by K. E. Mills
“Well!” said the turbaned matron, wheezing, and moved off. Shooting him a grateful glance, the maid scuttled in her wake.
As Frank rolled his eyes, the waiter returned. Marvelling, Sir Alec watched as his former partner fell on the horribly sweet tea and cream-filled cakes like a man starved for weeks in the wilds of Apineena. How he remained skinny as a rake, eating like that, was a mystery.
He set the cigarette aside and sipped from his own cup. “So. Mister Pennyweather is out. And Mister Baldrin?”
Frank smacked his lips. “He’s got a bit of promise, but I’ll want to see him handle some tricky thaumaturgics before I start turning cartwheels.”
Sir Alec hid a smile. There were times when Frank made him look like a giddy enthusiast.
“Right, then,” said Frank, and let out a gentle belch. “That’s them sorted. Now, about our other problem child.”
It was funny, really. Inside the building at Nettleworth, Frank was taciturn and self-contained. Never anything less than dutifully deferential. But get him back into the field, away from Department hierarchies and protocols, and the years fell away until they were simply janitors again, standing shoulder to shoulder and back to back against the swiftly multiplying evils of the world.
He hated to admit it, but there were times when he missed that uncomplicated camaraderie, quite keenly.
“You’re referring to Mister Dunwoody, I take it? Well, what about him?”
The glint in Frank’s eyes was derisive. “You bloody know what.”
As much as he trusted Frank, he’d not told him the entire truth of Gerald Dunwoody’s most recent escapade. No need to burden him. No need to run the risk. How much Frank had guessed for himself, he didn’t ask. Quite a lot of it, he suspected. Especially since Frank had been the one to dispose of that other, deceased Monk Markham. But his former partner wouldn’t push to know more and he’d not bear a grudge over a prudently-held silence, either.
“Mister Dunwoody will be fine,” he said, and sipped again from his cup. “He just needs a little more time to adjust.”
Frank wiped his fingers clean of cake cream. “You really think he can hold the line against grimoire magic?”
Sir Alec blinked. Oh. I didn’t think he’d guess quite that much. “Frank—”
“Ha.” Frank downed the rest of his ghastly tea, then rattled the cup back onto its saucer. “That business in East Uphantica left me with a quirk in my potentia, remember?”
Lord. East Uphantica. Twelve—no, thirteen—years ago, that was. Not his finest hour. Sometimes it still astonished him, that Frank could forgive those scars.
But then he was always much kinder than me.
“I caught a whiff of the muck Jennings left behind,” said Frank, leaning across the table and lowering his voice. “Dunwoody’s always forgetting to turn on his shield. Past time you hauled him back over the coals for it. Especially now.”
“Apparently,” he said, knowing Frank could tell he was shaken. Not minding too much, because it was Frank. “Mister Dalby—”
Lip curling, Frank sat back. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just saying.”
The popular tea room was doing a lively trade, voices raised in conversation and laughter, glasses and cups rattling, cutlery chinking against porcelain, chairs scraping. In the street, carriage horses clopped, automobiles chugged, and on the sidewalk pedestrians raised dust beneath their hurrying feet. They were safe talking here, but even so …
“Yes. But you’ll not say any more.”
“I’ll say this,” said Frank, frowning. “You watch your bloody step, Ace. That Dunwoody, he’s a can of worms. You keep on poking it, and one day you might find there’s a snake buried in there.”
Aggravated, Sir Alec signalled the waiter for the bill. “Thank you Mister Dalby. I do know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah?” Frank got up, dug around in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled bank note and tossed it onto the table. “Let’s hope so, for all our sakes. I’ll see you back at Nettleworth.” He touched two sardonic fingers to his forehead. “Sir.”
Returning to his office some thirty minutes later, intending only to jot down a few notes for an upcoming inter-Department meeting before joining Frank in his education of Bocius Pennyweather, Sir Alec saw the small, flashing crystal ball on his desk and halted.
