by K. E. Mills
“I’m not,” Melissande said, still distracted. “I always feel like an exotic exhibit on day release from the zoo.” And speaking of exotic exhibits … “Ratafia, just out of curiosity, why did you invite the Lanruvians to the wedding?”
“The Lanruvians?” Ratafia perched on the edge of the nearest chair. “Oh, I think Hartwig invited them. As to why, you’d have to ask him.”
“I already did. He’s not sure what they’re doing here.”
“Really?” Ratafia shrugged. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Every time I turn around there’s someone to smile at whom I don’t know from a knot in a tree. That’s what happens with this kind of wedding. It’s never—” And then her face lit up in a dazzling smile, and she pointed at the wrought-iron spiral staircase a little way along the promenade. “Oh, look, there’s Luddie, come to make sure I’ve not fallen overboard. Isn’t he sweet?” She stood. “Shall I ask him to stroll with us?”
Turning, Melissande considered Ratafia’s beloved. Sweet? Not the word she’d have chosen, but he certainly had good timing. Propriety forbade her from pigeonholing Prince Ludwig by herself, but what could be more unexceptionable than a gentle wander and some gossip with Hartwig’s brother and his soon-to-be wife?
And while we’re wandering ourselves dizzy going round and round this deck, with any luck I’ll be able to prise more information out of him than I’ve managed to prise from his betrothed.
“What a good idea, Ratafia,” she said. “By all means, run and ask.”
“And the prince couldn’t tell you anything useful?” Gerald frowned. “That’s disappointing.”
“I know,” Melissande said glumly, reclining on her stateroom’s striped and tasselled daybed. “All Ludwig wanted to talk about was the honeymoon. He’s taking Ratafia to some private island or other off the Fandawandi coast. I can’t believe they’re both so dim. Apparently there’s a scad of palace bureaucrats on both sides of the Canal handling all the ‘boring, pettifogging details’, like who the devil asked the Lanruvians to the party, but since neither Ratafia nor Ludwig is interested in being bored they’ve not bothered to keep track. I swear, Gerald, if someone had invited a herd of elephants to the wedding, those two wouldn’t think to wonder why!”
“You should ask Leopold Gertz,” said Bibbie, slouched in a chair by a gauze-covered porthole. “Uncle Ralph says secretaries of state always know everything about everyone.”
Melissande gave her a pointed look. “I did ask him, at the State Dinner. He wouldn’t say. I told you that, Bibbie. Why don’t you ever listen?”
“Anyway,” Gerald said quickly, before the girls could start bickering, “perhaps it’s an idea to ask him again. You should interview Gertz especially for the Times, Melissande. I need to know if he knows about this Lanruvian cherry business, for a start.” He glanced at the clock on the cabin’s fireplace mantel. “There should be just enough time before luncheon.”
Groaning, Melissande draped her forearm over her face. “Luncheon? Today? But I won’t be finished digesting breakfast until the middle of next week.”
“Never mind about that,” he said, and pushed off the stool belonging to the superfluous, velvet-covered piano. “Make yourself presentable, and let’s go chat with Secretary Gertz. And after him, if there’s time, you can wangle me near Ludwig and I’ll see if I feel anything untoward.”
“Oh dear,” said Bibbie, being waspish. “I think Her Highness is having second thoughts about suspecting Hartwig’s brother. It’s the billing and cooing. Our pragmatic princess has come over all romantical.”
Crossly blushing, making her scattered freckles stand out, Melissande tossed the hand mirror onto the daybed. “I am not getting romantical! I simply think he’s genuinely fond of Ratafia.”
“He might well be,” Gerald said, hating to burst her optimistic bubble. “Or, as you said, he could just be a very good actor. Or he could love her, but not enough to put her before Splotze.”
“But why would he go to all this trouble?” Melissande demanded. “Why not just tell the Marquis of Harenstein to mind his own business and then find himself some other princess to marry?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s what I’m hoping to find out. Now, are you ready?”
“Wait a minute,” said Bibbie. “What am I going to do while you two are off playing journalist? And don’t you dare say stay here. I won’t be cooped up in this cabin like a canary.”
