Wizard Undercover

by K. E. Mills

  Gerald held his breath. Dermit and Volker’s bodies had been thaumaturgically disposed of, their deaths comprehensively lied about. As far as Sir Alec and Sir Ralph and everyone else was concerned, Norbert of Harenstein’s co-conspirators had seen the writing on the wall and fled. He’d not wanted to lie about it, not to Sir Alec, but what could they do? Risk Bibbie being arrested for murder?

  Bloody hell, Reg. What are you playing at?

  But Sir Alec was shaking his head. “No, they remain unaccounted for.”

  “Well, I hope you find them,” said Bibbie, playing dangerous games. “And throw them into a dungeon. I mean, they did try to drown me in the Canal.”

  “Indeed,” said Sir Alec, at his most bland. “We’re doing what we can.”

  Did he harbour even a sliver of suspicion? Nothing in his expression suggested it. But then, he was an expert at keeping secrets …

  “And what about the cherries?” Bibbie added. “Was that Leopold’s daft idea?”

  “Yes,” said Sir Alec. “Norbert encouraged him since it helped undermine Splotze, which was his primary goal. I understand the marquis promised Gertz a great deal of influence in the cherry liqueur business as a reward for his help.”

  “Norbert,” said Melissande, in tones of deep loathing. “Honestly, I could kick myslef. I should’ve known he was rotten. I mean, how difficult is it to remember someone’s name?”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Miss Cadwallader,” said Sir Alec, surpringly kind. “Nobody suspected Harenstein. After all, not every villain struts the stage twirling his moustache and loudly proclaiming his evil plans. Which is a pity, since it would certainly make my job a lot easier.”

  “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “Nothing public,” said Sir Alec. “There are talks going on, behind firmly closed doors. Everything is being handled with the utmost discretion.”

  Monk shook his head. “The whole thing’s been handled that way. It’s been very impressive, really. Well. You know.” He looked at Bibbie. “Except for the part where the palace burned down.”

  Bibbie thumped the table. “It did not burn down! Will you stop saying it burned down? There’s still a palace there, right?”

  “Yes,” Monk murmured. “A charred, sooty, smelly, burned palace.”

  “Anyway,” said Melissande, with a daggered look at Monk and Bibbie, “my point is, Sir Alec, will Norbert be punished for what he did?”

  Sir Alec hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Miss Cadwallader. He will.”

  “Good,” she said, fiercely smiling. “Then please be so kind as to give me his postal address when he’s settled in his new and hopefully very dungeon-like accommodation. I shall write to him once a week. Dear Norris. Dear Nigel. Dear Neville. Dear Nugent.”

  Gerald, watching Sir Alec, thought it was the closest he’d ever seen his self-contained superior to outright laughter.

  “So it’s over?” said Bibbie. “We won, they lost, three cheers, pip pip, hoorah?”

  “As far as anything like this can ever be said to end, Miss Markham? Yes,” said Sir Alec, very cool. “Ludwig and Ratafia are now man and wife, the new Canal treaty has been signed and ratified, and as a result we can look forward to a new era of peace and prosperity in the region.”

  Melissande snorted. “Provided Erminium stays out of the way. But I, for one, won’t be holding my breath.” She favoured Sir Alec with a narrow-eyed stare. “Now, since it seems we’re tying up all the loose ends, what about Abel Bestwick? I mean, without him Norbert would’ve got everything he wanted.”

  Ah, yes. Bestwick. Talk about complications …

  “That’s a Department matter, Miss Cadwallader,” Sir Alec, his expression bland again. “Don’t let it concern you.”

  Melissande pointed a finger at him. “But it does concern me. I want your word he’ll not be punished for wick-dipping with Mitzie. She helped save the day too, y’know. And they’re in love.”

  A pained look ghosted across Sir Alec’s face. “Indeed.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Well, then, Miss Cadwallader …” Sir Alec shrugged. “You have my word.”

  Gerald nearly swallowed his tongue.

  “And what about—” Monk hesitated. “Well. You know.” He waved his hand. “Everything else.”

  Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mister Markham.”

  “You know,” Monk said, scowling. “The embassies and so forth. You were s’posed to sort that out with Uncle Ralph.”

  The eyebrow climbed higher. “Was I?”

  Sitting beside him, Bibbie patted his hand. “Ignore him, Monk. He’s teasing. I had tea and crumpets with Uncle Ralph this morning and everything’s fine.”

  Monk slewed round to stare at her. “You did? Why didn’t you invite me?”

  Bibbie’s smile was poisonously sweet. “You told Dodsworth the palace burned down.”

  “Bloody hell,” Monk muttered. “I give up.”

  Under cover of more lively sibling nattering, Gerald looked at Sir Alec. “And what about me?” he said quietly. “Does Mister Jennings have an opinion?”

  “Perhaps, Mister Dunwoody, this is neither the time nor place to—”

  “You might as well tell me, sir. We both know I’m going to tell them after you’re gone.”

  Sir Alec frowned. “Indeed. Well, Mister Dunwoody, in a nutshell? Mister Jennings is reluctant to draw a definitive conclusion as to what has happened to you.”

  “Ha,” said Reg. “I’m not. You should sack that tosser Jennings and give me his bloody job. What happened, Mister Clever Clogs, is exactly what you hoped would happen. The grimoire magic you left behind in Gerald, on purpose, and don’t you think for a moment any of us was fooled by that little ploy, has grafted itself well and truly into my boy’s rogue potentia. Whatever he was before his little jaunt into my world, well, he’s twice that now, at least … and it might be only the beginning. That’s the explanation, sunshine. So. Are you happy now?”

  Silence, as they all looked at Sir Alec. Silence, as Sir Alec looked back at them.

  “Obviously,” he said at last, “there will be no discussion whatsoever with anyone outside this room regarding the events that transpired in Splotze. In fact, it would be best if you never discussed them again, either.” His lips pinched. “Of course, I say that purely as a matter of form, since I know perfectly well you’ll talk of nothing else for the foreseeable future. But as far as my Department is concerned, the Splotze-Borovnik file is closed. And I think I can safely say the same opinion is held by Sir Ralph. Mister Markham, you’ll return to your duties in Research and Development, while the rest of you will get back to Witches Inc. And should I have need of your services again, Mister Dunwoody, be sure I shall find you there. And now I’ll bid you good night.” He stood. “It was a delightful meal. Thank you.”

  They sat in silence after he left. Then Reg broke the hush with a vigorous rattle of her tail.

  “Right,” she said briskly. “So that’s that. At least for now. And you know what they say. All’s well that ends well. So, who wants more pie?”

  Acknowledgements

  Bernadette Foley, who has the patience of a saint

  The wonderful team at Orbit, all over the world

  Abigail Nathan

  Glenda Larke, Mary GT Webber and Elaine Shipp

  Ethan Eltenberg, my lovely agent, and his team

  The readers who love Gerald and co.

  extras

  www.orbitbooks.net

  about the author

  K. E. Mills is a pseudonym for Karen Miller, who was born in Vancouver, Canada, and came to Australia with her family when she was two. Apart from a three-year stint in the UK after graduating from university with a BA in Communications, she’s lived in and around Sydney ever since. She started writing stories while still in primary school, where she fell in love with speculative fiction after reading The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Over the years she’s hel
d down a wide variety of jobs, including: customer service with DHL London, stud groom in Buckingham England, PR Officer for Ku-ring-gai Council, lecturer at Mount Druitt TAFE, publishing production assistant with McGraw Hill Australia and owner/manager of her own spec fic/mystery bookshop, Phantasia, at Penrith. She’s written, directed and acted in local theatre, had a play professionally produced in New Zealand and contributed various articles as a freelance journalist to equestrian and media magazines. For more information visit www.karenmiller.net

  Find out more about K. E. Mills and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net

  if you enjoyed

  WIZARD UNDERCOVER

  look out for

  THE LEGEND OF

  ELI MONPRESS

  by

  Rachel Aaron

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the prison under the castle Allaze, in the dark, moldy cells where the greatest criminals in Mellinor spent the remainder of their lives counting rocks to stave off madness, Eli Monpress was trying to wake up a door.