Only a handful of people were entrusted with its vibration. And every one of them knew they should only call him on it as a last resort. He had a telephone, a general crystal and the Department’s communications room for anyone desirous of a regular conversation.
He closed the office door, crossed to his desk and coded in the password that would release the ball’s recorded message.
A familiar and totally unexpected face swam into focus.
“Sir Alec! Sorry not to come through regular channels. Had no choice. Don’t think I know who to trust!”
Abel Bestwick, one of his long-term sleeper janitors. Sweaty, panicked, his voice ratcheted too high, the words spitting out too fast.
“Dammit, why aren’t you there? Sir Alec, there’s something funny afoot. I’ve just—”
A spasm of pain crossed Bestwick’s pale face. He lifted his hand, staring. Blood dripped between his fingers.
“Oh. That blade must’ve been longer than I—”
Another spasm of pain, more severe. Groaning, Bestwick seemed to collapse into himself. And then a sharp sound from beyond the scope of his crystal ball’s recording field snapped his head round. He breathed in, sharply.
“Sir, it’s the wedding! They’re trying to—”
A loud crack. A flash of light. Abel Bestwick’s face vanished.
Stunned, Sir Alec picked up the small crystal ball. Had to fight not to shake it, as though shaking it would bring Bestwick back. He replayed the short message. Replayed it again. And again. And then, frustrated, threw the damned ball hard at the far wall. It struck, leaving a dent in the paper-covered plaster, and thumped to the carpet.
“They? Who’s they?You bloody idiot, Bestwick!” he fumed. “Living in Splotze has rotted your brain, has it? Four years of indolence has turned you into a pudding?”
The most basic emergency protocols, unheeded. Every janitor on assignment had them hammered into memory.
If you must make an emergency report, stick to the salient facts. No blathering.
And what was that bloody recording, if not a prime example of blather. So what if he’d been hurt? It was a risk every janitor took. Bestwick knew that. And he knew better than to blather. Or he had done, four years ago.
I left him over there too long.
But this wasn’t the time for self-recriminations and post mortems. He’d assess his own culpability once he’d sorted out the mess.
The wedding.
Obviously Bestwick meant the Splotze-Borovnik affair. And hadn’t he been saying for months that trouble was a distinct possibility? A familial alliance between Splotze and Borovnik signalled a major power shift in that thaumaturgically volatile region—and change always sent the cockroaches scuttling. Hadn’t he put Bestwick on alert for precisely that reason? He’d have done a damned sight more, only Lord Attaby had over-ruled him, citing delicate trade negotiations and the easily-pricked sensibilities of Borovnik’s capricious Dowager Queen.
Now it seemed he’d been proven right. Again. Danger to do with the wedding, that if not averted could easily lead to all-out war. A war with thaumaturgics this time, he could feel the danger in his bones, and the United Magical Nations’ accords be damned.
But how to stop it? How?
Well, there was only one answer. He needed eyes and ears in the wedding party. And with Bestwick unaccounted for, quite possibly dead, he’d have to send someone else.
The question was, who?
And even if he could find the right man … how the hell was he going to get him invited to a bloody royal wedding?
CHAPTER FOUR
Still wrapped in her pink flannel dressing gown, because it was early
and she was alone—well, except for Boris and he didn’t count—Melissande sat at her desk in the office and worked her way through Witches Incorporated’s neatly kept account book.
“Y’know,” she remarked to the sleepily attentive cat, “I’m starting to think we might not sink like the proverbial lead balloon after all.”
Curled up on Bibbie’s desk, green eyes slitted, Boris twitched his tail.
“Yes, really. I mean, all right, we’d have probably sunk already without Sir Alec’s totally self-serving assistance, but leaving that aside …”—which she was more than happy to do—“… there’s no getting away from the facts. Nearly three-quarters of our clients last month came from legitimate, non-Sir Alec sources. Word of mouth, mostly. And that’s the kind of advertising money can’t buy.”
Saint Snodgrass be praised. Because they didn’t have the money to buy any kind of advertising, beyond a tiny entry each month in the Wizarding Times. And they could only afford that by going without their sticky buns every other week.
