by K. E. Mills
Grinning, Abel Bestwick slid his arm around the buxom kitchen maid’s willowy waist, then accidentally-on-purpose let his eager hand slip south to caress her delightfully plump behind. What did he think? He thought that if Sir Alec knew he was dipping his wick on Department time he’d find himself in very hot water. But seeing as how Sir Alec was several countries eastward, chances were his superior would never find out. And anyway, after living nearly four years as Ferdie Goosen, pantry-man in the Royal Palace of Splotze, he was owed whatever chances of wick-dipping wandered his way.
Sometimes it was a real bugger he’d been born half-Splotzin. And an even bigger bugger he looked all Splotzin through-and-through and thanks to his mother spoke Splotzin like a native.
“What do I think, Mitzie?” he murmured, nibbling at her ear. They were tucked out of sight in the palace kitchens’ vast drygoods pantry, surrounded by beans and sugar and flour and herbs and suchlike. “I think even lackeys like us deserve a noon break from our toils. And it just so happens I overheard the head groom mentioning he and the lads would be gone most of the day, taking the horses with them. So you and me, we can duck into an empty stable or up to the hay loft and—” He closed his fingers on her ample flesh. “Bounce.”
Mitzie squealed, her lavish eyelashes fluttering. “Ooooh, Ferdie. In broad daylight? Idn’t that playing dice blindfolded?”
“Bit of danger adds spice,” he said, and dared a kiss. “You feeling spicy, Mitz? My itsy bitsy mittens?”
She kissed him back. For all her protestations she was no innocent, Mitzie. She’d only been in the kitchens a few months, but he’d sized her up on her first day as a lass who wasn’t a stranger to bouncing. His luck, for once, that her come-hither eye had alighted on him.
“I’ll meet you round back of the stables, by the manure pile,” she said, giggling. “Don’t be late, Ferdie.”
And then she slipped away, not a moment too soon, for he’d barely tipped a fresh sack of flour into the drygoods pantry’s big stone crock when the cook-in-charge barged in shouting for more salt. He did a lot of shouting, did Cook. In that respect he was the opposite of Sir Alec, who never raised his voice … and was about a hundred times more frightening because of it.
As soon as Cook stopped shouting and waving his fat arms, Abel pointed. “Salt’s there, Cook. Came in fresh just yesterday.”
“No, no, no, that is the wrong salt!” Cook bellowed. His cheeks were scarlet, his jowls wobbling like badly-set calf’s-foot jelly. “You are stupid. You think I create the finest medallions of veal poached in malmsey for the Crown Prince and Princess and His Highness and the foreigners using plain marsh salt from Ottosland?” He spat on the stone floor. “Pah for your Ottosland! Where is my beautiful sea salt from Beleen?”
Abel blinked at him. “I don’t know?”
“Pah!” No respecter of lackeys, Cook brandished his ham-hock fists. “But you are the senior pantry-man! Why don’t you know?”
The answer to that was simple—because Cook insisted on jealously guarding his collection of recipes and his weekly menus, so that the underlings who cooked in his wake and the kitchen’s general lackeys never knew from one day to the next what ingredients would be needed.
But if he said that, Cook might well toss him out on his arse, which wouldn’t please Sir Alec at all. So he bit his tongue, looking suitably chastened. On the inside, though, he was seething. Enough was enough. As soon as the royal wedding was done with he was going to ask Sir Alec for a different assignment. It wasn’t just the scarcity of wick-dipping, though that didn’t help. No, it was the daily bollocking from Cook, and the mind-numbing, bone-breaking physical labour that went with being a pantry-man and the relentless, grinding reminders of his despised lackey status and the ever-present background tension over that bloody Canal. The whole bloody set-up was giving him the gripes. He was homesick. Fed up to the back teeth with all things Splotze. Desperate for a pint or several of good Ottish brown ale.
Cook was slamming his way around the drygoods pantry’s shelves, searching like a madman for his precious Beleen salt. As if it could make that much of a bloody difference! Salt was salt, wasn’t it? If it was white and salty, what else could any sane man possibly want? Clearly, Cook needed to get out more. He needed to do a little wick-dipping of his own, instead of spending his days making love to pots of bubbling stew.
