by K. E. Mills
Bibbie was flirting again.
Because this time it was in a good cause, Gerald gritted his teeth and tried not to care—but that was easier said than done. The wretched girl was depressingly accomplished at it. Probably she’d been practising since she was three.
I wonder what it means that she’s never flirted with me?
No. No. He was not going to think about it. This wasn’t a social event. Bibbie wasn’t flirting, she was working, and it was time he followed her example.
The Servants’ Hall was warmly crowded. Because they were mere lackeys, and ought to count themselves fortunate they were getting any kind of jollity, the palace and wedding guests’ minions weren’t being treated to a reception ahead of a sumptuous nine course banquet, or enjoying the talents of an exquisitely-trained string ensemble. No. Their food was laid out on long tables around the edges of what would become the dance floor, and they were expected to eat all of it standing up, entertained by a lone violin, a xylophone and someone haphazardly banging on a drum.
Appetite largely curtailed by the day’s alarming events, Gerald helped himself to a roasted chicken drumstick, then retreated to a bit of empty wall to seek out any hidden foes while he was eating. But even that was proving a challenge. Lowering his etheretic shield was too risky, and not only because there might be someone present sensitive to the inexplicable presence of a wizard. Bibbie was here, already alarmed about him … and it was practically certain she’d notice the new changes in his potentia, which he was nowhere near ready to discuss.
Leaving his shield up meant the Servants’ Hall buzzed at him indistinctly through muffling layers of etheretic cotton. So frustrating. What if the mission went pear-shaped because he was too busy hiding to notice a vital clue?
There has to be better way. When I’m home again, I’ll find it. That bloody grimoire magic must be good for something more than demolishing entrapments and giving me nightmares.
On the other side of the noisy room, Bibbie was giggling at something a handsome minion from Borovnik was saying. Gerald scowled. Feeling his regard, she turned a little and carelessly caught his eye. Her lashes fluttered in a swift, almost imperceptible wink, and then she was turning away again. His stomach swooped.
I can’t stand this. She’s the love of my life. How can I risk her? My life’s too unpredictable. Too dangerous. I’m too dangerous. Especially now. We can’t possibly have a future.
Perhaps he should ask Sir Alec if he could do an Abel Bestwick. There had to be a thaumaturgical hotspot somewhere that could use the attention of a grimoire-enhanced rogue wizard. Because although the thought of exile was bad, the thought of watching Bibbie meet someone else, fall in love with someone else, make a life with someone else, was infinitely worse.
But he really couldn’t afford to think about that here.
Get a grip, Dunnywood! If Reg was around she’d boot you up the arse so hard …
A trio of Splotze servants bearing trays of food and wine approached the clustered gaggle of Borovnik retainers. They accepted the personal service without any sign of embarrassment. So, what? They thought it was their due to be waited on by Crown Prince Hartwig’s people? Why? Because their princess was marrying Splotze’s junior prince? And did this bowing and scraping mean Splotze thought Borovnik was doing them a favour, handing over Princess Ratafia to Hartwig’s brother?
If so, what did that say about the Canal Treaty? Would Borovnik end up with the lion’s share of any concessions and tariffs? And if that were the case, how would the people of Splotze react when they found out? How would Splotze’s various trading partners and regional allies react? Appalled, chicken drumstick forgotten, Gerald considered the geopolitical ramifications.
Blimey. This could get a bit bloody messy.
With a last teasing finger-wag, Bibbie abandoned the superior Borovniks and joined a little knot of Splotze girls, various flavours of maid from the way they were dressed, aprons and caps and skirt hems modestly brushing their ankles. The maids welcomed her with shy smiles and eager questions. Relieved, Gerald shifted his attention to Harenstein’s people. There were seven of them, clotted in the hall’s far corner. A lone Splotze servant plied them with food and drink. But why only the one? Why wouldn’t they be treated with the same deference as the Borovniks, when it was Harenstein who’d brokered the wedding? Was there a conflict brewing between them and Splotze? Or was Harenstein more safely offended than Borovnik? Or could it be that Borovnik wished to see Harenstein taken down a peg, and had the leverage now to make sure it was done?
Gerald frowned, uncertain. So many eddies and undercurrents. If only he knew what they meant.
