by K. E. Mills
Nothing he wanted to think about too closely.
“Yes, sir. I can do that. Only—” Deep breath, take the plunge. “Sir, blood magic hexes are pretty dicey. I’m not sure I like the idea of my sister—”
“Your sister is in no danger, Mister Markham.”
“Not yet.”
“You have my word she’ll be extracted should circumstances merit.”
Which was nice of him, but no guarantee. “Sir Alec—”
Sir Alec’s etheretically transmitted face tightened with temper. “Mister Markham, I refuse to argue this with you every time we have occasion to speak. Miss Markham is a gifted thaumaturgist who accompanied Mister Dunwoody of her own free will. I strongly suggest you stop thinking of her as a helpless gel made victim of my nefarious machinations.”
Perched on the back of a handy chair, Reg rattled her tail feathers. “He might be a Department stooge, sunshine, but he’s right. That giddy sister of yours is no fainting Fanny. So get a bloody grip.”
Sir Alec’s lips twitched. “Indeed.”
Feeling unfairly ambushed, Monk threw Reg a hurt look. “Yeah, well, gifted or not, Bibbie’s safety is still my responsibility!”
“No, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, very quiet. “Until the Splotze mission is concluded, the responsibility is mine.”
Oh. Monk closed his mouth. Even through the etheretics of crystal ball communication, he could see something daunting in Sir Alec’s grey eyes … and was surprised to feel his fears for Bibbie easing.
He nodded. “Yes, sir. Sir, there’s something else. I have news about Lanruvia.”
Gerald’s unsettling superior listened without interruption, then frowned. “You consider your brother’s sources reliable?”
“I don’t know who his sources are, Sir Alec. But I do know Aylesbury. He wouldn’t have told me if he didn’t think the whisper was true.”
“Even if he is a plonker,” Reg added. “And he bloody well is.”
Again, Sir Alec’s lips twitched. “Mister Markham, what progress have you made with the wedding guest list?”
Should he mention Dodsworth, and the butler’s efforts on his behalf? Probably not. What Sir Alec didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Monk Markham.
“None yet, sir. Soon, I hope.”
“As do I, Mister Markham.”
“Sir Alec, what does it mean if the Lanruvians really are trying to get their hands on a thaumicle extractor?”
“It means, Mister Markham, that we will be obliged to thwart their efforts.”
Yeah. Right. Just like that. “I see.”
“Do you? How encouraging. Good night, Mister Markham.”
Reg chattered her beak. “Blimey, but he’s a sarky bugger! No wonder my Gerald ended up—”
“Ended up what?” said Monk, eyeing the remains of his cold fried egg with distaste.
“Never mind,” said Reg, and fluffed all her feathers. “Now come along, sunshine. Either finish your dinner or bin it, because we’ve got work to do. I’ve forgotten more about blood magic than anyone else you know, so you can pin back your ears and get an education. All right?”
“All right,” he said slowly. “But I think I ought to ask how it is you—”
“No,” said Reg. “You really oughtn’t. Not if you want to sleep tonight.”
And on that trenchant note she flapped out of the kitchen. Monk binned his cold fried egg, and followed.
The Servants’ Hall in Grande Splotze’s palace was enormous. Buttoned into his precisely selected dinner suit—not too careworn, not too sleek, designed to reflect well upon his royal employer without hinting at undue largesse—Gerald waited in a slowly shuffling line with Bibbie to be formally admitted, and looked ahead into what he could see of the crowded room. How mad was it, anyway, such a sprawling space? So many servants? Splotze’s royal family was of middling size, as far as royal families went. Surely they couldn’t need so many people catering to their every whim? Two hundred and twelve, according to the briefing notes.
Two hundred and twelve people whose lives and livelihoods hang on Hartwig’s slightest whim. I don’t know how they bear it.
Standing beside him, masked by Gladys Slack, Bibbie remained her beautiful, brilliant self. He felt a cold chill run down his spine. If only there was a way to send her home. After Abel Bestwick’s lodgings … the entrapment hex … the blood magic … this mission could spin out of control at any moment.
