by K. E. Mills
“Mister Haythwaite,” said a bored voice behind him. “There you are.”
“Mister Dalby,” said Errol, sounding as close to meek as he could likely get. “Yes. I—ah—I just got here.”
“Which means you’re late,” said Mister Dalby. “Mister Scrimplesham’s waiting. Run along.”
Errol swallowed. “Yes. Of course.”
Heedless of Mister Dalby, watching, still inclined to make his point, Gerald didn’t shift quite far enough out of Errol’s path. Forced to brush against him, Errol hissed a sharp breath between his teeth. With a smile, Gerald pulled his spiky potentia back into himself. His burning nerves extinguished. The misted corridor faded from scarlet to clear. As he watched Errol out of sight, he felt a tickle of surprise.
Mister Scrimplesham? But he was Nettleworth’s expert in matters of disguise. Best obfuscatory hexman in the entire Department, it was said. Better even than Monk, and that was saying something. Why the devil would Errol be needing to see old Scrimpy?
Behind him, Frank Dalby sniffed. “Think you’re clever, do you, Dunwoody?”
A moment, then he turned to meet the senior janitor’s unimpressed stare. “Sorry, Mister Dalby. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yeah, you bloody do,” said Dalby, and sighed. “Now just you listen up. Personally, I could watch you smear that little ponce into raspberry jam and not turn a hair. No great loss. World’s full of rich tossers. But if you did you’d cause trouble for the guv’nor, and I won’t be having that. So you mind your p’s and q’s with Errol Haythwaite, understand? Or you and me, Dunwoody, we’ll have ourselves a problem.”
Frank Dalby’s fierce loyalty to Sir Alec, his former fellow janitor, was no secret around Nettleworth. Nor was it a secret that his mission success rate was second only to Sir Alec’s, and that his kill count was higher by at least three. Not that such things were openly discussed. They were just … known. And taken into account.
The last thing Gerald Dunwoody needed was a problem with Frank Dalby. He stood on cracked ice with the senior janitor as it was. Prudently, he backed down.
“Sorry, Mister Dalby. I let my temper get the better of me.”
Dalby’s stare softened a trifle. “Like I said. Haythwaite’s a tosser. Do yourself a favour and forget him.”
With Frank Dalby so out of character chatty, Gerald decided to chance a question, even though the matter was none of his business. “What’s he doing here? Errol’s a domestic agent. I thought his lot and ours weren’t meant to cross paths.”
Metaphorical shutters slammed down behind Frank Dalby’s weary eyes. “I’m a busy man, Dunwoody. I can drive you home now, or you can stand about chatting to yourself as long as you like and leg it home under your own steam later. Up to you.”
He felt his jaw drop. “You’re driving me home? But—”
“Fine,” said Dalby, turning. “Suit yourself. Just don’t you bloody go telling the guv’nor I didn’t try.”
“No—no—wait,” said Gerald, leaping after him. “Wait, Mister Dalby. I’m coming.”
And because he wasn’t stupid, no matter what Errol said, he kept his mouth shut all the way back to Chatterly Crescent.
Afterwards, alone in the kitchen because Monk was busy inventing things in Research and Development and Reg had taken herself off for the day, exploring her new home, he sat with a cup of tea and tried very hard to ignore how the grimoire hexes still tangled in his potentia, promise and poison …
… and how sickeningly satisfying Errol Haythwaite’s fear had felt.
“Oh good, Alec. You waited,” Ralph Markham said, coming into his Department of Thaumaturgy office as burdened as a mule. With a groan of relief he dumped the over-stuffed files he was carrying onto his already cluttered desk. “I was afraid you’d give up.”
Sir Alec raised his glass, half-full of best Blonkken brandy. “If not for this, I might have. Shall I pour you one?”
“Please,” said Ralph, closing the door.
Obliging his sometime friend, sometime foe, Sir Alec rose from the comfortable leather armchair reserved for special guests and poured a second glass of brandy. There were those who’d say, disapprovingly, that it was far too early in the afternoon for alcohol. But given what he’d sat through at Nettleworth, and the frustrated exhaustion stamped into Ralph’s heavy face, it wasn’t an opinion he shared.
Not today, at least.
