Wizard Undercover

by K. E. Mills

  Bibbie made a little sound of impatience. “No, I mean he’s more different. Don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t. I just know …” Sighing, she pulled free. “Oh, I don’t know what I know. I just know what I feel.”

  “Worried,” said Melissande. Bugger. I do wish Reg was here. “Anyway, we asked those four if they recalled you banging on their cabin door for help but they all said no, or they’d not been in their cabin at the time.”

  “One or more of them could be lying.”

  “Well, yes, of course, but because everyone’s so excitable just now Algernon didn’t want to risk using thaumaturgics during the interviews,” she said. “He’s going to do what he can to get at the truth tonight, under cover of the festivities. I think he’s starting to fret, actually, because we leave the barge behind after breakfast tomorrow and he’ll never have a captive audience like this again.”

  Through the closed cabin porthole drifted the sound of the barge’s bell, sweetly booming.

  “He’s right,” said Bibbie, tightly. “The clock is running down. We’ll have to cross our fingers and toes that my memory comes back.”

  Melissande bit her lip. “Gladys, are you absolutely sure you don’t dare let Algernon—”

  “Yes,” said Bibbie. “Now come along, Your Highness. If we don’t get you into that gown we’re going to delay everyone for dinner, and Dowager Queen Erminium will complain Crown Prince Hartwig into a fit.”

  The royal barge reached Little Grande Splotze just on sunset, and the wedding party was greeted in the town square by an enthusiastic throng of town officials and excited townsfolk, complete with streamers, rattles, whistles, a brief but charming display of fireworks, long wooden trestle tables bearing roast meats and baked potatoes and cherry pies and apple strudels and cinnamon cream, and a band that was very nearly playing in tune. Hartwig and Ludwig and their guests were offered fine wine and cherry liqueur to drink. The minions were shown to several barrels of cider.

  Gerald resisted the urge to dive headfirst into the nearest one.

  Sitting a little apart from the rest of the lackeys, picking at his rustic food and watching Gladys Slack flirt with her many male admirers and charm even the Borovnik handmaidens to smiles, he struggled to keep his mind on the job.

  I can’t believe Bibbie risked herself like that. After everything I said. The bloody girl could’ve drowned. She could’ve been murdered, right under my nose. What would I have told Sir Alec? How could I have faced Monk?

  How could he go on, if something happened to Bibbie?

  I don’t know how much longer I can keep on being Algernon. I’m treading so cautiously that I’m playing right into the enemy’s hands. If I don’t learn something definite in the next day then to hell with being circumspect. I’ll start shaking branches to see who falls out of the thaumaturgical tree.

  And too bloody bad if Sir Alec didn’t like it.

  After the fireworks and food came the dancing. For a little while Gerald amused himself watching Melissande adroitly avoiding the worst of Hartwig’s over-enthusiasms. Then, though it seemed nigh impossible that either of the Borovnik lady’s maids were involved in the wedding plot, he partnered each woman in a revelly so he could be certain of their innocence. Within a few minutes he learned they were neither plotters nor dancers.

  Smiling bravely, he hobbled on bruised feet back to his bench, took refuge in a fresh tankard of cider and, under cover of the laughing and music and general frivolity, risked lowering his shield completely to hunt for untoward thaumaturgics.

  And felt nothing, again, save the tortured writhings of Splotze’s distorted etheretics.

  Bloody bloody buggering hell.

  So that was that. He had no choice. No more walking on egg-shells. Time to start throwing a few thaumaturgical punches, starting with those damned Lanruvians, who’d already left the party and returned to the barge.

  Because nobody is that elusive and innocent. Nobody is so secretive about bloody cherries. Somehow, I swear, I’ll see them stripped of their disguise.

  But he had to be careful not to fixate on the Lanruvians. Because despite the fact he knew they were rotten, it turned out they’d not been anywhere near Bibbie when she fell—or was pushed—into the Canal. He had to remember there were other suspects. Dear lord, a lot of other suspects. In fact he was starting to wonder if he’d ever sort through them in time. He was even starting to wonder if Sir Alec hadn’t made a mistake.

  I know he wants to keep our presence here secret, but if I can’t unmask the villain before we get back to Grande Splotze, that might not be possible. I mean, we can’t let people die just so Hartwig never finds out we put a spy in his palace.