Leaning close, Bibbie brushed her cheek against his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
His heart thumped. “Nothing.”
“Really?” Bibbie murmured. “You’re going to keep on trying to fool me? That is a waste of time, Mister Rowbotham. You’re still upset. And you’re walking differently. Did something else happen while you were out? Are you hurt?”
Her soft questions set his pulse racing. “Hurt? No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The line shuffled forward, and they shuffled with it.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, even though it was a lie. His dragon magic slept lightly, a shallow breath beneath his skin. But she couldn’t be feeling its presence. His shield was up. He was hidden, even from her. “Miss Slack, this isn’t the time or place.”
“Then make the time and choose a place,” she said, her fingers tightening on his arm. “Because I am not—the princess. You can’t fob me off with vague assurances and half-truths.”
So many fellow-guests, crowded in front of them and behind. He couldn’t shout at her, couldn’t wave his arms and splutter. The most he could do was snap, “Miss Slack.”
Bibbie dropped her hand and eased herself away from him. “I’m just saying.”
Yes, she was … in her inimitable Bibbie style. Damn, how did she know always what he was thinking and feeling? And how was it she could make his heart leap even when she didn’t look like Emmerabiblia Markham? But she could. She did. She was doing it now. It wasn’t her face, it was her. The sheer Bibbieness of her, that shone through no matter what face she was wearing.
I saw what she could be, in that other Ottosland. What she might become, the worst flaws in her magnified … just as I saw all the worst parts of me. So how is it I’m not afraid of her the way I’m afraid of myself?
And he was afraid, now more than ever. After today, there was no going back. Not even Monk would be able to suck the grimoire magic out of him after what he’d done. It was his blood, his bones, the air he breathed. His life.
Bugger. Monk’s going to go spare.
The line shuffled forward a few more paces. And yes, he was walking differently. He could feel it. With two good eyes again, his depth perception had returned to normal. Perhaps that explained the nagging ache in his head.
Or perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps I’m on the brink of thaumaturgical chaos …
No. No. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He had a job to do. A wedding to save. A few more minutes and he’d be up to his armpits in suspects. Well, possible suspects. Or possible sources of information that would lead to the thwarting of the plot against Splotze and Borovnik.
His heart thudded again, but not because of Bibbie. Lord, could he do this? Could he prevent yet another international disaster? He’d averted calamity three times already, that was true, but only by accident. He’d stumbled into those other crises unwittingly. What if he wasn’t up to this task? Had Sir Alec lost his marbles, sending grimoire-tainted Gerald Dunwoody to Splotze? The whole bloody set up was so nebulous. And now with the discovery of that filthy blood magic, far more lethal than surely even Sir Alec had guessed, so much hung in the balance. There were so many dangerous knives to juggle, and he had the girls to worry about …
Hell’s bells, I wish Reg was here.
Probably he should be flattered that Sir Alec had such trust in him. He should take it as a compliment and use his superior’s confidence as a shield. Instead he felt crushed by the responsibility. The possibility of failure.
Besides, will he still trust me wh
en he finds out what I’ve done? When he learns I’m no longer a simple rogue wizard?
A hand on his arm. He looked down, seeing not Gladys Slack but Bibbie Markham. His Bibbie. The girl he loved, and could never fear. She was staring at him with such an intent look in her changed eyes.
“Wherever you are, Algernon, it’s time to come back,” she whispered fiercely. “Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it. But we’ll have to fix it later.”
She was right, Saint Snodgrass bless her. So he found a small, proper smile for her, royal secretary to lady’s maid, then stepped up to the very stiff, very formal Splotze official barring their way into the Servants’ Hall.
“Names?” the official said, looking down his large, Splotzeish nose.
Gerald cleared his throat. “Mister Algernon Rowbotham and Miss Gladys Slack, attached to Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland.”
The Splotze official looked for their names on his clipboard. “Ah. Yes.” A reserved, thin-lipped smile. “Of course. On behalf of the Crown Prince and Princess, welcome to Splotze. Enjoy your evening.”
Shrinking into herself, Bibbie bobbed the official a shy curtsey. “Oh, that’s ever so kind of you, sir. Thank you. I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time.”