“Ha!” Melissande snapped. “More like a moulting parakeet, if you ask me.”
It was precisely the kind of thing Reg would say, and had the same bracing effect.
Since speaking up would be as helpful as pouring oil on a fire, Gerald fetched his suitably travel-worn secretarial writing case, made sure he had sufficient paper, fountain pens and ink to hand, jotted down the questions he needed Melissande to ask Leopold Gertz, then borrowed her mirror to slick down his hair, straighten his tie and be certain there were no wobbles in his obfuscation hex.
Only when he was satisfied he still looked like Algernon Rowbotham did he raise his voice. “You two do realise, I suppose, that I’m required to tell Sir Alec everything that happens on this mission? Do you really want him reading about moulting parrots and arthritic hens?”
The hurling of hissed, inventive invective ceased, abruptly.
“You might be required to tell him, but I’ll bet Monk’s jalopy’s weight in marshmallows that you don’t,” said Bibbie, truculent. “I’ve grown up in government circles, remember? Nobody writes down everything in their reports.”
He smiled, not very nicely. “For you, Miss Slack, I will make an exception. And that goes for you too, Your Highness. I know you’re feeling nervy. I know you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. On our heads. I don’t care. If you’re not helping me, you’re in my way. And trust me, girls, you don’t want to be in my way.”
Bibbie looked at Melissande, and Melissande looked back. Then they both turned identically accusing stares on him.
“Mister Rowbotham,” said Melissande, with chilly dignity, “I rather think that was uncalled for.”
“Definitely uncalled for,” said Bibbie. “I’m not impressed.”
He gave them a curt nod. “There. You see? I knew if you tried hard enough you’d find something to agree on. Melissande? Let’s go. And Gladys, why don’t you find someone new to flirt with? I expect you’re positively pining for some male attention. Bat your eyelashes hard enough and perhaps your unsuspecting swain will so far forget himself as to spill a few informative beans.”
Ignoring Bibbie’s offended gasp, he collected his writing case then ostentatiously opened the cabin door for Melissande.
“Algernon?” she said, subdued, as they made their way along a narrow, gaslit corridor. “Just then. What you said. Was that you being frightening by accident … or on purpose?”
Ah. “You think I was frightening?”
She caught at his sleeve, tugging him to a halt. The tinted light from the wall-lamp shaded her spectacled eyes and outlined the firm set of her jaw.
“Don’t. Please. You know perfectly well you were.”
He glanced up and down the corridor, but they remained alone. “I’d apologise for startling you, except I’m not sorry. I meant to.”
“Oh.” Troubled, she smoothed the sleeve her clutching fingers had wrinkled. “Well. Maybe Gladys and I were being a bit overwrought, but even so …” She bit her lip. “It’s not like you.”
He couldn’t meet her concerned stare. “Perhaps it is, though. This isn’t Ottosland, Melissande. I’m not your Algernon here. I’m Sir Alec’s Algernon. There is a difference.”
She snorted. “Believe me, Mister Rowbotham, I’ve noticed. But I think it’s more than that. And I think you know it’s more than that.”
Of course he knew. The point was how did she know? Poor Melissande was as thaumaturgically moppish as the lackeys he’d had breakfast with. It was one thing for Bibbie to notice he was different, but Melissande?<
br />
Perhaps it’s a good thing we left Reg behind, else I’d have all three of them noticing things, and prodding.
“Algernon …” Voice soft now, Melissande stroked his arm. “I can’t begin to understand what you’ve been through, these past weeks. The other Ottosland and—and—everything. But for your sake—for all our sakes—talk to someone about it. Monk, or Sir Alec, or an impersonal Department boffin if that would be easier. Reg, even. But someone. This awful grimoire magic. It isn’t a burden you should carry alone.”
Her heartfelt compassion stung him to silence. The corridor wavered and her plain, freckled face blurred and he had to blink hard to see clearly again.
“You shouldn’t worry about me, Mel,” he said at last, his voice rough. “I’m fine.”
She sighed. “Fibber.”
