Wizard Undercover

by K. E. Mills

  “They’d be picturesque in a red wine gravy,” said Bibbie. “I’ll grant you that much.”

  “I think,” said Gerald, surprising them both, “that what Miss Slack means is that she’s feeling peckish.”

  “Mister Rowbotham!” Bibbie stopped lolling. “Everything all right, is it? You’re enjoying the fresh air? And the scenery? Marvellous bunnies they have here, don’t you think?”

  There were shadows of strain beneath Gerald’s Algernon Rowbotham eyes. “Everything’s fine, Miss Slack,” he said, with a small, reassuring nod. “The bunnies are delightful and the fresh air is very bracing.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” said Bibbie, sounding relieved. “But actually, you’re mistaken. I’m not peckish. I’m famished. When d’you suppose the Crown Prince will call a halt for lunch?”

  As soon as it had become sadly obvious that the wedding party wouldn’t have time to enjoy the picnic that was planned for the daisied banks of the Heffershtet River and reach Lake Yablitz before sunset, Brunelda—in magnificent defiance of her gout, and doubtless to score a pointed victory over Erminium—had arranged for luncheon baskets to be made up for each carriage and stowed under the coachman’s seat. Bibbie pressed a hand to her stomach.

  “Can’t we ask the coachman to pull over a moment, so we can liberate a sandwich or two?” she said, plaintive. “I swear, my ribs are playing knucklebones with each other.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Melissande. “That would be a gross breach of good manners.”

  “Whereas me dropping dead of starvation would be the height of polite conduct, I suppose?”

  She smirked. “I wouldn’t go that far. But at least we’d have some peace and quiet.”

  Bibbie flounced into silence. Meeting Gerald’s wearily amused gaze, Melissande rolled her eyes. Not for the world was she going to admit that she, too, was famished.

  But as it turned out, Bibbie wasn’t the only one in imminent danger of perishing from hunger. Several miles further along the road, Hartwig called a halt to their travels. Unfortunately, by this time, the pretty countryside had been left behind. Now they were in the midst of some half-hearted woodland, surrounded by spindly trees, many of them dead or dying, with some straggling bushes, tumbled rocks and a few stubborn blades of green here and there for added variety.

  “Blimey,” Bibbie muttered, as their carriage eased to a creaking stop. “It’s about time. I’m ready to devour rabbit without the red wine gravy. I think I’d even consider it raw.” She contorted herself into a ladylike stretch. “Oooh, I’m all knots and tangles. Can we walk about for a bit, d’you think? I can’t possibly stay cooped up in this carriage until Lake Yablitz. And anyway, there is the small matter of …” She frowned. “Personal comfort.”

  Yes, indeed. They’d been bouncing their bladders for several hours, hadn’t they? But that wasn’t something that got mentioned in polite company.

  “Look,” Bibbie added, pointing. “All the men are deserting us for the nearest convenient tree or clump of foliage. I’m telling you, I can’t possibly squirm all the way to the lake.” With a glance at the coachman, she added, with an eye roll, “If you please, Your Highness.”

  It was true. The wedding party’s various gentlemen were indeed answering nature’s urgent call. Even the aloof Lanruvians weren’t immune. Melissande turned to Gerald. Curse the bloody coachman, stolidly sitting in his seat.

  “I suppose it’s safe to go wandering off, is it, Mister Rowbotham?”

  Gerald’s Algernon eyes lost focus as he plunged once more into his potentia. Waiting for his verdict, Melissande became abruptly aware of her own personal comfort issues, and saw that a few of the ladies in the wedding party had begun discreetly withdrawing to find some privacy, wearing expressions that said Certainly I Am Not Doing What Everyone Knows I Am Doing. In Fact I Am A Figment of Your Imagination.

  Blinking, Gerald came back to himself. “You should be safe,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t sense any lurking thaumaturgics.”

  “Praise the pigs,” said Bibbie. “Come along, Your Highness. I’ll safeguard your modesty if you’ll safeguard mine.”

  Gerald leapt up to open the carriage door and hand them down to solid ground. Melissande shook out her green muslin dress then marched off, leaving Bibbie to trail minion-like in her wake.