Bibbie was getting very scathing about that.
“Which is a problem, Boris,” Melissande added, “because without Bibbie we would be sunk. She might be scattier than a flock of deranged hens, but it’s her thaumaturgical genius that keeps people coming back.”
Boris flicked his whiskers, agreeing.
“If only Gerald didn’t have to go on pretending he’s nothing more than a Third Grade wizard,” she said crossly, double-checking her addition of the figures in column three of the ledger. “I tell you, Boris, we’d be using gold bars for paperweights if that wretched Sir Alec would just let him off his leash once in a while. I mean, honestly, how much could it hurt?”
But that was never going to happen. Not so long as Gerald remained a janitor. And despite the awfulness of what had transpired in that mysterious other Ottosland, she couldn’t imagine Gerald ever abandoning the Department. Or the Department letting itself be abandoned, for that matter.
“So I suppose we’ll just have to keep muddling along, relying on Bibbie’s formidable talents,” she sighed. “But if Bibbie decides she’s bored with Witches Inc., or if her Uncle Ralph gets it into his head she’d be an asset to the government even though she’s not a man, or if she gives up the notion of living happily ever after in wedded bliss with Gerald—which, let’s face it, might not be a bad idea—and decides to go adventuring abroad to mend her broken heart, then honestly, Boris … I don’t know what I’ll do!”
You could always marry Monk and live happily ever after in wedded bliss yourself, her treacherous inner Melissande slyly suggested.
The thought made her blush, then slap the office ledger closed.
“He has to ask me first,” she pointed out to the cat, putting the cap back on her fountain pen. “And Monk’s been a bit preoccupied lately.”
“Not to mention slow off the mark,” said an almost familiar voice from the open office window. “Ducky, you do know what they say about women who sit about in empty rooms talking to themselves, don’t you?”
Reg. Sort of. Melissande snatched up the pen cloth and wiped a smudge of ink from her fingers. “I wasn’t talking to myself, thank you. I was talking to Boris.”
With a hoot, Reg flapped from the windowsill to the ram skull on the battered filing cabinet. “If you think that makes it better, madam, you’d best think again.”
Drat the bird. Some things really were exactly the same.
“Where have you been, anyway?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you come home last night?”
Reg’s sharp brown gaze shifted, evasive. “I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
“None of your beeswax,” said Reg, and rattled her tail feathers. “Do I ask how you pass your evenings? No, I don’t. Though I might, if you ever did anything but sit in here fretting over the agency and talking to that moth-eaten excuse for a feline.”
“Fretting over the agency is part of the job description,” she retorted. “And anyway, I do plenty of other things with my evenings, which you’d know if you’d been here for longer than five minutes!”
Ghastly silence.
Melissande watched her fingers clench. Damn. “Oh, Reg. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean—”
But before she could stumble her way through the rest of her difficult, apologetic explanation, somebody rapped sharply on the office’s outer door.
“Oh, yes,” said Reg, feathers fluffing, sounding distant. “That’s what I came in to tell you. Your manky Sir Alec’s here. And he’s brought a friend.”
She leapt up. “Sir Alec? Here? Now? Why? It’s practically the crack of dawn!”
Another rap on the door.
“Reg, there’s something going on, isn’t there? Something to do with Gerald.”
“No,” said Reg, after a moment.
A rush of cold apprehension. In more ways than not, this was still Reg. “That’s a fib. Reg, tell me the truth right now or I’ll—”
“Miss Cadwallader? Miss Cadwallader! Kindly open the door. It’s important that we speak.”
Sir Alec, sounding briskly impatient. Nothing new there. On principle, she ignored him. Give the Sir Alecs of the world an inch and the next thing you knew, they were merrily galloping over the horizon.
“Reg, please. I know something’s going on. Gerald’s been so awfully secretive ever since … well, you know. And there’s a look in his eye that—frankly, it frightens me. Please, you have to—”
Rattle rattle went Reg’s long tail. “I don’t have to anything, ducky. Now just you give that boy some breathing room. I know you mean well, but he doesn’t need you or anyone else poking—”
“I say, Melly, do stop faffing about,” another voice called through the locked office door. “Because if you really must know, I need to use the conveniences.”