Panting, Cook slewed around. “You, there, you stupid, blind pantry-man!”
“My name’s Goosen,” Abel said, feeling truculent and unfairly put-upon. “Ferdie Goosen.”
“A good name, then, for you are a goose!” Cook snapped. “You will run down to the township and you will find me Beleen salt! Go now, goose-man. Run your feet off. Run!”
In this world, in his current disguise, he had no choice but to obey Cook as he’d obey Sir Alec. Cursing under his breath in gutter Splotzin, denied even the comfort of some good, plain Ottish oathing, Abel took to his heels. If he was lucky, he’d find Cook’s bloody salt and still make it to the stables in time to meet Mitzie.
“Ferdie!” Pouting, Mitzie stamped her foot into the soft ground beside the odiferously steaming manure pile. “You are late! I am leaving. I only stayed until now so I could do this!”
And she smacked his face.
Slapping one hand to his smarting cheek, Abel grabbed her wrist with the other and tugged her, protesting, into the deserted opulence of the royal stables.
“Don’t blame me, Mitzie love, it was Cook’s fault,” he wheedled. “I had to run an errand for him, and I promise I ran it as fast as I could.”
Still pouting, she folded her arms. Her generous charms swelled provocatively above the demure neckline of her blouse. Abel felt his breath catch.
“Please, Mitzie. We’ve still got time. And I won’t sleep tonight, I swear it, if I can’t dream happy dreams of a little bouncing with you!”
“I don’t know, Ferdie,” she said, looking past him to the square of sky framed by the stables’ wide, open doorway. “Look where the sun is. We don’t have much time.”
He grinned, knowing he had her. “Then we’ll be quick.”
“Not too quick!”
“No, my little mittens,” he promised, and pulled her with him towards the ladder up to the hay loft, where the horses’ loose fodder and straw were stored. “Just quick enough.”
Bouncing with Mitzie to their happy destination wiped away the aggravation of his scurrying salt search for Cook. Later, moist with the aftermath of sweet exertion and stuck with stray bits of straw, they sprawled side by side, happily smiling.
“Just quick enough,” said Mitzie, and kissed the tip of his nose. Then, to his great regret, she started lacing her delightfully loosened blouse. “Only we’d best be back to the kitchens, Ferdie. We’ll be noticed, else, and trouble idn’t what I’m after. I’ll go first.”
“Wait!” he said, as she scrambled up to put the rest of her rumpled self aright. “I want to do this again. Don’t you?”
Knowing, nimble fingers fiddling with her reddish-blonde hair, she dimpled. “I might. You’ve got some bounce in you, for an old man.”
Old man? He wasn’t thirty till next year! But then to a lass not far past seventeen, perhaps that was old. Saint Snodgrass knew working for Sir Alec had aged him.
“And will you dance with me at the Servants’ Ball, Mitzie?”
Another saucy smile. “I might. Now, Ferdie, mind you stay behind so there’ll be no spying us together,” Mitzie said, pausing as she descended the hay loft ladder. “And no bragging on this when my back’s turned. If I do hear there’s bragging, Ferdie, it’s a mischief I’ll be doing you.”
He pushed onto his elbows. “And if you don’t hear it?”
“You keep mum?” She tossed her head, eyes bright with promise, her sweetly kissable lips pouting. “Then could be we’ll bounce again, by and by.”
Smothering a laugh, Abel settled himself to wait until she was safely away. After he’d counted nearly five minutes, with a
ll the straw picked out of his hair and clothing, decently laced and buttoned like a well-behaved palace lackey, he laid a hand on the hay loft ladder—then pulled it back as though the old, splintered wood had burned him.
Curse it! Someone was returning to the royal stables.
Heart leaping in his chest, he flung himself face-down into the loose, dusty straw and listened to the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the herringbone brickwork. After a few more moments they stopped.
“Groom! Groom!”
And that was a Harenstein accent, roughly wrapping itself around the guttural Splotze tongue. Official go-betweens and negotiators of the unlikely upcoming nuptials, the Harenstein wedding party had been in Grande Splotze for several weeks. He’d managed a good look at them, since being a lackey meant he was able to scurry about the place with none of the hoity-toits paying him any more attention than if he were an umbrella. No alarm bells had rung. But then, why would they? Harenstein wasn’t a danger. Without its efforts there’d be no wedding.
