had seen how the Canal, which long ago had been a treacherous, inconsistent and unreliable river, now neatly and predictably divided the two countries. But maps were maps and never felt quite real. Even at ground level, it wasn’t much better. Trees got in the way, and buildings, and in the sprawling city a man could easily feel like an ant.
But up here, he was an eagle. At least, all right, maybe not an eagle. But some kind of bird. Probably Reg would call him a moth-eaten sparrow, but the principle remained the same. Up here, wind-whipped and still panting a little from that leg-breaking climb, he could see for miles … and note, a little nervously, that Borovnik’s well-trained military didn’t have far to march at all before they’d reach the Canal and soon after that, Splotze.<
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On the whole, he thought it was a good thing that not only had Splotze and Borovnik signed treaties preventing the use of any thaumaturgics in their tedious Canal disputes, but that they’d actually honoured them. Because if they hadn’t …
Right now I’d most likely be standing in a smoking thaumaturgical crater, instead of on top of this tower admiring the not-quite-distant-enough spires of Borovnik’s capital, Gajnik.
And if he didn’t succeed in averting a crisis over the Splotze-Borovnik wedding, that could still happen.
But never mind, Dunnywood. No need to feel pressed.
With a last appreciative look at the surrounding countryside—blindingly green fields, home to sheep and cows, and dots of woodland and cherry orchards and higgledy-piggledy hedgerows, all very picturesque—he turned his attention to the tidy sprawl of Grande Splotze. And yes, there was the palace, golden and glittering. The main street, with its shops, the town hall and the Gardens. Crossing to the western side of the platform, he saw there was a smaller canal running at a sharp angle off the main Canal. Interesting. It hadn’t been on the city map he’d studied. With a small, cynical smile he saw that it bifurcated the city’s western residential district into the haves and the have-nots. On the tower side of the small canal, the houses were large and manicured. But on its far side … they weren’t. There, the houses were slovenly and mean-sized, fit only for servants and the poor. Somewhere down there, in that huddle of shoddy dwellings and tightly tangled, narrow alleys and laneways, was Abel Bestwick’s modest lodging.
And if I don’t get a look at it soon, and report home, Sir Alec is going to have my guts for garters.
Climbing down the tower’s stairs was only a little less trying than climbing up, what with all the squishing and holding his breath so upward-bound sightseers could squeeze past. At last, safely back on the ground, Gerald looked around the busy promenade and plaza. Bloody hell, so many people. Before he went any further he needed to make sure he was still alone.
So he lingered on the haves’ side of the small canal, ensuring his anonymity and feeling briefly sorry that Melissande and Bibbie were stuck back in the palace. Because really, this was delightful. Not far from the tower was a brightly painted gazebo on a large square of lush green grass, from which an enthusiastic band of musicians serenaded the crowd. Keeping the music company were tame Jandrian monkeys turning tricks, dancing dogs in silly skirts, gaudily dressed clowns on stilts handing out fresh flowers to the ladies, a trio of daring fire-eaters, a sword swallower, a snake-charmer, several jugglers and a giant walking to and fro with a dwarf on his head—both of them inviting Grande Splotze’s visitors to call down blessings on the upcoming royal wedding. So innocent. It was worlds away from plots and danger and terrified janitors staring at their own blood.
But I can’t afford to think about that.
As sure as he could be that he remained unnoticed, he slowly edged away from the eddying crowds until he reached the fantastically constructed and painted iron bridge hooping over the small canal that would lead him into the heart of have-nots territory … and from there to missing Abel Bestwick’s lodging.
Nearly an hour later, muffled by the shadow of a steeply overhanging eave across the way, Gerald frowned at the shuttered front window and dilapidated front door of 45b Voblinz Lane, where Abel Bestwick had crawled into bed every night for the past four years. Like all the dwellings in this have-not part of the city, 45b was in desperate need of some tender loving care.
It was actually half a house. Some enterprising landlord in the past had taken 45 Voblinz Lane and sliced it in two with a single dividing wall. From the look of things 45a was unoccupied, and had been for some time, which doubtless suited both Abel Bestwick and Sir Alec. Neighbours could be nosy, and a great deal depended upon Bestwick remaining largely unremarked.
Still. No neighbours, and not much life in this ramshackle lane beyond a skinny stray cat and a few anaemic-looking pigeons? Lord, what a depressing place to live.
Doing his best not to breathe too deep of the damp, narrow lane’s malodorous air, Gerald tried to imagine being Abel Bestwick, a wizard undercover on long term assignment. Ghastly. Unthinkable. At least, not when the task demanded living this kind of life. Kitchen lackey in the palace, slaving and scurrying and hiding, snatching up whatever crumbs of useful information fell in his path and feeding them back to Sir Alec. Knowing that one day, one day, he might snatch up a crumb that could mean the difference between life and death for someone. Hoping for it, surely, so that his many sacrifices wouldn’t have been for nothing.