  Afterwards, having silenced noisy nature, she left Monk’s sister to amuse herself and took advantage of Hartwig’s preoccupation with a complaining Erminium to snatch a private word with Ludwig, hard to miss in peacock-blue velvet and perched on a slab of rock by the side of the road, contemplating the drab scenery.

  As she approached, she found herself considering him through her recently acquired filter of secrets and lies.

  Could he be our villain after all? Oh, how I hate suspecting people I’d much rather like.

  Yet another reason for never becoming a janitor.

  “Hello, Melissande,” Ludwig greeted her, so morose that he neglected the common courtesy of standing in her presence. “Everything all right? Your carriage snug and comfy and so forth?”

  She nodded. “Everything’s lovely, Ludwig, thank you. I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.”

  The look he gave her suggested he wasn’t convinced. “Very sporting of you to say so, I’m sure.”

  She considered his carriage, where Ratafia was being kept company by damp Leopold Gertz. It seemed as though he was trying to distract Borovnik’s princess from her mother’s latest tirade.

  And if he is, Melissande decided, it’s the first useful thing I’ve seen him do since we met.

  “No, Ludwig, I mean it,” she said, turning back. “But I will confess I’m sorry we’ve missed taking the scenic road to Lake Yablitz. Family, eh? We can’t choose them. We can only survive them. Though I suppose …”Another glance at Ratafia. “That’s not always so, is it? I mean, you did choose Ratafia.”

  Ludwig snorted, a sound of hollow amusement. “No, I didn’t. Hartwig and Norbert and that bloody hag Erminium, they formed the Committee to Find Ludwig a Wife and presented Ratafia to me on a gilded platter.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t speak. So I was right the first time? The marriage is forced? But—all that billing and cooing! The island honeymoon! Good lord, how could I have been so bamboozled? “And you agreed to take her?” she said at last, faintly. Does Ratafia know? Oh, lord. Wait until Gerald finds out. “Ludwig …”

  He shrugged. “Of course I agreed. How could I refuse? I’m Hartwig’s heir and I’m duty bound to do what he couldn’t, guarantee the family’s line of succession. And, well, since I hadn’t found a bride on my own I can’t really blame the old boy for losing patience and forcing my hand. Not getting any younger, y’know. I won’t see thirty-five again.”

  “But, Ludwig, I thought—I was convinced—that you love Ratafia.”

  “Love her?” Ludwig stared. And then, to her surprise, he broke into a sweetly shy smile that almost managed to make him handsome. “Dammit, Melissande, I adore her. Thought I made that clear, back on the barge.”

  So she wasn’t wrong. Good. For a moment there she’d really thought she was losing her touch. Why wasn’t there another rock? She needed to sit down. “Oh. Yes. I mean, you did, yes, only—”

  “Never expected to, y’know,” Ludwig confided. “Wasn’t even sure I wanted to. Love makes everything so bloody complicated. If you want a quiet life you steer clear of love, that’s my advice.”

  Yes, well, she didn’t seem to be having any trouble on that score. “Yet you haven’t followed it yourself.”

  Ludwig’s smile was sheepish this time. “Our family motto. Do as I say, not as I do.” He linked his fingers around one raised knee. “And I really do love my girl.” The sheepish smile crumpled into a frown. “It’s her bloody mother I can’t stand.”

  And what was she supposed to say to that? “Well … perhaps you won’t need to see much of Erminium, after you’re married. You know. Being newlyweds, wanting your privacy. Matters of state
. If you play your cards right you could keep her at bay for months on end.”

  “That would be my cunning plan,” Ludwig said, with a swift, conspiratorial grin. “But don’t tell Ratafia. For some reason she’s quite attached to the old bat.”

  “I won’t breathe a word, I promise. Ludwig—”

  “Yes?” he said, after a politely patient moment. “Something the matter, Melissande?”

  “No, no,” she said hastily. Come on, woman, spit it out. Too bad if you make Gerald cross. Are you here to help him, or aren’t you? “I was just wondering … everything’s all right, isn’t it? With the wedding preparations. Nothing’s been giving you cause for concern?”

  Ludwig pulled a face. “What, aside from the crab puff catastrophe and your lady’s maid falling into the Canal and Brunelda having to abandon the wedding tour on account of her gout and the Lanruvians set to upset Splotze’s cherry cart and Erminium, you mean? No. Why would I be feeling concerned?”