  It was a heavy oak door with an iron frame, created centuries ago by an overzealous carpenter to have, perhaps, more corners than it should. The edges were carefully fitted to lie flush against the stained, stone walls, and the heavy boards were nailed together so tightly that not even the flickering torch light could wedge between them. In all, the effect was so overdone, the construction so inhumanly strong, that the whole black affair had transcended simple confinement and become a monument to the absolute hopelessness of the prisoner’s situation. Eli decided to focus on the wood; the iron would have taken forever.

  He ran his hands over it, long fingers gently tapping in a way living trees find desperately annoying, but dead wood finds soothing, like a scratch behind the ears. At last, the boards gave a little shudder and said, in a dusty, splintery voice. “What do you want?”

  “My dear friend,” Eli said, never letting up on his tapping, “the real question here is, what do you want?”

  “Pardon?” the door rattled, thoroughly confused. It wasn’t used to having questions asked of it.

  “Well, doesn’t it strike you as unfair?” Eli said. “From your grain, anyone can see you were once a great tree. Yet, here you are, locked up through no fault of your own, shut off from the sun by cruel stones with no concern at all for your comfort or continued health.”

  The door rattled again, knocking the dust from its hinges. Something about the man’s voice was off. It was too clear for a normal human’s, and the certainty in his words stirred up strange memories that made the door decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Wait,” it grumbled suspiciously. “You’re not a wizard, are you?”

  “Me?” Eli clutched his chest. “I, one of those confidence tricksters, manipulators of spirits? Why, the very thought offends me! I am but a wanderer, moving from place to place, listening to the spirits’ sorrows and doing what little I can to make them more comfortable.” He resumed the pleasant tapping, and the door relaxed against his fingers.

  “Well”—it leaned forward a fraction, lowering its creak conspiratorially—“if that’s the case, then I don’t mind telling you the nails do poke a bit.” It rattled, and the nails stood out for a second before returning to their position flush against the wood. The door sighed. “I don’t mind the dark so much, or the damp. It’s just that people are always slamming me, and that just drives the sharp ends deeper. It hurts something awful, but no one seems to care.”

  “Let me have a look,” Eli said, his voice soft with concern. He made a great show of poring over the door and running his fingers along the joints. The door waited impatiently, creaking every time Eli’s hands brushed over a spot where the nails rubbed. Finally, when he had finished his inspection, Eli leaned back and tucked his first under his chin, obviously deep in thought. When he didn’t say anything for a few minutes, the door began to grow impatient, which is a very uncomfortable feeling for a door.

  “Well?” it croaked.

  “I’ve found the answer,” Eli said, crouching down on the doorstep. “Those nails, which give you so much trouble, are there to pin you to the iron frame. However”—Eli held up one finger in a sage gesture—“they don’t stay in of their own accord. They’re not glued in: there’s no hook. In fact, they seem to be held in place only by the pressure of the wood around them. So”—he arched an eyebrow—“the reason they stay in at all, the only reason, is because you’re holding on to them.”

  “Of course!” the door rumbled. “How else would I stay upright?”

  “Who said you had to stay upright?” Eli said, throwing out his arms in a grand gesture. “You’re your own spirit, aren’t you? If those nails hurt you, why, there’s no law that you have to put up with it. If you stay in this situation, you’re making yourself a victim.”

  “But …” The door shuddered uncertainly.

  “The first step is admitting you have a problem.” Eli gave the wood a reassuring pat. “And that’s enough for now. However”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“if you’re ever going to live your life, really live it, then you need to let go of the roles others have forced on you. You need to let go of those nails.”

  “But, I don’t know …” The door shifted back and forth.

  “Indecision is the bane of all hardwoods.” Eli shook his head. “Come on, it doesn’t have to be forever. Just give it a try.”