“Yes,” Gerald added, wishing he could kick Bibbie’s ankle. “It was good of you to ask us. Come along, Miss Slack. Let’s not hold up the line.”
As soon as they’d entered the crowded Servants’ Hall, Bibbie tugged at his sleeve.
“Right,” she said, abandoning demure Gladys Slack. “So you take this side of the room, I’ll take that side, and between us we should be able to talk to everyone here before the end of the night. And don’t forget to keep an eye on me, because if I find someone you need to talk to, I’ll give you a sign. All clear? Good. Then off we go!”
And before he could stop her, or sharply remind her that hello, he was the only janitor here, and she wasn’t meant to be drawing attention to herself, or him, she’d plunged into the jostling crowd of staff and servants, leaving him with no choice but to do as he was told.
Wonderful. Thanks ever so, Sir Alec.
He took a moment to make sure of his etheretic shield, rearranged his altered features into an expression of non-threatening, slightly bucolic pleasantness, turned to the nearest Splotze-liveried minion and beamed.
“I say there. Good evening. I’m Algernon Rowbotham, from New Ottosland. What a perfectly splendid shindig. And if might I ask, sir, who are you?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Yes, yes, I couldn’t agree more.” Eyes brightening, the
Marquis of Harenstein snatched a crab puff from a passing servant’s silver tray and engineered it into his walrus-moustachioed mouth. “This is indeed an auspicious occasion,” he added indistinctly, spraying a fine shower of pastry crumbs. “In fact, my dear—” A frown. “I’m sorry. Who are you again?”
Melissande smiled. Tosser. “Princess Melissande, Your Grace. King Rupert of New Ottosland’s sister.”
The Marquis of Harenstein’s frown deepened. “New Ottosland … New Ottosland … oh, yes! Little patch of green in the middle of a desert, where Ottosland dumped its unwanted aristocracy and other assorted riff-raff. And you’re sister to its king, are you? Don’t think I’ve met him. Is he here?”
“No,” she said, still smiling. Or perhaps her face had frozen into a rictus of horror. “I have the honour of representing New Ottosland on His Majesty’s behalf.”
Another tray of pastries squeezed by. With a grunt of pleasure, the marquis snatched again. “You simply must try one of these, y’know, my dear. Deep fried Harenstein goose paté topped with our finest Hidden Sea caviar. Delicacies, I promise you. A gift from Harenstein to the happy couple. One of many. No expense spared to celebrate the glorious event.”
Melissande took the smallest appetiser on the tray then nibbled as little as possible from around its edges. The marquis inhaled his with gusto, and swiped a second one just as the tray was about to be swallowed by the press of chattering, drinking, eating guests.
I wonder if Hartwig’s invited any doctors? she thought, torn between dismay and fascination at the marquis’s inexhaustible appetite. Because at this rate we’re going to need one.
The next servant to appear carried a drinks tray. The marquis pursed his lips, disappointed, then soothed his pique with a slender flute of something pale yellow and bubbly. Melissande followed his example, needing the fortification, and managed to surreptitiously toss her paté and caviar onto the tray before it moved on.
Oh, lord. This is going to be the longest night of my life.
And to think she’d not even attempted to chat with the Lanruvians yet, which she would do as soon as they arrived. Not that Gerald wanted her to. He’d turned practically beet red at the suggestion. But given the looming shadow of Abel Bestwick’s disappearance, with everything horrible that implied, she couldn’t afford to worry about threats of retribution by Sir Alec. Besides, she had the sneaking suspicion that while he claimed to want her safely sidelined, in truth Sir Alec was relying on her to do whatever she could to assist Gerald and, to her complete surprise, she realised she didn’t want to disappoint him. Sir Alec might be chilly, self-contained and ruthlessly pragmatic, but he was also a good man. A man who, despite his flaws and under different circumstances she might have called a friend.
Which was more than she could say for the Marquis of Harenstein. He was complaining about the slow service, now.