  She felt her heart leap. “Y’know, it’s funny, I do believe I heard mention of cherries. And the Lanruvians. But it sounded so peculiar I thought it must’ve been a mistake.”

  “No mistake,” said Ludwig, morose again. “You got me thinking the other day, Melissande, about those bloody Lanruvians and what they’re doing at my wedding. So I tackled Hartwig.”

  It was a struggle to keep her eager excitement from showing. “And what did he say?”

  “That it was all Leopold’s idea. Making up our cherry harvest shortfall by bringing in the Lanruvians. Using my wedding to cover up any questions about their presence. Hartwig’s livid, but by the time he found out it was too late to uninvite them. So we’ve got to put a brave face on things until the wedding treaty’s signed. There are all kinds of concessions and loopholes and what-have-yous to do with the Canal in the cherry arrangement, y’see. Punitary fines. Reversions of rights. Transfers of titles. If the Lanruvians start rocking the barge now, well, the whole bloody Splotze-Borovnik partnership could capsize. Disaster.”

  “I’m sorry, Ludwig,” she said at last, after trying to think it through. “I don’t quite see it. If it’s that important, how could Secretary Gertz do something so silly?”

  “He panicked,” Ludwig sighed. “Everyone knows we float through the world on our cherry liqueur. He was afraid two bad harvests might turn into twenty.”

  “Which would put something of a dent in Splotze’s reputation and revenue.”

  “And change the balance of power between us and Borovnik.” Ludwig heaved another sigh. “Which explains the urgent desire to prop up our cherry supply. Bloody Leopold. Always doing the wrong thing for the right reason.”

  Melissande inspected a loose thread in her sleeve. Lord, what a tangle, with the Lanruvians slap bang in the middle of it. The question was, did this make them the villains? Or were they simply the happy beneficiaries of someone else’s villainy?

  And if that’s the case, then whose?

  “Ah … Melissande?”

  Looking up, she saw that Ludwig’s demeanour had shifted from woeful to anxious. “Yes?”

  “Need to ask you not to repeat any of this,” he said. “Shouldn’t have told you, really. But it’s on my mind and, well, you’re a good listener.”

  And now she was going to lie to him with a reassuring smile on her lips. I hate this. I really do. “Oh, Ludwig, of course. I’ll not breathe a word.”

  “Much appreciated,” said Ludwig, expansive with relief. He clambered down from his rock, took up her hand and kissed it. “Hartwig always said you were a right one, and he wasn’t wrong.”

  “And of course when he said that,” Melissande concluded, “I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Gerald. “I know this is uncomfortable for you.”

  “But it’s life or death,” she said. “Yes, yes. I understand.”

  Understanding, however, didn’t necessarily mean acceptance, or approval. One of the things he loved most about Melissande was her unflinching dedication to honesty.

  Whereas janitors are dedicated to uncovering the truth … and sometimes the only way to get at the truth is by lying until you’re blue in the face.

  Something that would never sit well with Rupert’s sister.

  As the coachmen watered their horses from special barrels attached to the carriages, and inspected them for harness galls and stones in their hooves, the wedding guests had spread out along the side of the road to eat their picnic lunches and chat. Taking advantage of the lull, he and Melissande had removed to a discreet but socially acceptable distance, pretending to consult on her next article for the New Ottosland Times.

  “You don’t have to go on, y’know, Mel,” he said gently. “Being involved. If you’d rather step back. I’ll not think any less of you. How could I? You’ve been marvellous. You’ve done far more than Sir Alec expected you would. Or could. Truth be told, if you did step back now I’ve no doubt he’d be relieved.”

  Melissande managed a wobbly little smile. “Him and Rupes. But Ger—sorry, Algernon, how can I? The job’s not finished. You need me to be your camouflage, so you can keep on janitoring without raising suspicions.”

  “The Times, you mean?” He shook his head. “No. We can get around that. I’ve been thinking. All you need do is fall victim to a vague indisposition. You tell Hartwig you’re terribly sorry, but you don’t think you can go on. He makes an embarrassing fuss over you then reluctantly agrees and orders the carriage to take you and Bibbie back to Grande Splotze, leaving me behind as your proxy for the Times. Under those circumstances, no-one will object to me asking them all kinds of questions.”

  “Oh,” said Melissande. “Yes. That does sound like it would work.”