He shivered. Fingers crossed Sir Alec never asked that of him. Because he was pretty sure he couldn’t bear it … and in saying no, he’d likely cause a lot of strife.
But that was borrowing trouble, and he had more than enough already. He’d been standing here for over half an hour, and not a soul had walked by. Time to break into Abel Bestwick’s sad little home and see what useful information the man had left lying about.
Only please, please, don’t let him be lying about. I’ve seen enough dead bodies to last me three lifetimes.
Doing his best not to look furtive, Gerald crossed the narrow lane to number 45b. To be on the safe side, Sir Alec had given him a master de-warder that would get him past any thaumaturgical security safeguards Bestwick had left in place. He started to fish it out of his pocket, then hesitated.
I wonder.
Pretending he was a regular kind of visitor, he knocked on Abel Bestwick’s badly painted, ill-fitting, rust-hinged front door. And as he knocked, he let slip his etheretic shield—only to realise, with a sickened twist of his guts, that he had no need of his peculiar talents. The abrupt ending of Bestwick’s message to Sir Alec wasn’t, as they’d hoped, due to Splotze’s frustratingly erratic etheretic field. No. Someone—he couldn’t tell who—had already smashed through Bestwick’s security, with enough bludgeoning thaumaturgic force to shred the warding hex and leave it in fading tatters.
Bugger.
Cautiously, Gerald let himself into Bestwick’s unlit lodging, closed the door behind him and sealed it with a hex he knew for a fact not even Monk could disable. And then, screwing his eyes shut, he dropped his shield entirely and took a deep breath.
Don’t be here, don’t be here …
He coughed in the darkness, tasting the stale air, feeling a tickle of dust, smelling mould from something fruity. But that was fine. That was wonderful. He couldn’t smell the stench of death. And he had no sense of company, either. He was alone. Opening his eyes, he groped by the front door for the gas lamp igniter, found it, and flicked it on. After a moment, and the slightest whiff of gas, the lamps caught alight and lifted Bestwick’s lodging out of shadow.
The shoebox of a front room was a wrecked mess.
“Damn,” he said softly, looking at the smashed and splintered remains of an old, battered table, two equally old and battered dining chairs, a faded armchair and a tall, possibly fifth-hand bookcase. The books it had contained were gutted, their ripped pages tossed about like early wedding confetti.
Dried blood stained the old blue carpet a darker, rusty brown.
Skirting the sickening evidence of violence, he picked his way through the debris of Abel Bestwick’s life to the even smaller shoebox of a bedroom. There he found a splintered wooden truckle bed, its straw mattress slashed and spilling its dry, grey guts. The sheets were ripped, the blanket reduced to fraying ribbons, the single, ungenerous pillow disembowelled like the mattress. Ruined, too, Abel Bestwick’s meagre wardrobe of clothes. Not even his smalls had been spared, knifed to ribbons and dust cloths and strewn across the floor.
The shutter on the bedroom window was loose. Pushing it open, just a little, Gerald saw a smear of blood down the outer wall. Did that mean Bestwick had made his escape this way? It seemed a fair assumption, since he wasn’t here.
Well done, Abel.
Every drawer in the cramped coldwater kitchen had been upended, knives and forks and sp
oons and a spatula tossed onto the miserly bench. Shards of mismatched crockery and a drinking glass cracked and splintered underfoot. That meant he almost missed Abel Bestwick’s wrecked crystal ball. It was the damaged thaumics that caught at him as he was turning away. Turning back, carefully crouching, he poked at the burned, crushed crystal. So who’d done this, then? Bestwick or his attacker?
But before he could even begin to work it out, he felt a rotten twist in the erratic ether, felt his darkly enhanced potentia burn hot and hurting in sudden alarm. And then, before he could react, before he could save himself, run, the wickedly hidden entrapment hex he’d unwittingly triggered unfurled its poisonous tendrils with whipcrack speed to wrap him in a tight and lethal embrace.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered, stunned. “Oh, bloody, bloody hell.”
Holding his breath, he pushed as hard as he dared against the constricting hex. Indifferent to his rogue potentia, the hex pushed back. Pain seared every nerve.
“Bugger!” he swore, blinking away a scarlet mist. The pain eased, but not enough. Heat surged. Sweat prickled. His heart battered its cage of ribs. With a groaning effort he tried to see the hex’s matrix, tried to unravel the tangle of strands. The hex resisted, tightening its hold, smearing his vision. Somehow it could blind whomever it held prisoner.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn …
He groaned again. “Hell’s bells, Monk. Why aren’t you ever around when I need you?”
CHAPTER NINE
“Monk! Hey Monk! Come to the phone, it’s for you!”
Up to his aching eyeballs in randomly oscillating counter-intuitive tetrathaumicles, Monk cursed.
“Damn. It’s not Bailey, is it?”
“I don’t know who it is.”
“Then can’t you take a message?”
“Do I look like your secretary?” Walthorpe demanded, indignant. There was a heavy thumping of heels as he marched back to his cubicle. “Take it yourself.”
