by K. E. Mills
Melissande was on her feet, gaping in alarm. Gerald hauled himself to his knees, hauling Bibbie with him. Dazed by grimoire magic he looked at the bridge—just in time to see the first of three huge rocks plunge down the side of the steep hill and strike it. Timber shattered. Splinters flew. Water plumed as the hexed rocks smashed into the river below.
“Ratafia!” cried Melissande. “And Ludwig!”
Their carriage was a mere stone’s throw from the ruined bridge. Its horses reared and whinnied, terrified. The coachman was doing his best to control them, but he was losing the fight.
Shouts from Hartwig’s carriage. Then more shouts from behind, as the other guests panicked. Another stony, grinding rumble. Gerald choked on fresh pain, feeling Bibbie’s fingers close vise-like on his hand. He turned to see two more enormous boulders ponderously skipping down the hill, dragging with them a horde of smaller rocks, raising a dirt cloud, knocking stubby trees aside like skittles. The rocks struck the road, blocking it, scant feet from the rear of the last carriage containing Lord Babcock of Ottosland and his secretary, Hever Mistle. Its horses rose onto their hind legs, their terror leaping to the team pulling the Lanruvians’ carriage, directly in front.
There was nowhere to run. The wedding tour party was trapped.
Yet another deafening rumble and a shower of small stones. More rocks were sliding towards the road, towards the bridge. All the horses were fear-blinded now, rearing dangerously high and waving their forelegs, threatening to hurt themselves and each other. It was Putzi Gorge all over again, only a hundred times worse. The air was full of dust and shredded leaves and terror.
“Gerald, do something!” said Melissande, close to tears. “Those rocks are going to hit Ratafia’s carriage!”
He smeared his vision clear. Dammit, she was right. More rocks were sliding fast, half the hillside sliding with them. Where were Ratafia and Ludwig? Damn, they were still in the carriage, too frightened to leap out. Or maybe they were hurt. Either way …
He turned to Bibbie. “Hide me, Bibs. Now. Like you did in the gorge.”
A flash of her smile, still hers though she was Gladys. Burning within her, the wild, reckless courage that would not be denied. She flung her potentia around him … and he threw away his shield. Familiar light and strange darkness, bound within him as one. His grimoire potentia, twisted like the ether, shuddering to break free. If he let it loose, would he be safe? And could he find himself again? No choice. He had to risk it. If he got lost, Bibbie would find him.
Trusting her, he let go.
And nearly fell over with shock, because the Lanruvians, his prime suspects, were using their powers to avert disaster. Or trying to. Only they were failing. The men from Lanruvia weren’t the right kind of wizards.
But I am. Bloody hell.
Bibbie’s potentia was on fire, swirling around him like living flame. He was hiding in her inferno. He was running out of time. He let blind instinct guide him. Let the blocking and binding incants pour out of him in an almost silent stream and focused his will on preventing bloody death.
Come on, Dunnywood! Time to earn your damned keep!
The swiftly sliding rocks had been hexed to tumble and kill. A small part of his mind was screaming How? Who? But investigation had to wait. Drenched in sweat, his muscles shaking, he over-rode the filthy, murderous incants and bent the rocks to his will. Slowed them … and slowed them … and told them to crack. He could hear Bibbie gasping as she kept him from sight, could hear Melissande’s whispered encouragement. Come on, come on, come on. And then Melissande shouted, gladly, and he shouted too, as the rocks shattered into shards that struck the road and the carriages and the unfortunate horses, drawing blood, gouging splinters … but not taking life.
With a strangled groan he collapsed in a heap on the floor of their carriage. Half a heartbeat later, Bibbie collapsed beside him. Her shroud of flames fell with her, leaving him exposed. But that didn’t matter, because he was his changed self again, his grimoire potentia under control. He wasn’t lost. He was safe. Not caring who could see him, he reached for Bibbie’s hand. Pulled her close and kissed her.
The world and its terrible troubles went away.
A hundred years later he opened his eyes and let her go. He could feel his silly Rowbotham face stretched wide in a smile. Gladys Slack was smiling too, but behind her face was Bibbie. His Bibbie. His heart.
