Wizard Undercover

by K. E. Mills

  It wouldn’t surprise me. Hartwig can be a bit prickly, and Ottosland never seems to notice when it’s giving offence.

  Remembering the Wycliffe affair, Melissande pretended to enjoy her own soup—lord, she loathed artichokes, she’d almost prefer the tadpole eyes on toothpicks—while surreptitiously observing the Jandrian Minister of Foreign Affairs and his wife. Were they behind the attack on Abel Bestwick and the planned disruption of the wedding? Oh, surely not. Surely they weren’t stupid enough to try more shenanigans after their still-recent close shave with international industrial espionage.

  I mean, not even the Jandrians are that arrogant … are they?

  She didn’t know. Bibbie, being a Markham, might have an idea. One of the Markhams must. Sir Ralph. Possibly Monk. It was something to remind Gerald about, anyway, so he could discuss it with Sir Alec. Though doubtless Sir Alec was already taking a closer look at their old foe.

  The rest of the noise in the dining room belonged to the bevy of other invited guests, captains of Western Continent industry, social and cultural luminaries and the like, who laughed and gossiped and clattered cutlery, gold and silver and jewels glittering in the luminous chandelier light. And of course the musicians, who were soaking the rarefied air with a selection of classical Borovnik music.

  Melissande looked down at her soup bowl. Not even half emptied, which could easily be taken as an ill-mannered insult to her hosts. Her stomach growled a warning complaint. She really did not like heart of artichoke. As her stomach complained again she gave up, and pushed the bowl to one side.

  Beside her, his own bowl scraped clean, Leopold Gertz dabbed napkin to lips. “Very nice, I’m sure.” He glanced sideways. “You disagree, Your Highness?”

  Oh, damn. “No, no, Mister Secretary. Unfortunately I— ah—I got a bit carried away at the reception. Too many crab puffs. Did you try one? They were delightful.”

  Leopold Gertz sniffed, damply. “I don’t believe in crustaceans.”

  “Ah! Then that must give you something in common with our friends from Lanruvia,” she said, seizing the chance before it slithered away. “I don’t think they ate any crab puffs, either. I must say …” The rest of the table wasn’t paying attention to either of them, so she shifted a little in her seat and tried her best to capture the man’s attention. “It’s lovely to see the Lanruvians getting about, taking part in things, isn’t it? They’re so reclusive as a rule. But I have to ask, why now? Why Splotze? Why do they care about this wedding?”

  Leopold Gertz’s eyes were a nondescript brown, their irises floating despondent in a bloodshot corneal sea.

  “Who knows why the Lanruvians do anything, Your Highness?” he said, with a dispirited shrug of his skinny shoulders. “I did hear they were interested in using our Canal to transport goods from Harenstein to the Gardeppe Isthmus. Since the upcoming joyous event will usher in a new era of stability for the region, perhaps that’s why.”

  Servants had magically appeared to remove their soup bowls. Leaning out of the way, Melissande frowned. “But you’re not sure?”

  “As I say, Your Highness.” Gertz attempted a smile, and mostly failed. “Who can fathom the Lanruvian mind?”

  “Well, I’d certainly like to try,” she said, with a sickeningly coy little laugh. “They’re so terribly intriguing. Whose idea was it to ask them to the wedding, d’you know? Hartwig couldn’t recall.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t either, Your Highness,” said Gertz, disapprovingly repressive. “And even if I could, it wouldn’t be proper for me to tell you.”

  “No, no, of course not,” she said quickly. Her stomach growled again, this time so loudly that Leopold Gertz heard it. Startled, he blinked at her. She pretended it hadn’t happened. “Mister Secretary—”

  But then she forgot what she meant to say, because her stomach growled yet again then turned itself over on a surging wave of sickness. Her skin rushed hot, then cold and clammy. Dark spots danced before her eyes.

  “Your Highness?” Leopold Gertz said, damply concerned. “Are you all right?”

  Further down the table, Hartwig’s brother Ludwig groaned. A moment later Princess Ratafia let out a pained little gasp.

  “Mama—Mama—I don’t feel very well!”