“Thanks,” said Ralph, taking the glass. “Bloody domestic security meeting ran over. I tell you, if Gaylord was tipped out tomorrow he could earn a decent living blowing hot air into balloons.”
Sir Alec smiled. “Anything I need to know about?”
“Officially?” Ralph swallowed deeply, then belched. “Of course not. Domestic matters are not your concern.”
“And unofficially?”
Perching on the front edge of his heavy mahogany desk, Ralph glowered into his glass. “Unofficially, this black market wizard is kicking our arses. Four more cases of illicit hexes in the past two weeks. One’s a fatality. Lady Barstow.”
“Yes. I heard.”
“I tell you, Alec, if we don’t pinch this nasty piece of work soon …”
He shrugged. “Well, Ralph, you know what I think.”
“Oh, don’t start,” said Ralph, impatient. “If I thought there was a snowball’s hope in summertime of Gaylord and the rest agreeing to your people and his joining forces then we both know I’d leap at your offer. But those shortsighted fools won’t have a bar of it and I can’t afford to expend political capital on twisting their arms to make them agree.”
“No, you’d rather wait until this criminal wizard brings Ottosland to its knees so they’re forced to come crawling to you, cap in hand.” Sir Alec smoothed his grey tie. “Which might be gratifying, I grant you. But Ralph, is it wise?”
“Alec, what would you have me do?” Ralph demanded. “So far this—this weasel has confined his activities to home soil. As much as I’d like to, I can’t over-ride Gaylord and involve your janitors.” He raised a hand. “And don’t, for pity’s sake, try to use Errol Haythwaite against me. Loaning Scrimplesham’s services to one of Gaylord’s agents is not the same as ignoring the inflexible rules regarding agency territorial purviews.”
Sir Alec topped up his glass then returned to the comfort of the guest chair. “Well, it’s your decision, Ralph. And never fear, I’ll be on hand to pull your chestnuts out of the fire when this blows up in your face.”
“Thank you,” said Ralph, gloomily, and downed the rest of his brandy. “Just don’t gloat too loudly when the time comes, that’s all I ask. You’re not the one who has to put up with Gaylord day in and day out.”
Which, for Ravelard Gaylord’s sake, was fortunate. Repressing a shiver of distaste, Sir Alec sipped more brandy. Let his head rest against the armchair’s high back and enjoyed the smothering glow of fine, fermented peach.
“You look a bit washed up yourself,” said Ralph, shifting from the desk to the office’s other armchair. “How did it go?”
Because he couldn’t make use of Jennings without Ralph being told, and because telling the truth was out of the question, he’d concocted a story about a training mishap that had left Gerald Dunwoody tainted with the wrong kind of magic. Trusting him, Ralph hadn’t questioned the tale.
Now, instead of answering, he dropped his gaze to the amber depths of his brandy. As a man of many and varied experiences, he prided himself on his carefully cultivated self-control. Unexpectedly, though, that discipline was shaken by what Gerald Dunwoody had stubbornly endured at Jennings’s hands.
“Not much point lambasting yourself, Alec,” Ralph said gruffly. “Accidents happen.” He cleared his throat. “Are you going to tell him?”
Sir Alec looked up. “That the extraction wasn’t entirely successful? Unnecessary. I’ve no doubt Mister Dunwoody’s already worked it out for himself.”
“I meant,” Ralph said carefully, “are you going to tell him the extraction failed on purpo
se.”
On purpose. That had an ugly ring to it. And why wouldn’t it? What he’d done was ugly. But then that was what Sir Alec Oldman excelled at. The dark, dirty, ugly little tasks, performed in secret, shrouded in half-truths and outright lies. He did the things that needed to be done, for the people of Ottosland who wanted them done but didn’t want to know the unpleasant details … and who’d bay for his blood if they ever found out.
“In time,” he said at last. “When I can trust he’ll not take my actions amiss.”
“And you’re sure that time will come, are you?”
“Dunwoody’s not a fool, Ralph. Once the heat of the moment has passed, he’ll understand.”
Ralph shook his head. “You hope. Have to tell you, Alec, if it were me, I’m not sure I would.”
“That’s hardly surprising, Ralph,” he said, indulging in a little malice. “You’re not a janitor.”