Somewhere close by there was a lot of shouting and chaos. Horses whinnying. Dust settling. There was weeping, he could hear it. He looked up. It wasn’t Melissande. He’d have been very surprised if it was.
Still. She did look shaken, down to her bones. He clambered upright and put a hand on her shoulder.
“You’re all right, Mel? We’re all right. It’s over now, I think.”
She was staring at the wedding party’s first two carriages, their horses finally tamed, and at Hartwig and Erminium and Leopold Gertz and Ludwig and Ratafia, standing on the rock-strewn road clutching at each other in desperate relief.
“Well, they seem fine, Saint Snodgrass be praised,” she said, with only the faintest tremor in her voice. Then she turned, revealing her eyes stark with what might have been. Nearly was. “Well done, you two. Oh, bloody well done.”
Their coachman was seeing to the horses, and from the hubbub of the other guests, a babbling of so many different tongues the party sounded like a debate at the United Magical Nations, it seemed that not a soul was paying them any attention.
“It was wizardry, wasn’t it?” she added, her voice safely lowered. “This time, it was wizardry.”
Bibbie sat up. “Yes.”
“Oh.” Melissande’s lips trembled, then firmed. “Well, then. At least now we know for sure.” Her chin lifted. “And do we know who’s behind it?”
Gerald shook his head, feeling his elation collapse. “Sorry.”
“The hexes on those rocks felt the same as the thaumaturgics on the barge,” Bibbie said, sounding grim. “I think.”
And the same as the deadly incants at Abel Bestwick’s lodging, the blood magic hex too, but he didn’t want to say that. Not until he’d had a chance to talk to Sir Alec. Call him old-fashioned, accuse him of treating them like gels, he didn’t care. Bibbie and Melissande had been frightened enough for one day.
Instead of answering, he helped Bibbie to her feet.
“Well, even if they’re not the same,” said Melissande, “we can be sure of one more thing.” She nodded at Hartwig and Ludwig and the rest, still embracing and exclaiming and consoling each other. Norbert of Harenstein had joined them, and Ratafia was clutched to his breast in an extravagance of tearful relief. “Whoever’s behind this, they can’t be here. We were all of us nearly killed. So the culprit must be elsewhere. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Bibbie. “Algernon?”
Gerald hesitated. He wanted to say yes, if only to calm their fears, but there were too many blank spaces. The Lanruvians. He still found it hard to fathom that they’d tried to help avert the bloodshed. And there remained that question mark raised over Norberts’ minions …
The thought turned him towards Harenstein’s carriage. Volker and Dermit stood in the road beside it, their faces pale with shock.
“Algernon?” Bibbie prompted again.
He looked at her. “It does seem unlikely.”
“Unlikely?” Melissande snorted. “That’ll do. So if you’ll excuse me? I’m putting a stop to this.”
What? “Wait—Melissande—”
“No, Gerald,” she said sharply. “It’s over. Yes, I know, you saved us all. This time. But what about next time? Now both of you, stay here.”
And before he could restrain her, she’d leapt down from their carriage and was marching towards the shattered bridge, and Hartwig.
“Melissande, my dear!” cried Hartwig, his voice shaking. His face was chalky pale, his eyes wet. “My dear, are you unharmed?”
He was a grabby old goat but she hugged him anyway. “Yes, Twiggy, I�
�m fine. You?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, blustering. Defying her to notice that he’d just been scared out of his wits. “Of course. I’m the Crown Prince of Splotze, m’dear. Takes more than a few stray pebbles to unseat me!”
Neatly extricating herself from his fervent clasp, to her surprise she found herself being clutched by Norbert of Harenstein.
“It was a close thing, Millicent,” he declared fervently. “A damned close thing!”
Good lord, the marquis was shaking. She patted his back. “But we’re all safe, Norbert, and that’s what counts.” After a second strategical extrication, she looked to Borovnik’s Dowager Queen. “Your Majesty?”
A splinter of carriage-wood or boulder had struck Erminium’s right cheek. A swollen bruise was forming, and there was blood on her parchment skin and dust all over her tawny silk dress. But her head was high and her spine was straight and there was as much anger as fear in her eyes.