  The door clanged softly against its frame, gathering its resolve as Eli made encouraging gestures. Then, with a loud bang, the nails popped like corks, and the boards clattered to the ground with a long, relieved sigh.

  Eli stepped over the planks and through the now-empty iron doorframe. The narrow hall outside was dark and empty. Eli looked one way, then the other, and shook his head.

  “First rule of dungeons,” he said with a wry grin, “don’t pin all your hopes on a gullible door.”

  With that, he stepped over the sprawled boards, now mumbling happily in peaceful, nail-free slumber, and jogged off down the hall toward the rendezvous point.

  In the sun-drenched rose garden of the castle Allaze, King Henrith of Mellinor was spending money he hadn’t received yet.

  “Twenty thousand gold standards!” He shook his teacup at his Master of the Exchequer. “What does that come out to in mellinos?”

  The exchequer, who had answered this question five times already, responded immediately. “Thirty-one thousand five hundred at the current rate, my lord, or approximately half Mellinor’s yearly tax income.”

  “Not bad for a windfall, eh?” The king punched him in the shoulder good-naturedly. “And the Council of Thrones is actually going to pay all that for one thief? What did the bastard do?”

  The Master of the Exchequer smiled tightly and rubbed his shoulder. “Eli Monpress”—he picked up the wanted poster that was lying on the table, where the roughly sketched face of a handsome man with dark, shaggy hair grinned boyishly up at them—“bounty, paid dead or alive, twenty thousand Council Gold Standard Weights. Wanted on a hundred and fifty-seven counts of grand larceny against a noble person, three counts of fraud, one charge of counterfeiting, and treason against the Rector Spiritualis.” He squinted at the small print along the bottom of the page. “There’s a separate bounty of five thousand gold standards from the Spiritualists for that last count, which has to be claimed independently.”

  “Figures.” The king slurped his tea. “The Council can’t even ink a wanted poster without the wizards butting their noses in. But”—he grinned broadly—“money’s money, eh? Someone get the Master Builder up here. It looks like we’ll have that new arena after all.”

  The order, however, was never given, for at that moment, the Master Jailer came running through the garden gate, his plumed helmet gripped between his white-knuckled hands.

  “Your Majesty.” He bowed.

  “Ah, Master Jailer.” The king nodded. “How is our money bag liking his cell?”

  The jailer’s face, alre
ady pale from a job that required him to spend his daylight hours deep underground, turned ghostly. “Well, you see, sir, the prisoner, that is to say”—he looked around for help, but the other officials were already backing away—“he’s not in his cell.”

  “What?” The king leaped out of his seat, face scarlet. “If he’s not in his cell, then where is he?”

  “We’re working on that right now, Majesty!” the jailer said in a rush. “I have the whole guard out looking for him. He won’t get out of the palace!”

  “See that he doesn’t,” the king growled. “Because if he’s not back in his cell within the hour …”

  He didn’t need to finish the threat. The jailer saluted and ran out of the garden as fast as his boots would carry him. The officials stayed frozen where they were, each waiting for the others to move first as the king began to stalk around the garden, sipping his tea with murderous intent.

  “Your Majesty,” squeaked a minor official, who was safely hidden behind the crowd. “This Eli seems a dangerous character. Shouldn’t you move to safer quarters?”

  “Yes!” The Master of Security grabbed the idea and ran with it. “If that thief could get out of his cell, he can certainly get into the castle!” He seized the king’s arm. “We must get you to a safer location. Your Majesty!”

  This was followed by a chorus of cries from the other officials.

  “Of course!”

  “His majesty’s safety is of utmost importance!”

  “We must preserve the monarchy at all costs!”

  Any objections the king may have had were overridden as a surge of officials swept down and half carried, half dragged him into the castle.

  “Put me down, you idiots!” the king bellowed, but the officials were good and scared now. Each saw only the precipitous fall that awaited him personally if there were a regime change, and fear gave them courage as they pushed their protesting monarch into the castle, down the arching hallways, and into the throne room.