  Stomach writhing, the dancing black dots duelling with scarlet blotches now, Melissande squinted around the dining room. Quite a few of the guests seemed to be in intestinal distress. Without warning, Ottosland’s Foreign Minister bent double, half-slid from his chair, and began to heave up his artichoke soup … along with everything else he’d eaten so far.

  Horrified cries. The scraping of chair legs on the polished marble floor. And then the ghastly, ominous sounds of more people succumbing.

  But succumbing to what? Poison? Was this the dreadful plan? Wipe out the entire wedding party and a great many other important people for good measure? Hand pressed to her spasming middle, Melissande looked past Leopold Gertz to Hartwig. He was sweating profusely, and hiccupping, his eyes stretched wide in disbelief. Beside him, Ludwig was heaving like a drunken sailor. So were Princess Ratafia and her mother, the Dowager Queen.The Marquise of Harenstein was flapping her hands and squealing, revolted and hiccupping, as the marquis tried to pull her away from the mess. The musicians had stopped playing, appalled, and the servants were staring, abandoning the idea of serving the next course. And the Lanruvians … the Lanruvians …

  Had extricated themselves from the carnage and were watching from a safe distance, unmoved.

  Teeth clenched tight, Melissande battled the inevitable for as long as she could. But her offended insides were adamant. What had gone down just had to come up.

  “Bugger it,” she said, helpless … and started to retch.

  Not surprisingly, Ibblie had succumbed to Gladys Slack’s charms and was now partnering her in an energetic Splotze folk dance that involved a great deal of hand-clapping, heel-clicking, head-tossing and sultry meeting of eyes. The empty square within the border of tables was crammed full of palace lackeys and quite a few of the visiting minions who’d been unable to resist the lure of harmless entertainment.

  Standing on the sidelines, Gerald fought to keep the scowl from his face. Bloody Ibblie was enjoying himself entirely too much. He was taking advantage. Taking liberties. He was clutching Bibbie’s waist!

  And for all I know, the man’s a bloody villain!

  He still couldn’t say one way or the other. If he could think of a reason to send Bibbie out of the hall, he’d be able to corner Hartwig’s secretary and learn the truth. But until then he was stuck with trying to read the man from behind his damned etheretic shield. As arranged, Bibbie had danced Ibblie past him five times, and each time he’d risked bursting a blood vessel trying to examine the man for thaumaturgical taint. He’d not felt any, but that didn’t mean anything. He’d not felt that entrapment hex, either, until it was too late, and that was with his shield down.

  Bibbie danced past yet again, and this time he managed to catch her eye in a warning. As the folk dance ended, and the couples broke apart, he nipped in smartish and gave Ibblie an almost friendly nod.

  “Mind if I steal Miss Slack away from you, sir? Thank you!”

  The band launched into a stately Ottish parade. Giggling, Bibbie set her hand primly on his shoulder and slow-marched beside him the length of the dance floor.

  “Well?” she said in an undertone, mindful of the other dancers. “Anything?”

  “No. You?”

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s been meddling with things Uncle Frederick wouldn’t like,” she said, neatly dipping at the corner without losing her balance. “And I didn’t catch a whiff of what I felt earlier.”

  He’d never danced with her before. She was as graceful as a swan. “Good.”

  “No, it’s bad,” she said, as they dipped and turned again. “I’ll just have to keep trying.”

  Oh, wonderful. “Did you ask him about Ferdie Goosen?”

  “He di
dn’t bat an eyelash. And when I wondered if everyone was pleased about the wedding, he said yes.”

  He gave her a look. “That was taking a risk.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” she retorted. “Don’t be tedious, Algernon.”

  Tedious? He was terrified. Bibbie might be a powerful witch but she was no match for whoever had set that entrapment hex, or let loose the blood magic.

  What if I can’t protect her? What if she stumbles across this evil bastard by accident and I’m not there to save her? What if—

  The sedate Ottish dance ended, and the musicians started up a new jig.

  “I’m thirsty,” said Bibbie. “Let’s sit this one out.”

  So they retreated to the drinks table, accepted a glass each of fruit punch with bits of melon floating in it, and retreated to a safely empty stretch of wall.

  Bibbie twizzled her wooden stirrer idly round her glass. “Nobody’s watching. You should see if you can feel that nasty ripple in the ether.”