With any luck, Melissande’s getting some answers upstairs. I hope she is. And I hope the waters settle on the wedding tour so I can see the rocks ahead before we crash into them.
Raised voices at the nearby food-laden tables distracted him from dire forebodings and doubts. The senior palace official in charge was leaning backwards, straining to keep his nose out of the reach of a large, sauce-splattered man waving both fists in his face.
“—insult you? Me, insult you?Mister Secretary Ibblie, I am the man insulted here. You are the insult! You are the man who seeks to ruin my life with your stupid accusations!”
“Cook, this is most irregular,” Ibblie retorted in a furious undertone. “Get back to the kitchen. If you stayed there, where you belong, perhaps your underlings wouldn’t be indulging in undesirable secret trysts in stables then irresponsibly wandering off, leaving you short-handed! And then perhaps you’d not be serving raw potatoes!”
Those close enough to have noticed the argument were openly staring at the two angry men. Staring himself, Gerald wondered how many—aside from the other palace staff— understood them, since they were shouting in their native tongue. Thanks to a few clever Department hexes, it wasn’t just Splotzin he could now speak like a local. He was fluent in every major language and a few obscure ones, too. But since it might come in useful if other people thought he knew nothing but Ottish, he made sure to keep his expression uncomprehending. Beneath the blank mask, his thoughts tumbled.
Disappearing underlings. Does Ibblie mean Abel Bestwick? Bestwick worked here as a pantry-man, so it’s a safe bet he does. I need to know what he knows. And the cook. The cook must know something too.
Goaded beyond endurance, Ibblie snatched up a fork, stabbed it into a serving bowl full of potatoes and brandished his proof in the fat cook’s sweating face.
“Instead of complaining about how much work you have,you incompetent spoonsucker, bite this and then tell me it’s not raw!”
The pair looked so comical, people started to laugh whether they understood the shouting or not. Startled, Ibblie stared at their amused, eavesdropping audience. His eyes widened and his cheeks darkened with angry embarrassment.
“Here,” he said, shoving the impaled potato at the cook. Then he handed the man the serving dish. “Get back to the kitchens. We’ll finish this later.”
The cook retreated, burdened with tubers and muttering imprecations under his breath. Disgusted, Ibblie gestured the small band of musicians to louder, busier playing.
“I say,” Gerald said, neatly stepping in front of the man as he made to leave. “Fabulous spread, sir. Very generous of the Crown Prince. I’ll be sure to tell Princess Melissande so, when I see her.”
“Thank you,” said Ibblie in his impeccable Ottish, and plastered a hasty smile over his irritation. “Mister Rowbotham, isn’t it?”
Gerald beamed. “Oh, call me Algernon.”
“Wonderful,” said Ibblie, and slid a little off to the side, suggestively. “So very pleased you’re enjoying the evening. Algernon. But if you’ll excuse me, I need to—”
“Though I must say,” he added, blocking Ibblie again, “I don’t envy you the organisation of this little shindig. Always something going wrong at the last minute, isn’t there?”
“Wrong?” said Ibblie. To his credit, his voice didn’t change.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Nothing’s wrong. Now I really should—”
“Nothing?” Prompted by some unfamiliar instinct stirring inside him, a sudden certainty that he could get this man to talk, Gerald clapped a friendly hand to Ibblie’s arm. “Then what was all that business with the cook about, eh?”
Eyes glazing, Ibblie stilled. Into his face crept a blank softness. “The cook? The cook is an imbecile,” he said, his voice sounding oddly distant. Mechanical. “He will not keep his place. He cannot control his underlings. He served raw potatoes. He is a disgrace.”
What the devil? Letting his hand drop, Gerald glanced around the hall, but no-one appeared to be paying them any attention. The crowd of servants and minions was too busy laughing and eating to care about Ibblie. Where was Bibbie? He couldn’t see her. Never mind. Best she be kept well out of the way, for now.
Woken instinct stirred again. No. Not instinct. Grimoire magic. He could feel it, a dragon’s sigh. I was right. I can compel a man to speak against his will. Quashing a surge of astonished excitement—bloody hell, this could be useful—he looked back at Ibblie.
“Tell me more about the missing underling, Secretary Ibblie.”