Melissande turned so fast she nearly fell over. “Rupert?”
But before she could open the door to her only living brother and the agency’s dubious, double-edged government benefactor, it swung wide of its own accord.
“Excuse me!” she snapped at Sir Alec, who led the way inside. “That was incredibly rude!”
Sir Alec considered her as he put in his pocket the key he wasn’t meant to possess. “Whereas leaving visitors to bellow on the doorstep is the height of good manners?”
“Not when they’re invited, no,” she retorted, tugging her shabby flannel dressing gown a little tighter to her ribs. “But since I didn’t invite you—” She held out a hand. “—or give you that key, don’t expect me to repine over my dearth of social polish.”
“I say, Melly, steady on,” said Rupert. “No need to bite off poor Sir Alec’s nose.”
“Trust me, sunshine, it’s better than biting off other bits,” said Reg, from her ram skull. “Which I’m more than happy to do.” She jerked her beak sideways. “Lavatory’s through there, incidentally.”
“Ah,” said Rupert, with a pained smile. “Yes. Actually, I only said that so Melly would open the door.”
Though she was worried and cross, Melissande laughed. Then she threw her arms around him. “Oh, Rupes. It’s lovely to see you. But why are you smothered in that ridiculous cloak and hat?”
“I’m in disguise,” said Rupert, hugging back. “We don’t want anyone to know I’m here, which is why we’re bothering you so early.”
Leaning away from her brother, she stared into his lean, much-missed face. “Yes, and why are you here? Zazoor hasn’t decided to invade, has he?”
“No, of course not,” said Rupert, removing the hat. “You’d go a long way to find a more reasonable man than Kallarap’s mighty sultan. Besides, I paid the final installment of our in-arrears tariffs last month.”
“Oh,” she said, and looked past Rupert to Gerald’s aggravating superior. “So that means this is your doing, Sir Alec. I might’ve known. What’s gone wrong now?”
Probably no other subordinate, or dependent, or whatever she was, dared speak to Sir Alec Oldman in t
hat particular tone of voice—which was why she made a point of doing it. Men like Sir Alec grew so used to ordering people about, risking their lives and their sanity, that they very quickly became unbearable if they weren’t put firmly in their place every so often.
He might even come to thank me for it, one of these days.
But not today, apparently. “Do sit down, Miss Cadwallader,” he said, with a sharp, dangerous courtesy. “And allow me to explain.”
“No, why don’t you sit down, Sir Alec? I’m going to get dressed. And by all means feel free to leave that key on my desk while you’re waiting.”
Sir Alec, in his habitually sober grey three-piece suit, neatly shaved with every short mousey brown hair in place, favoured her with one of his most acidic smiles.
“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you there, Miss Cadwallader. The key is mine, you see. Just as the building is mine. In a manner of speaking. Though perhaps it’s more accurate to call me its custodian.”
She blinked. “Are you telling me the government has bought this entire building?”
“Yes,” said Sir Alec, irritatingly calm.
Good lord. Her heart was thumping, not calm at all. “When?”
“Recently.”
“How recently?”
“Very,” said Sir Alec, with a careless little shrug. “I believe the ink has just dried on the deeds of transfer.”
“Does Gerald know? What does he think?”
Sir Alec raised an eyebrow in that aggravatingly supercilious way of his. “Are you suggesting I base my decisions upon the opinion of a junior subordinate?”
“I’m suggesting it might’ve been nice if you’d warned us!” she said, fuming. “A change of landlord has an impact on a business, you know.”
Another acidic smile. “Don’t worry, Miss Cadwallader. I wasn’t intending to raise the rent. Yet.”
She narrowed her eyes. Was he joking or serious? As usual, it was impossible to tell. “How generous.”
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Now, please, Miss Cadwallader, do go and get dressed. My business is somewhat urgent.”