  It certainly did. In fact, the more he thought about it, the harder he could kick himself for not having come up with the plan much sooner. Like before he’d ever let Bibbie set foot on Hartwig’s barge. If he’d done that, he might’ve saved himself an awful lot of aggravation.

  Only, of course, if I had left her behind in Grande Splotze, probably as soon as my back was turned she’d have picked up the hunt for Bestwick where I left off.

  Hell’s bells. Abel Bestwick. So much had happened, the missing janitor had slipped his mind. Or maybe it was more that he didn’t want to think of him. Too much guilt there. For all his superior potentia, he’d failed to find the poor bastard. Save him.

  But if Bibbie went back to the palace, she’d make a point of visiting that kitchen maid. He knew it. And if the girl started weeping for her lost Ferdie again, and begged Bibbie for help …

  Of course she’d laugh at the danger and go hunting for Bestwick. Bibbie’s a Markham. That’s what they do.

  He looked over at her, at the moment doing her best to charm a smile out of Norbert of Harenstein’s man, Dermit. Norbert’s man was still resisting.

  Blimey. He must be carved out of stone.

  “Actually?” said Melissande, who was giving Bibbie the same frowning, considering look. “I think it’ll be safer all round if Bibbie and I stay. Saint Snodgrass alone knows what she’d get up to that far out of your sight.” A little sigh. “Don’t worry about me, Algernon. I’m just being overly nice in my scruples.”

  “Are you sure?” he said, and wished he could hug her.

  Her chin tilted, in that particular way that made her quintessentially, uniquely Melissande. “Quite sure. Now, what are we going to do about the Lanruvians?”

  “ We aren’t going to do anything,” he said firmly. “Whether they’re behind the plot or simply taking advantage of it, they’re still bloody dangerous. You stay away from those buggers, Mel. They’re my problem, and I’ll deal with them.”

  Behind her spectacles, her eyes narrowed. “And there you go being frightening again.”

  “In which case, my work is done,” he retorted. “For the moment. So why don’t you go and rescue Dermit? He might be a dour stick, but as far as I can tell he’s done nothing to deserve Bibbie’s u
ndivided attention.”

  “Yes, Mister Rowbotham,” Melissande murmured. “Whatever you say, Mister Rowbotham.”

  But the rescue wasn’t needed, because a moment later Hartwig was chivvying his motley assortment of guests back to their carriages. One by one they clambered into their seats, the coachmen roused the horses, and the cavalcade rolled on.

  Gerald, seeing Bibbie’s eyelids droop, couldn’t resist. “Oh dear. Is all that flirting wearing you out, Miss Slack?”

  She glowered at him, sleepily. “Drop dead, Mister Rowbotham.”

  And on that cordial note, their journey to Lake Yablitz continued.

  For the next two hours, nearly, while Bibbie and Melissande dozed, Gerald hid behind his own closed eyelids and used as much of his potentia as he dared to search the surrounding ether for signs of danger. But beyond the discomfort of Splotze’s cantankerous etheretics, and the Lanruvians’ hot, bright potentias, he found nothing and no-one to give him pause.

  Which was both a relief, and profoundly disturbing. It didn’t make sense. If the Lanruvians couldn’t hide their power from him, really, could anyone else? Somewhere, somehow, he must’ve taken a wrong turn. Something Melissande had said, earlier. Something about scruples …

  From the start I’ve been assuming there’s a wizard at work here. But what if there’s not? What if there’s simply an ordinary, every day villain armed with a rotten wizard’s filthy thaumaturgics? Grimoire magics created for mischief, and sold without scruple to the man with the most coin.

  Damn. It made sense—and he should’ve considered the possibility from the beginning. Instead, he’d let the Lanruvians’ presence blind him. Idiot. He had to get hold of Sir Alec. See if his superior had been able to trace the provenance of that blood magic hex. If they could work out who’d created it they’d be several steps closer to finding out who’d bought it, and once they knew who’d bought it …

  Bibbie cleared her throat, inquiringly. “Are you all right, Mister Rowthbotham? You look like someone’s jabbed you with a very large pin.”

  It could still be the Lanruvians, of course, attempting to hide their tracks by using another wizard’s incants and hexes. He felt sure there was more to their presence in Splotze than cherries.