Ibblie blinked. “I—that is a matter for—palace business should not—”
He frowned as the man sputtered into silence. Clearly Hartwig’s secretary needed a sharper prod to spill all the cook’s beans. I shouldn’t, not here, it’s taking too much of a chance. Besides, it’s not right. But this opportunity might not come again, so before he could second-guess himself, or let misgivings stay his hand, he let his etheretic shield drop and stared into Ibblie’s unfocused eyes.
“Tell me about the missing underling.”
“Ferdie Goosen!” gasped Ibblie. “I caught him dallying in the stables. Roasted him for it, and Goosen deserted his position.”
In other words, Abel Bestwick. At last he was getting somewhere. “Who was this Goosen dallying with? Who else did you see there?”
“Mister Rowbotham! Mister Rowbotham!”
Biting back a curse, Gerald snapped up his etheretic shield and turned, scowling. “Can’t this wait, Miss Slack? I’m rather—”
“Wait?” Behind her window-dressing glasses, Bibbie’s changed eyes were wide with concern. “No, Mister Rowbotham, it can’t wait! I need to speak with you, urgently.”
Muttering like a man waking from dreams, Ibblie stepped back. Gerald opened his mouth to recapture him but it was too late. Ibblie’s face was full of purpose again, and with Bibbie agog at his elbow he didn’t dare risk a fresh compulsion.
“Very nice to chat with you, ah, Algernon,” Ibblie said, with a slight bow. “Do enjoy the rest of your evening.” With a nod to Bibbie, he withdrew.
Gerald watched the happy crowd swallow him, then turned. “Miss Slack—”
But Bibbie ignored his frustration. “What’s the matter with you? Are you ill? You must be, or surely you’d have felt it!”
Oh. Damn. His altered potentia. Of course she’d noticed its stirring. “Felt what?” he said vaguely. “Sorry, I’m not sure—”
“That awful ripple in the ether!” said Bibbie, lowering her voice. “A few moments ago. I tell you, it made my head swim. I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”
He couldn’t meet her eyes. “No, no, sorry. Can’t say I did,” he said, wandering his gaze around the room. “Are you sure you’re not imagining things? It’s awfully crowded in here, lots of different etheretic auras, all clashing, so perhaps—”
“Don’t you dare,” she growled, digging a finger into his ribs. “I did not imagine it. Something—or someone—dangerous is in this hall right now!”
Well, damn. “All right, all right. No need to drill a hole in me,” he said, shifting. “Can you still feel it?”
He held his breath as Bibbie half-closed her eyes and sent her own formidable potentia seeking.
“No,” she said at last, disappointed. “No, it’s gone.”
Saint Snodgrass be praised. Light-headed, he took her elbow. “Oh. Well, never mind.”
“Trust me,” she said grimly. “I’m not minding. Now that I know what to look for, I’ll be on the highest of high alerts. You should be, too. Truly, one whiff of that disturbance and your hair will stand on end.”
Gerald cleared his throat. “It certainly sounds alarming. Ah—you’re sure it’s not familiar, in any way?”
“No,” said Bibbie, after some thought. “But then it did come and go very quickly. If I had more time I might recognise something.”
More time? Ha! Over my dead body. “Then we’ll have to keep our fingers crossed, won’t we, that you feel it again.”
“Honestly, I’d rather not,” said Bibbie, shivering. “But since it’s for the mission …” She glanced across the hall. “And speaking of which, what were you and our doorkeeper discussing?”
No point pretending. He’d never manage to fob her off. “His name’s Ibblie. He’s a palace secretary. And I think he might’ve been one of the last people to see our mutual friend. In the stables, of all places. He—”
But Bibbie wasn’t listening. “Our mutual friend! Drat, I was so spooked by that etheretic surge—” She grabbed his wrist. “Come on Algernon. With me, quickly. There’s someone you must meet. That’s if she’s still there. Oh, lord.”
Gerald let himself be hauled through the crowd of revellers to the far side of the hall, where a buxom young maid moped beside a potted tree fern. When she saw Bibbie she blotted her tear-streaked cheeks with her sleeve.