“Disgraceful,” she declared. “Disgraceful. Hartwig, this is no way to treat your guests! Have you never heard of hillside maintenance?”
Happy to be ignored, leaving Hartwig to defend his honour, Melissande joined Ratafia and Ludwig, who looked as though they wanted nothing more than to remain in each other’s consoling arms forever.
“You must’ve been so frightened, both of you,” she said, and took one of Ratafia’s cold little hands in hers. “But you’re not hurt, praise Saint Snodgrass. And just think of the story you’ll have to tell your children!”
Though she was tear-stained, Ratafia smiled. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course she is,” said Ludwig, and kissed Ratafia’s dusty cheek. “I shall put them to bed each night with tales of their sweet mother’s courage.”
“Oh, Luddie …”
Tactfully turning aside from the fresh billing and cooing, which surely they’d earned, Melissande saw that all the wedding tour guests had clambered out of their carriages and were picking their way along the road to join them. Even the Lanruvians were approaching, their disconcerting detachment unshaken. Spying Gerald and Bibbie, inching closer, she started to shake her head, warning them off, but an indignant cry from Erminium distracted her.
“No, Hartwig, I demand that you make arrangements for us to go back to Grande Splotze tonight!”
“Oh, Mama, that’s not necessary,” Ratafia protested. “This was an unfortunate mishap, that’s all. Please, don’t make us go back!”
“There, you see?” said Hartwig. “Such a brave gel, she’ll make Splotze a wonderful Crown Princess! Now Erminium, I know we’ve had a fright but we can’t let this little mishap spoil the rest of the wedding tour. All those people, waiting to see Ludwig and Ratafia. Besides, we don’t want to give anyone an excuse to say Borovnik’s easily rattled, do we?”
Erminium’s fear for her daughter had drained the colour from her cheeks. Now it flooded back. “Do not insult me, Hartwig! The courage of Borovnik has never been in doubt!” Elbowing Ludwig aside, she took her daughter by the shoulders. “Ratafia, are you quite sure?”
“I am, Mama,” said Ratafia. “Hartwig’s right. I owe it to the people of Splotze to keep going. And I warn you, I’ll swim the river if I have to and walk the rest of the way on bare feet. The tour must continue.”
Melissande ground her teeth. Bugger. Just when she’d thought she’d get what she wanted without having to lift a finger.
Curse you, Ratafia. Of all the times to be brave and stalwart and princessly.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I won’t!” she announced. “I think it’s madness to go on. I think we should all return to Grande Splotze at once.”
“What’s that?” said Hartwig, staring. “But Melissande, you said you were fine!”
She pressed an artfully shaking hand to her face. “I lied, Twiggy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be such a ninny but I’m afraid I can’t help it. I’m afraid I’m afraid! Oh, Hartwig. Dear Hartwig. I beg you … I implore you … take us home to Grande Splotze!”
And on a deep breath, she burst into noisy tears and flung herself into Hartwig’s surprised but welcoming arms.
“There, there, Melly,” he said, patting her shoulder. “It’s all right, m’dear. Don’t cry. Of course we’ll go back to the palace, if that’s what you want.”
Oh, lord, she thought, feeling a pang of guilt at the genuine distress in Hartwig’s voice. When Sir Alec finds out I’ve stuck my oar in, he’ll go spare.
Another day, another six hours spent fighting idiots in the Department of Thaumaturgy’s unswept halls of power.
And to think his day was still only half over.
Resisting the urge to bang his head on his desk, Sir Alec initialled the last page of Mawford’s final report on the latest nastiness in West Uphantica. Perhaps now someone other than Ralph would believe him when he said trouble was brewing again.
As he replaced his pen in its holder, someone tapped on the closed office door. “Come,” he said, flipping the file’s folder shut.
Frank took one look at his face and rolled his eyes. “West Uphantica?”
A sigh. “What else?”
“And Gaylord’s being a pillock.”
“He is.”
“You put up with too much shite from that tosser.”
“I do.”
“I’ve got a plan to take care of Ravelard bloody Gaylord,” Frank said, shoving the door closed with his foot. “Want to hear it?”
He kept his lips from twitching, but only just. “No.”