Yes. He was. A fibber and possibly much worse. But there was no-one he could talk to about the changes still unfolding within him. Not yet. Not until he’d finished changing. How long that would take, he had no idea.
And by then there might not be any point in talking. By then …
He didn’t care to finish the thought.
“Come along then, Algernon,” said Melissande, with another resigned sigh. “Let’s get this journalistic charade on the road, shall we?”
But to his immense frustration, Leopold Getz wasn’t free to speak to them.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” said Peeder Glanzig. “The Secretary’s not free to speak with the New Ottosland Times. He’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.”
“Oh,” Melissande said blankly. “How unfortunate. Who with?”
Clearing his throat, Glanzig furtively looked around the barge’s Small Salon, which had been set aside for state matters not pertaining to the wedding. They were alone, but it seemed Ludwig’s lackey was unwilling to trust even the cushions.
“The Lanruvians,” he whispered. “But I didn’t tell you that. And I never said a single word about cherries.”
“Ah!” Melissande said brightly. “The Lanruvians! I’m so looking forward to meeting them, Mister Glanzig. When d’you think they’ll be free for a chat?”
Peeder Glanzig’s finger explored the miserly space between his collar and neck. “I can’t say, Your Highness.”
Melissande’s eyes narrowed. “And does that mean you can’t say? Or you can’t say?”
Helpless, Glanzig sought the nearest masculine support. “I don’t think the Lanruvians are the kind of gentlemen who give interviews to a newspaper, Your Highness. Not even when it’s wearing a tiara. But I shall be sure to convey your interest to Secretary Gertz as soon as he’s free.”
“Right then,” said Melissande, once they were outside on the barge’s middle deck walkway. “Ludwig it is. Although really, y’know, I think you should speak to him and Ratafia together. Two birds with one stone. Because as farfetched as it might sound, there’s always the chance they’re in cahoots.”
Yes. There was. The dire truth was that until further notice, everyone on the barge was still a suspect. Though surely some had to be more suspicious than others.
The elusive bloody Lanruvians, for a start.
Above them, from the promenade deck, they heard Bibbie’s unmistakable laugh, the girlish trill she used when she was plying her formidable feminine wiles.
“Come on, Algernon,” said Melissande. “You can’t complain. She’s only doing as she was told.” A snort. “For once.”
He lifted a hand. “I know, I know. Only—”
The sickness came in a thick wave, a roiling churn of nausea riding a dark thaumaturgical cloud. He felt the writing case slip from his numb fingers, heard it crash onto the deck, heard Melissande say something loudly, alarmed. His restored vision was flashing around the edges, drilling an augur of pain through his skull.
Then Bibbie cried out, a dreadful sound of fear and pain.
“Algernon, what is it? What’s wrong?”
As deep male voices babbled consternation, and hurried footsteps thudded on the barge’s various levels and stretches of deck and on its wrought-iron spiral staircases, Gerald fumbled himself free of Melissande’s alarmed grasp.
“Thaumaturgics,” he muttered. “The bad kind. Our villain’s close. Stay here.”
Before she could start arguing, he blundered away. The unreliable, rippled ether surrounded him like sludge, thick and oily and unreadable. More running feet. Slamming doors at the far end of the middle deck, where the important guest cabins were located. Slamming doors and raised voices below him, on the barge’s lowest deck. His matchbox-sized minion cabin was down there. So was Bibbie’s. Another poisonous ripple through the ether. Stumbling, he fell against a stretch of hand railing. Felt his knees buckle, and had to hold on to stay upright. This was ridiculous. He was a rogue wizard. Better. What the devil was wrong with him?
Fresh shouting below him, strident with alarm. Bleary eyed, smeary eyed, he struggled towards the nearest staircase. He could feel his grimly enhanced potentia writhing in his blood and thought, muzzily, that he knew what was happening. The rotten thaumaturgics were somehow warping Splotze’s unreliable ether, and his potentia was warping with it. He might as well try to run through cold glue. Bile rose in his throat. He wanted desperately to be sick.