“Damned vermin,” said another voice, speaking in Steinish this time. “Lazy shrulls.”
And that speaker sounded no more familiar than the first. Abel winced. From the sound of them they weren’t of the lackey class, so that meant there were at least two Steinish dignitaries he’d overlooked. Damn. Might be best not to mention that in his next report. Not unless he had to. Sir Alec would be far from amused.
“We’ll have to see to the nags, Dermit,” the disgruntled voice added. “The marquis isn’t to be kept waiting.”
More clip-clopping. Leather creaking. The squealing groan of a stable door that wanted oiling. Abel risked a look over the edge of the hay loft and saw the two men and their horses disappearing into their respective stables, only three boxes along from the hay loft ladder. Dare he risk leaving while they were still here, and so close by? He had to. He was already late. And since he’d taken Cook’s salt to him straight away, he couldn’t plead a delay in the town. Linger here any longer and by the time he did get back to the kitchens there’d be screaming and ranting and probable dismissal in disgrace.
Curse it.
Holding his breath against an inconvenient sneeze, Abel bellied his way backwards over the edge of the hay loft and made his stealthy way, rung by rung, down to the ground. The two Harenstein officials were still complaining about having to care for their own horses. Typical arrogant upper-class snobbery … which in fairness he shouldn’t criticise, since their whining was keeping them too preoccupied to notice him.
And then, as his feet touched the brickwork, he realised the men had stopped their complaints and instead—instead—
Oh, Saint Snodgrass save us!
“Yes, Volker, all is ready,” the first man said in answer to the second’s question. “Bribes paid, hexes in place. And we have the extra hexes, just in case. This abomination of a wedding will founder. How often must I reassure you?”
“Do not blame me for wanting reassurance, Dermit,” said Volker. “You know well the saying—there is many a slip ’twixt cup and lip. I am not yet convinced we have done enough.”
“We have done all that we dare,” said Dermit, sounding scornfully dismissive. “Would you risk our lives? Do not worry. Remember, we are not alone in this.”
The other man snorted. “Perhaps we should be. To trust there, Dermit, is dangerous. What if someone should suspect that we and—”
“Who would suspect such an alliance? It is unthinkable, which is why it will stay secret and we will remain safe.”
“I do not share your confidence. We are risking our lives. I think we should reconsider—”
“We reconsider nothing, Volker!” Dermit snapped. “What will happen on the way to LakeYablitz has been meticulously planned. I tell you there is no danger to us. Or are you now thinking to question my judgement?”
Chilled to his marrow, Abel scarcely heard Volker’s grudging reply. What the devil? This plotting made no sense. With Harenstein instrumental in brokering the match, why would they—
“Hey! You there! You’re not a stable lad. What d’you think you’re doing, loitering here?”
Abel spun round, nearly leaping out of his shoes in his fright. Damn. It was Mister Ibblie, a senior palace minion, the brass buttons on his dark blue tunic proclaiming his superiority. Of all the wretched bloody timing!
“Sorry, sir,” he said, sidling away from the hidden men of Harenstein. Pretending utter ignorance, because Ferdie Goosen had no business knowing the difference between important Ibblie and a tree stump. “I was sent with a message for the head groom, sir. But seems he’s not about, so—”
Frowning, Ibblie approached. “Sent by whom? You’re a kitchen lackey, from the look of you. What—”
An ominous iron groan, as a stable door was pushed open. Almost frozen with horror, Abel slid his gaze over his shoulder. One of the Steinish plotters was staring at him, blue eyes cold and calculating, one broad, blunt hand resting on the worn knife-sheath belted at his hip. Beyond him the neighbouring stable door opened, and the second plotter stepped out. Thinner in the face than his friend, a violently suggestive pale scar slashing the width of his right cheekbone.
Abel turned back to Ibblie, his skin crawling as though he wore a shirt made of ants. “Sorry, sir. I think I’ve muddled myself. You’re right, I shouldn’t be here at all. The message is for the gatekeep.” He bobbed his head. “Excuse me. I’ll get on.”
“Yes, you do that!” snapped Ibblie. “And be sure I’ll mention your incompetence to the head cook!”