“Fine.” Frank crossed to the desk and held out the steaming mug he’d brought with him. “Then listen to this. And while you’re listening, pour some bloody tea down your throat.”
“I can fetch my own tea.”
“By the looks of you, Ace, you wouldn’t make it to the stairs. Drink.”
So he took Frank’s mug and swallowed, welcoming the warmth and even the sugar. “You were saying?”
“Aylesbury Markham was right,” said Frank, dropping into the visitor’s chair. “The Lanruvians have been getting cosy with the Maneezi.”
The unwelcome news woke his lightly sleeping megrim. “It’s confirmed?”
“Pribble got a message to us through Bisphor in Tarikstan. Had to use word of mouth with a courier.”
How disturbing. “He couldn’t risk regular channels?”
“There’s been an uptick in etheretic monitoring,” Frank said, moodily fingering the half-hearted crease in his trousers. “The Maneezi are bloody nervous, he says.”
“They must be, if they’re risking eavesdropping on our embassy.”
“And he’s seen Lanruvians coming out of their big Research facility,” Frank added. “Which is another bloody worry we don’t need right now.”
Perplexed, Sir Alec sat back in his chair. “It makes no sense. The Maneezi aren’t stupid. Why would they risk everything by getting into bed with the Lanruvians?”
Frank shrugged. “Could be they’re more scared of those pale skinny bastards than they are of sanctions.” His face twisted with derision. “And not without cause. When the political winds blow left to right, the powers that be are toothless and three-quarters blind to boot.”
“Or those pale skinny bastards have something the Maneezi want, so they’re willing to chance giving them a thaumicle extractor in return.” More sharp pain stabbed through his head at the thought of the Lanruvians with access to that kind of equipment. “All right, Mister Dalby. Here’s what we’ll do. First—”
“It’s taken care of,” said Frank, with a swift half-smile. “Field agents on alert, Customs on standby, wizards known for particle thaumaturgics flagged, ditto all PT equipment.”
The pain in his head eased. “Good, Frank. Keep me apprised.”
“Will do. Mind you, Ace, the Maneezi are bound to notice this little flurry of activity. Which means the Lanruvians’ll notice.”
“In which case they might reconsider their ill-considered plans.”
“We can only bloody hope.”
Frank rubbed the side of his nose. “Heard anything more from Dunwoody?”
Sir Alec put down the half-emptied mug of tea. “No. Communications with Splotze continue problematical. Sir Ralph’s boffins are calling it ‘the etheretic storm of the century’.”
Frank grunted. “Not having second thoughts about sending him in, are you? Like, maybe it was too soon after that other mucky business?”
“No.”
Frank crossed an ankle over his knee, comfortable as a cat on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. “If you are, you should bring him home.”
“I’m not,” he said tightly. “I have every confidence that Mister Dunwoody can resolve this Splotze-Borovnik business efficiently and discreetly.”
“If you say so, Ace.” With another grunt, Frank stood. “Any road. Nice chatting with you. Don’t bother getting up, I’ll show m’self out.”
But before Frank’s fingers touched the door’s handle, it flew open. In the doorway, Ralph’s nephew, looking rather the worse for wear.
Sir Alec nodded. “Thank you, Mister Dalby. I’ll take it from here. Come in, Mister Markham.”
As Frank closed the door behind him, Monk pulled a familiar, bloodstained square of blue carpet from under his coat and tossed it on the desk.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t do it. And I wrecked the damn thing trying.”
Sir Alec folded his hands neatly on top of the West Uphantica file and considered the thaumaturgically inert carpet in silence. Then he sighed.
“These things happen. Sit down, Mister Markham. Before you fall down.”
Grey-faced and hollow-eyed, Monk folded onto the chair Frank had just abandoned. “I really am sorry, sir. It was an accident. I got carried away.”
“As I said,” he replied, in the tone that until now only Frank Dalby had heard—and, even then, very seldom. “What we do is not an exact science.”
Monk dragged shaking fingers through his hair. “Blood magic,” he said, with deep loathing. “I used every decoding hex I could think of. I even invented a new one.” He pulled a face. “I think that might be what killed it. I was going to try putting it back together again, only Reg threatened to poke out my eyeballs so I stopped. Because, y’know, for once I think she really meant it.”