“Oh, miss, there you be,” she said, in strongly accented Ottish. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”
“No, no, Mitzie, I wouldn’t do that,” said Bibbie, taking hold of the girl’s hands. “Mitzie, this is the man I was telling you about. Mister Rowbotham, the princess’s private secretary. Mister Rowbotham, this is Mitzie. She’s very worried about her friend Ferdie Goosen, who works in the palace kitchens, and I told her she should talk to you, sir, seeing as how you know so many important people.”
“Of course,” he said, and offered Mitzie a bow. “Anything I can do to help. Tell me, Mitzie, why are you so worried about this friend of yours?”
Mitzie bobbed an unsteady curtsey. “Well, sir, because he’s not here, and he’s meant to be.” Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “He’s my young man, y’see.”
“Really?” Gerald arranged his face into an expression of kindly concern, but inside he was boggling. Abel Bestwick was dabbling with a local girl? If Bestwick’s not dead, Sir Alec will skin him alive. “And you’re quite sure this Ferdie knows he should—”
“Yes, sir!” she wailed. “Ferdie’s gone, sir. And I don’t care what Cook says, or Mister Ibblie, or anyone. He idn’t a wastrel and a good-for-naught. Something’s happened to him. I know it.”
“Oh dear,” said Gerald, heart sinking. “That does sound upsetting. Why don’t you tell me all about it?”
Shortly after the wedding party’s arrival at the reception, Hartwig extricated himself from the Lanruvians and made a beeline for the unattainable woman of his dreams.
“There you are, Melissande,” he said fondly, seizing her hand in his. “And don’t you look lovely.”
Acutely aware of the many surprised gazes shifting their way, she smiled instead of pulling herself free. “Thank you, Your Highness. It’s kind of you to say so.”
“Not at all, not at all,” Hartwig gushed. He was having trouble keeping his eyes off her cleavage. “And let me just say, my dear, how sorry I am about tonight’s seating arrangements. Only the thing is, y’see, what with Brunelda ordered to stay off her gout, protocol demands that Erminium take precedent. You know. Little Ratafia’s mother. Borovnik’s Dowager Queen. Met her yet?”
“No, not yet, I’m afraid,” she replied. “I don’t believe she travels, and I’ve never been to Borovnik.”
Hartwig snorted. “Don’t repine. You haven’t missed anything.”
“Hartwig!” she muttered. “Do be
careful what you say!”
“Why?” said Hartwig, tiresomely mulish. “I’m the Crown Prince of Splotze, this is my palace, this is my reception, I’m paying for everything, so I think I’ll say what I like!”
There was a lively buzz of renewed conversation and the string ensemble was playing again, as the wedding party mingled with the reception’s guests, but even so …
Sir Alec won’t like it if I preside over an international incident five minutes after I got here.
“I quite understand, Hartwig,” she said in a soothing murmur. “Only perhaps you shouldn’t say it quite so loudly. I wonder, d’you think you could be a dear and introduce me to the Dowager Queen? Because she’s looking at me rather oddly and I don’t want any misunderstandings while we’re on the wedding tour.”
“Very well, Melissande,” Hartwig sighed. “Only don’t blame me afterwards. This is your idea, not mine.”
Dowager Queen Erminium of Borovnik was very tall, very thin, and had never been beautiful. Which made it all the more extraordinary that she should be Princess Ratafia’s mother, because Ratafia was lovely.
“So,” said Erminium, whose wide mouth was pleated with many lines of habitual disapproval. “You’re that scoundrel Lional’s sister, are you? I hope you know you’re lucky he met an untimely end? Rupert might be an idiot but at least he’s not encroaching.”
Melissande waited until the dull roaring in her head subsided. “I wasn’t aware Your Majesty was acquainted with my family.”
“When I was young and on the market, there was a suggestion that your father, Lional that was, might be a suitable husband for me,” said Erminium. “I said no, of course.”
With a pleased chuckle, his duty done, Hartwig rubbed his hands together. “Right then! Seems you two lovely ladies have potloads to talk about, so I’ll just wander off and say a few words here and there before we go in for dinner, eh?”
Erminium spared him a dry glance. “By all means, Hartwig. Go away. You are quite unnecessary.”
A servant walked past with a final tray of crab puffs. Melissande grabbed two and ate them, quickly, to give her face something to do.