  Gerald sipped more punch. It was far too sweet. “I can’t. I’d have to lower my shield.”

  “Then lower it,” said Bibbie, shrugging. “I’ll obfuscate for you. If there is a wizard here, he’ll never know he’s not alone.”

  “Miss Slack—”

  She slid him a sharp, sideways look. “Why are we arguing, Algernon? You have to. You might not get another chance.”

  Damn. “Look, stop bossing me,” he snapped. “He’s my Uncle Frederick, not yours, which means I’ll be the judge of what I do and when I—”

  “Oh, Algernon,” said Bibbie and, turning towards him, rested her hand on his arm. Her changed eyes were warm now, with sympathy. “Don’t be a tosser. Are you afraid I’ll be upset by the changes in your potentia? I won’t. D’you think I care about … you know. Grimoire magic.” She said the words silently, trusting he’d read her lips. “I swear, I couldn’t care less. You’re a good man, Mister Rowbotham. Nothing in the world has the power to change that.”

  She was wrong. He’d already changed it. In Abel Bestwick’s dismal little home he’d rewritten the rules. And without meaning to, she’d already told him it might have been his worst mistake.

  Something—or someone—dangerous is in this hall right now.

  He took a half-step back from her. “Bibbie—”

  A commotion at the entrance to the Servants’ Hall turned them both, and then one of the upstairs lackeys, splendidly silver-trimmed, flailed his way onto the dance floor shouting for Mister Ibblie.

  Everyone stopped jigging as the music abruptly died.

  “Lishboi?” Ibblie demanded, pushing forward. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Lishboi was sheet white. “It’s the Crown Prince, sir! And Prince Ludwig, and the princess! It’s all of them, just about. Somebody’s poisoned the State Dinner!”

  Ibblie spat out a Splotzeish curse and plunged for the door. Ice-cold, Gerald plunged after him, knowing Bibbie was close behind. Following after them came the foreign dignitaries’ servants. In a herd, they thundered up the stairs to the State Dining Room, hard on Ibblie’s heels.

  The magnificent chamber looked like a battlefield. It stank like one, too. Bodies were strewn everywhere, some of the wealthiest and most important people in the civilised world draped over tables and chairs or sprawled on the marble floor, heaving and groaning and spasmodically emptying their bellies.

  “Oh, Saint Snodgrass!” Bibbie gasped, hand slapping over her mouth as they staggered to a halt not far into the stinking room. “Oh, Algernon!”

  Ibblie was barrelling towards Crown Prince Hartwig and Prince Ludwig, who were seated on a dais at the far end of the chamber, wracked with pain. The servants from Borovnik and Harenstein barrelled after him, shouting at the sight of the Dowager Queen and Princess Ratafia and Harenstein’s Marquise in similar distress.

  “Where’s Melissande?” Bibbie demanded. “I can’t see— no, wait, there she is!”

  Gerald watched as she shoved and slid and leapt her way through the press of stricken dinner guests and their various appalled lackeys to where Melissande was slumped almost under the long table at the far end of the dining room’s dais. He felt his breath catch, and throttled the terror.

  Melissande’s tough. She’ll be all right. I have a job to do. She’d want me to do it.

  To hell with the risk. He was one of the most powerful thaumaturgists in the world. So what if he’d been tainted with grimoire magic?

  I control my potentia. It doesn’t control me.

  He let his shield drop. Wrapped his mind around his changed power, willing its new darkness to sleep, and with his safely rogue thaumaturgics went in search of villainy … and possible murder.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Food poisoning?” Sir Alec stared into the slight fogginess of his private crystal ball. Splotze’s etheretics were acting up yet again, making the connection jittery. “Mister Dunwoody, are you sure?”

  “As sure as I can be,” said his most promising and problematical janitor. “The thinking is that the crab puffs are the culprits. The head cook’s been off his game ever since Bestwick disappeared.”

  Bestwick. A possible connection, then? “This cook. You don’t think—”

  “No, sir, he’s not involved. At least, not on purpose. He just about collapsed when he was brought up from the kitchens and saw what had happened. Burst into floods of tears at the thought of his precious crab puffs ruined.” A snort. “Not to mention his reputation.”