Another familiar feminine cry, not pain this time but outraged surprise. Bibbie. She was beneath him now, she’d managed to find her way down to the lowest deck. Was that the source of the filthy thaumaturgics? He thought so, but with his senses so whirligig he was finding it hard to tell. Wait, Bibbie. I’m coming. Don’t do anything—
Loud protests. Someone bellowed.
“Good God, no! Look out!”
A startled scream … and then a splash.
“Gel overboard!” the someone shouted. “Gel overboard! Help! Quick! Miss Slack’s gone in the drink!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Good evening, Mister Markham. Or should I say good morning?”
The cool, acidic voice, coming as it did out of the inky shadows pooled around the rear courtyard of his Chatterly Crescent town house, nearly stopped Monk’s heart.
“ What?” Shying, he tripped over an uneven edge of courtyard paving then had to windmill his arms to keep his balance. “Who the devil—Sir Alec? Is that you?”
A muffled rustle of clothing. A sharp, scraping snick as a match was struck, flaring brief flame. The nose-tickling aroma of burning tobacco. Sir Alec stepped into the back door’s lamplight, a thin cigarette neatly balanced between his fingers.
“Where’s the bird?”
Wary, Monk held his ground. Shoved his hands in his pockets. Fabulous, Reg. The one time I could use you sticking your beak in unasked … “Off stretching her wings. Sir Alec, it’s the middle of the night. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” said Uncle Ralph’s infuriating friend. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”
He nearly said, Do we have to? but managed to swallow the words just in time. The honed edge to Sir Alec’s voice suggested sarcasm wouldn’t be wise.
Resigned, he headed for the back door. “Of course, sir. Follow me.”
A whispered word and a quadruple finger-tap neutralised his security ward. He led Sir Alec into the kitchen, abandoned him beside the pantry, filled the kettle and put it on the hob. Then he hauled his emergency brandy bottle out of the cupboard, set it without comment on the table, and fuddled about extracting the tin of ground coffee, the milk, the sugar, two mugs and two teaspoons from their various hiding places. Only then did he stop and properly look at his inconvenient, uninvited guest.
Sir Alec looked bloody awful.
“Have you an ashtray?” he asked, oddly polite, and vaguely waved his half-consumed cigarette. “Or should I use the sink?”
“Blimey, not the sink,” Monk said quickly. “If Melissande catches you, she’ll—” His over-running tongue stumbled to a halt. “Yeah. Fine. Use the sink.”
Sir Alec crossed the kitchen in the overly-careful fashion
of a man who’d drunk too much … or slept too little. A sizzle, and a last pungent whiff of burning tobacco.
“It’s a filthy habit, I know,” he said, staring into the sink’s depths. “I keep telling myself I’m going to stop, only there always seems to be an excellent reason to light up just one more.”
In the same way there was always an excellent reason to down just one more glass of brandy. Monk hid a wince. How uncomfortable, knowing that he and Gerald’s intimidating superior had even that much in common.
“So,” said Sir Alec, turning. “As you have pointed out, Mister Markham, it is the middle of the night. Indeed, it’s somewhat past the middle. Which begs the question, where were you? Somewhere I’m bound to regret, no doubt.”
Monk felt a sizzle of resentment burn away caution. “If you must know, Sir Alec, I was out doing your dirty work. Actually, we were. Me and Reg. We were snooping around the Aframbigi and Graff embassies for clues.”
Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve returned empty handed?”
And was that meant to be a criticism? It was hard to tell. “Yes. Sorry. There’s no sign either country is up to mischief in Splotze.”
“Ah.” The small word was almost a sigh. “Then perhaps you might have more luck with this.”
From inside his dark blue wool overcoat Sir Alec withdrew a roughly oblong brown paper parcel, lumpily tied with string, and laid it almost delicately on the kitchen table. As soon as he saw it, Monk felt another hot sizzle … this time a warning of thaumaturgical danger. Since he’d not felt it before now, it meant Sir Alec’s expensive overcoat was protected by a shielding hex.
Crafty.
“This was delivered to my office today,” said Sir Alec. “It’s—”
“I know what it is,” Monk said, fighting the urge to retreat. “A blood hex.”
Sir Alec nodded, regretful. “I’m afraid so.”