The sly dig earned him a look. Then Ralph drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “It’s a big risk you’ve taken. Grimoire hexes are bad enough. I mean, they’re restricted for a reason. But matched with Dunwoody’s rogue potentia? Who knows what mischief that might brew?”
Sir Alec set aside his unfinished brandy. “Nobody. Which was always the point, wasn’t it? To find out. And I seem to recall you thought it was the thing to do, when I raised the matter.”
Which he’d done most reluctantly. But with Ralph’s already deep involvement in Gerald’s case, not to mention the need for his support, he’d had no choice. In this, as in so much else, he and Ralph were wary allies.
“Yes,” said Ralph, frowning. “And despite my reservations I still do. An accident like this—you’d be mad not to take advantage. It’s not like we can go around deliberately feeding that kind of grimoire muck to our people.”
“But?” Sir Alec prompted, knowing there was more.
“But I wish it had been anyone other than Dunwoody. That unnatural young wizard is already too dangerous.”
Sometimes it seemed he spent half his life defending Gerald Dunwoody. “We’re all of us dangerous, Ralph, in our own little ways. Don’t fret. I keep that young man on a suitably short leash.”
“I know, Alec,” said Ralph, levering himself out of his armchair. “But you’d do well to remember that leashes can snap. Now, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me. I’m due for an early dinner with Wolfgang and the rest of the family. But look—before I go, is there anything I should know?”
“D’you mean has your nephew done anything appalling of late?” Standing, Sir Alec shook his head. “No. Not to my knowledge.”
“Wonderful,” Ralph groaned. “That can only mean we’re overdue for a disaster.” He collected his coat, hat and brief case. “I tell you, I do wonder what I did to deserve Monk. Him and his sister. There ought to be a law.”
Sir Alec patted his shoulder in passing. “Well, Ralph, why don’t you devise one? Since there’s no plan in place to apprehend your black market wizard, it seems to me you must have plenty of time.”
And on that satisfying note, he took his leave.
CHAPTER TWO
“Oy!” Aylesbury slapped his hand on the round dining table’s antique lace tablecloth. “Monk! Stop acting deaf, you grubby little stoat! I said pass me the gravy before you and Emmerabiblia guzzle the bloody lot.”
Seated opposite his irascible brother, Monk turned to their sister. “You know, Bibs, I think I need to visit the doctor.”
“Why, Monk?” said Bibbie, her eyes alight with mischief. “What’s wrong?”
“Something very peculiar. Whenever anyone forgets to say please, I’m stricken with an odd kind of paralysis.”
“Really?” Bibbie fanned herself in mock distress. “Monk, that sounds awful. If I were you, I’d—”
“Now, now, you two, stop teasing Aylesbury,” their mother said, calmly passing her eldest offspring the gravy boat. “This is the small dining room, not the nursery.”
Slopping more horseradish onto his plate, Uncle Ralph snorted. “Could’ve fooled me, Sofilia.”
Their mother smiled sweetly. “Speaking as a Thackeray, Ralph, I’m sure that’s true. With one or two notable exceptions—” She patted her daydreaming husband’s arm. “I’m afraid the Markhams are rather easily befuddled.”
“Eh?” Uncle Ralph sat back in his chair. “Wolfgang! Are you going to let your wife insult the Markham name with impunity?”
As their father continued to dream thaumaturgics and eat his dinner, unheeding, and their mother and Uncle Ralph fell to familiar, good-natured bickering, Monk rolled his eyes at Bibbie, who giggled, then settled his gaze on Aylesbury. Feeling the scrutiny, Aylesbury paused in fastidiously cutting away the fat from his roast beef and looked up.
“What?”
Monk shrugged. “Nothing. Only I think you might’ve missed your true calling. I’d bet the Central Ott morgue is crying out for a man with your knife skills.”
Eyeing him coldly, Aylesbury set down his cutlery and reached for the gravy boat. “If you volunteered yourself for me to practice on I’d consider offering my services.”
Hmm. Was his brother joking? Most likely not. Where he was concerned, Aylesbury’s sense of humour was conspicuously lacking.
“Anyway, Ralph,” said their mother, waving an airy hand. “It’s neither here nor there, is it, because though I was born a Thackeray I’m now a Markham by marriage. And everyone knows it’s perfectly acceptable to insult your own. Emmerabiblia, stop eating. Who’s going to marry you if you’re the size of a cart horse?”