Prickling with alarm, Abel managed, barely, to hold himself back to a swift walk. They wouldn’t follow him, surely, those murderous plotters from Harenstein. Not with the palace secretary standing there, an inconvenient witness.
As he reached the hedge with the gate in it, which opened into the palace’s extensive kitchen gardens, he dared a look behind him … and choked. Those bastards. They were following.
Throwing caution to the proverbial winds, Abel ran.
Mid-afternoon in sunny Central Ott.
Pretending leisurely indifference, Sir Alec sauntered along pedestrian-thronged Haliwell Street, which bustled with brisk trade. There was no better place in Ottosland’s capital for the training of junior agents in the art of clandestine operations without benefit of thaumaturgics. Today, having won a short and bracingly sharp argument with Frank Dalby, whose purview this fell under, he was training two hopeful would-be janitors.
On the other side of the wide, busy street, in between passing carriages and automobiles, he caught sight of Mister Pennyweather, who was oblivious to the fact that doggedly persistent Frank Dalby had been following him for the last quarter hour. Were this real life, and not a training exercise, and were they not in Central Ott but instead some far-flung thaumaturgical hotspot, Bocius Pennyweather would by now be an unfortunate statistic.
The blithering fool.
On the other hand, he still held out cautious hope for Chester Baldrin, currently five shops to the rear on his side of the street. Mister Baldrin had neatly evaded Grady Thomquist, the Department’s other regular field trainer, and continued to remain almost inconspicuous. Sir Alec was vaguely aware of relief. Provided he could keep finding more Chester Baldrins, the Department’s future would remain secure.
In the short term, at least.
Because the two young men were supposed to believe that this chance to follow their superior was entirely haphazard, he ducked into a haberdashery and purchased a half dozen unnecessary handkerchiefs. Then, to test his trainees more rigorously, he took a seat next to the railing in the outdoor area of a popular tea room and waited.
But not for long.
Just as his unsweetened lemon tea was placed before him by a waiter, disastrous Mister Pennyweather caused a commotion by darting across the street under the nose of a startled carriage horse. Making a bad situation worse, he then walked right past the tea room’s outdoor seating area and made eye contact.
Lips thinned, Si
r Alec raised an eyebrow.
The young fool’s stride faltered and his face turned beet red. As he dithered, blocking the sidewalk, inviting irritated glances and a flurry of complaints from inconvenienced pedestrians, Frank Dalby slid up to him like a shadow, pressed a finger into the small of his back, and snarled.
“Mister Pennyweather, you blockhead, you are dead.”
Across the street, Chester Baldrin kept walking without so much as a glance in their direction. When Grady Thomquist appeared on the edge of the pedestrian-knot in front of the tea room, Sir Alec idly snapped his fingers. Training exercise over. Thomquist nodded, and took himself off after Mister Baldrin.
Bocius Pennyweather was staring at his feet. “Sorry, Sir Alec. Sorry, Mister Dalby.”
“Idiot.” Frank grabbed him by the coat sleeve and hauled him close. “No names. Get back to the office. We’ll have words on this later.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Mister Baldrin whispered, and fled.
Sir Alec signalled to the waiter. “Another tea, please. Plain, with milk and five sugars. And some cream cakes.”
“I knew Pennyweather was a crock the moment I clapped eyes on him,” said Frank, sliding into the second chair as the waiter obediently retreated. “Do us all a favour, would you, and send him packing back to Customs.”
“I’ll agree Mister Pennyweather’s not fit for field work,” he said mildly, once he was sure no-one was paying them attention. “But his analytical skills are impressive.”
Frank grunted. “If you say so.”
“I do,” he said, and decided to indulge himself further, with a cigarette.
A short, round matron wearing a shockingly green-and-purple checked day dress and far too many ostrich plumes in her puce turban stopped in front of them to peruse the tea room. She was accompanied by a parcel-laden maid, wilting in black and white, who tried not to look longingly at the shade and food. Noticing, the beplumed matron swatted her on the shoulder then launched into a tirade about slatternly servants who didn’t know when they were best off.
Sir Alec listened to the harangue for a few moments, then inhaled deeply on his cigarette and exhaled, strategically.