“Yes, yes, it is terribly poor,” she said, with all the sympathy she could muster. “I wonder, Your Grace, could you tell me the story behind this fairytale wedding between Prince Ludwig and Princess Ratafia? It’s been very clever of you, a stroke of genius, really, to bring them together in wedded bliss. However did you manage it?”
The Marquis of Harenstein’s broad chest swelled alarmingly with pride. “Why yes, my dear, it was a remarkable feat.” His muttonchop whiskers wobbled as he let out a bark of self-satisfied laughter. “But the thing is, Princess Murgatroyd, can I trust you, eh? Got to know if I can trust you if I’m to tell tales out of school!”
“It’s Melissande, actually,” she said, her voice freezing, before she could stop herself. The marquis’s pebbly eyes bulged, as though he couldn’t believe his ears. Damn. Smile, smile, and toss in a high-pitched, girlish trill of coy amusement. What a good thing Reg had been left behind. “But Murgatroyd’s a lovely name, too. And of course you can trust me, Your Grace. We’re all aristocrats here.”
“Ha!” said the marquis, disbelieving, then flapped his hand across the crowded chamber towards its curtained doorway, where the unfashionably late Lanruvians were making their entrance. “Not them!”
Hartwig had arranged for a collection of string musicians to serenade the gathering before the State Dinner. What with the talking and laughing and chinking of glasses, their music had been pretty much drowned out … until the Lanruvians entered the reception chamber. Their arrival stilled tongues into a ripple of silence that left the musicians raucous.
“Bloody Lanruvians,” said the marquis, disastrously, into the void.
Someone in the press of invited guests laughed, a nervous honking. Someone else tittered. And then the waters of renewed conversation closed over their heads, spiced with a giddy relief, and Melissande let out a breath.
Lord. I hope Gerald and Bibbie are getting on better than this.
The marquis intercepted yet another passing servant, took two more crab puffs to soothe his offended sensibilities, and to her surprise handed her one. Trapped, she ate it.
“So, Your Grace, you were saying?” she prompted, wickedly tempted to wipe her fingers down the front of his over-braided velvet coat. “About how you played matchmaker to the happy couple?”
Another self-satisfied bark. “Yes! Well, Princess Mona, when you get right down to it, all of us here on the Small Western Continent, we’re just one big family. And families, y’know, they squabble, they disagree, but when
push comes to get the devil out of my way, we have a care for each other. And all this biff and bash between Splotze and Borovnik, over one little canal? Not helpful, is it?”
“So you thought the time had come to say Enough is Enough?”
The marquis chortled. “Indeed I did! And I did. And now there’s to be a wedding!”
“Yes, but how did you manage it?” Melissande persisted. “I mean, after so much intransigence on both sides, how did you—”
The marquis tapped the side of his prominently veined nose. “Ah, indeed, wouldn’t you like to know?”
Yes, she really would, because it was almost impossible to believe that this overdressed blowhard was capable of tying his own shoelaces, let alone finagling such an unlikely marriage.
The man’s a complete plonker. And a greedy old windbag, to boot. I’ll bet someone else is behind this wedding.
Humming with speculation, she slid her gaze over to the Lanruvians. They were standing in an aloof knot on the far side of the chamber, watching the reception’s goings-on like visitors at a particularly rowdy zoo.
“Actually, Your Grace,” she said brightly, “I must ask you to excuse me. But I’m sure we’ll chat lots more, during the wedding tour. And, oh, look!” She snapped her fingers, summoning another of Hartwig’s tray-bearing servants. “I don’t believe you’ve tried one of these yet, have you?”
Leaving Harenstein’s deplorable ruler to salivate over the prune-stuffed crispy bacon, she fled as fast as the press of her fellow-guests allowed. Her heart boomed as she pushed her circumspect way through the crowd. Was it madness, to march right up to the Lanruvians and introduce herself? Probably, but how else was she going to engage them in conversation? She didn’t want to wait until the tour. What if they weren’t invited? Or had refused to attend? Tonight might be her only chance.
But she’d not managed to squeeze more than halfway across the chamber when the serenading musicians fell silent, and a pompous horn blast rent the air. The wedding party had arrived.
Bugger.