A pinched line appeared between Bibbie’s perfectly arched eyebrows. “Another cart horse?” she suggested, and looked over her shoulder at the family’s stoically silent senior footman. “Cheevers? The roast potatoes, please.”
“Really, Emmerabiblia,” their mother sighed, as Cheevers fetched the dish of potatoes from the serving board. “You are tiresome. Next you’ll be saying you don’t want to get married!”
Bibbie helped herself to a crisply golden potato, then dismissed Cheevers with a smile. “And so I don’t. Not yet, anyway. I’m far too busy.”
She sounded cheerful enough, but Monk felt his insides twist. Bibbie’s trouble was that she did want to get married. To Gerald.
And that’s the last thing I want for her.
Though it made him feel a traitor to their friendship, he couldn’t settle with the notion of Gerald and his sister getting … involved. Not only because his best friend was one of Sir Alec’s secretive, dangerous janitors, but because after their ghastly adventures in that other Ottosland, he was more convinced than ever that if Bibbie and Gerald did act on their feelings, she would only end up hurt.
Because the Gerald who came back isn’t the same Gerald who went.
Aylesbury was favouring Bibbie with a scathing stare. “Come now, Mother. Emmerabiblia’s never going to convince someone to marry her while she’s footling about with that ridiculous hobby of hers.”
Pink with indignation, Bibbie glared. “Witches Incorporated is not a hobby! We are a legitimate business enterprise, and—”
“Don’t, Bibs,” Monk said, treading lightly on her foot. “He’s trying to get a rise out of you.”
“It’s true,” Aylesbury retorted. “The rest of the family might be too soft-headed to protest her nonsense but I don’t suffer from the same complaint! You must know, Emmerabiblia, that you and that misguided, ragtag bit of royalty you’ve teamed up with are turning the Markham name into a laughing stock.”
Monk winced as Bibbie sucked in a furious breath. Oh, lord. She was going to lose her temper and reveal the truth about Witches Inc.’s interesting little arrangement with Sir Alec’s secret government department. But before he could intervene, Uncle Ralph leaned a little sideways and clapped Aylesbury hard on his velvet-clad shoulder.
“Now, now, nephew, come along,” he said, in a heartily patronising tone calculated to raise Aylesbury’s hackles. “Don’t be so stuffy. These are modern times we
’re living in, eh? Gels like to have a bit of fun, doncha know? And I think the Markham reputation can withstand a bit of girlish romping.” He chuckled. “But speaking of weddings, what d’you all make of this fuss over Splotze and Borovnik’s upcoming nuptials?”
Typically mercurial, Bibbie abandoned temper. “Melissande was invited to attend,” she said sounding pleased and proud. “The wedding and the royal tour.” She flicked a mordant glance at Aylesbury. “Which only goes to show that she isn’t ragtag.”
“Really, Emmerabiblia? How very prestigious,” said their mother, brightening. “Perhaps you could wangle your way into her retinue.”
Rousing from his reverie, their father smoothed back his unruly salt-and-pepper hair. “What are you on about, Sofilia? You don’t approve of royalty.”
“Really, Wolfgang, do try not to be dense,” said their mother, with an impatient tsk. “For all their faults, royalty can occasionally prove useful. There’ll be scads of unspoken-for young men gadding about this wedding. Who knows what kind of eligible personage our unwed and rapidly aging daughter might meet?”
“I know, Mother,” said Bibbie, with a glittering smile. “Not a one, because Melissande’s declined the invitation. Something about the Crown Prince of Splotze and his wandering hands.”
“Oh,” said their mother, disappointed. “Well. That’s terribly unobliging of her, I must say. As your friend she should be prepared for some trifling inconvenience if it means you could meet the right man. Monk, you’re dallying with the young woman, aren’t you? What are you doing to see that she changes her mind about attending this wedding?”
Monk trod on Bibbie’s foot again, more emphatically, and favoured their mother with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mama, but when it comes to persuadability Melissande is quite a lot like you. Once she’s made up her mind, there’s no changing it.”
“Well, I call that sadly lily-livered!” their mother retorted. “For your poor sister’s sake, Monk, I demand that you try!”