  “Tears, Mister Dunwoody, are not a foolproof indicator of innocence.”

  “No, sir. But I made sure to read him, and I couldn’t sense anything to suggest he’d mucked about with dubious magics.”

  “And you’re confident you’ve not been misled?”

  Even with the unreliable etheretic connection, he could see something shift behind Dunwoody’s eyes. Honed instincts stirred, and he leaned forward.

  “Mister Dunwoody?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m confident. The cook’s not involved.”

  A flat statement, lacking room for doubt. Still …

  Disquiet not eased, he decided to let the moment pass. For now. “And you have no other suspects?”

  “There was one,” said Dunwoody. “The palace secretary. But I’ve ruled him out too.”

  “So where does that leave us, Mister Dunwoody? Was the food poisoning accidental, or a deliberate attempt to sabotage the wedding?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Dunwoody said, shrugging. “I can’t say yet. The investigative waters are a bit muddy. Turns out the cook’s been helping himself to the good stuff in the palace wine cellar. He’s hazy about the last couple of days.”

  Just what he needed. “In other words, he could have allowed tainted crab meat into his kitchens, or tainted it himself through drunken carelessness.”

  “Exactly, sir. And if it was tainted when it got here the next question is, did someone deliberately taint it beforehand? But if it was fine when it arrived, and the cook’s habits aren’t to blame, then that points to someone in the palace taking advantage of his drinking to tamper with the crab.”

  Sir Alec pinched the bridge of his nose. Another thundering headache was brewing. “And how likely is that, d’you think?”

  “ Well, sir, I suppose anything’s possible,” Dunwoody said. “But honestly? It all seems too complicated to me. That kind of plot’s got so many moving parts. An awful lot can go wrong with it.”

  Very true. “A more immediate interference, then?

  “Possibly,” Dunwoody said, sounding doubtful. “Only I couldn’t detect any leftover thaumaturgics in the State Dining room. And when Bib—I mean, Miss Markham—inspected the kitchen, she couldn’t sense anything out of place either.”

  That sat him upright, a muscle spasming beside his left eye. “I’m sorry? Mister Dunwoody, are you telling me you’ve made Miss Markham an active part of this investigation?”

  Dunwoody stared out of the fogged crystal ball, his slightly distorted expression defe
nsive. “No, sir. At least, not exactly. It just made sense to let her look. I mean, she has had experience with thaumaturgical food tampering, remember?”

  As if he could forget the cooking competition debacle. “That isn’t the point. The point, Mister Dunwoody, is that—”

  Gerald Dunwoody held up his hands. “Sir, sir, I know what you’re going to say. But I can explain. Y’see, the thing is, Bibbie— Miss Markham, I mean—at the Servants’ Ball, she made friends with a kitchen maid who knows Bestwick. A very useful connection, sir. I’d have missed it. Anyway, it gave her an excuse to go down to the kitchens, sir, to see if this Mitzie was all right. And while she was down there, well, she had a little poke around, thaumaturgically speaking.”

  “And was this her idea, Dunwoody, or yours?”

  Dunwoody swallowed. “Hers. But Mel—I mean, Miss Cadwallader—she thought it was a good idea too. So. You know. I was outnumbered.”

  “Outnumbered?” Astonished, Sir Alec stared at his man in Splotze. “Mister Dunwoody, you are an agent of the Ottosland government. You outrank them. Act like it!”

  “All due respect, sir, but that’s easy for you to say,” Gerald Dunwoody retorted. “You’re in Nettleworth. Besides, it would’ve looked very odd, me wandering about the palace kitchens. But nobody questioned one maid comforting another.”

  Unfortunately, Dunwoody had a point there. “Granted,” he said grudgingly. “However, do let me make myself perfectly clear. This is the first and last time Miss Markham insinuates herself into this investigation. She and Miss Cadwallader are useful bystanders. They are not participants.”

  “ Yes, well, I’m sorry, Sir, Alex but I’d like to see you keep a lid on Miss Markham,” Dunwoody muttered. “Or Miss Cadwallader, for that matter. She’s taking this personally, sir, and I can’t say I blame her. She was dreadfully sick, y’know.”