  Could they?

  A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. Bibbie, showing no outward sign of harm from her plunge into the Canal. Bright eyed and rose-petal cheeked, she gave him a dimpled smile.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance, Mister Rowbotham?”

  He put down his tankard. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to, Miss Slack.”

  Her dimples vanished. “Don’t be silly.”

  She’d as good as said she didn’t trust him. Was afraid of him. How was he meant to feel about that?

  “Algernon …” Bibbie held out her hand. “Dance with me.”

  He needed her to trust him. He needed her not afraid. His life would be dust and ashes if she feared him. He took her slender hand in his, and they danced.

  The next day got off to an unfortunate start.

  “I swear,” Melissande muttered through gritted teeth, “that before this wedding tour is over, Algernon, you’re going to be arresting me for murder and international sabotage.”

  If they’d been safely alone, Gerald would have given her a kiss on the cheek for comfort. But since they were seated with Bibbie in an open horse-drawn touring carriage, third from the front in a long line of elaborately old-fashioned equipages that were supposed to have left the royal barge behind on the Canal nearly two hours ago, he could only offer her a brief, understanding smile.

  “I’m sure we’ll be on our way soon, Your Highness,” he said, politely diplomatic.

  “And y’know, things could always be worse,” Bibbie added, her brilliant eyes wickedly amused. “I mean, Dowager Queen Erminium could be your mother.”

  Seated opposite the girls, facing backwards, Gerald narrowed his eyes. Clearly, in Bibbie’s world, polite diplomacy was committed by other people. What a good thing their coachman was standing at the fractious horses’ heads … and that everyone else was too busy with their own complaining to overhear her remark.

  Drifting on the late morning breeze, the sound of Queen Erminium’s querulous dissatisfaction as she questioned every twist and turn of the day’s proposed itinerary. Hartwig and Ludwig, decanted from their respective carriages, fruitlessly tried to satisfy her endless demands.

  “For pity’s sake,” said Melissande. “It’s bad enough we had to wait for poor Brunelda to be carted back onto the barge with another attack of gout. Bloody Erminium’s had months to approve this tour. I wonder how much Borovnik had to pay Ludwig to propose to Ratafia, knowing it was a marry-the-princess-and-get-a-dowager-queen-for-free deal!”

  Gerald winced. Apparently Bibbie’s rampant allergy to the diplomatic niceties was contagious.

  All along the line of carriages stretching behind theirs, the horses stamped their feet and tossed their heads, tails swishing. Every so often he saw somebody lean over the side of his or her carriage, eyes shaded by one hand, and stare towards the front of the line where there was absolutely no movement.

  “Oh dear,” said Melissande, as the Dowager Queen’s strident voice shifted up another octave. “I wonder if I shouldn’t—”

  Gerald half-raised a warning finger. “Actually, Your Highness, it looks as though the Marquis of Harenstein is coming to the rescue.”

  “Well, thank goodness someone is, because—”

  Hearing the marquis’s heels thudding on the
Canal towpath’s tangled grass, Melissande hushed. A moment later Norbert of Harenstein reached them, his impressive bulk swathed in primrose-yellow velvet and silk.

  “Marigold,” he grunted, nodding at Melissande as he slowed almost to a halt. “Don’t despair. I’ll soon have this unfortunate fiddle-faddle smoothed over.”

  Melissande favoured the marquis with an uncharacteristic simper. “Really, Norbert? Oh, it would be marvellous if you could. Harenstein to the rescue again!”

  The marquis pressed a pudgy hand to his heart. “Fret not, Your Highness. Our wedding tour is as good as underway.”

  “Marigold?” said Bibbie, once the marquis was safely out of earshot. “Don’t tell me I’ve been mispronouncing your name all this time.”

  “He’s just got a little trouble with his memory,” said Melissande, sighing. “The poor man.”

  “So he’s a poor man now? And you’re calling him Norbert? Melissande, is there some news you’d care to share?”

  Melissande frowned. “Don’t be vulgar. I’ve changed my opinion about him, that’s all.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since he very kindly rescued me from Hartwig last night,” said Melissande. “Twice. And if you hadn’t been so busy flirting with all and sundry you’d know that, Miss Slack.”

  Unrepentant, Bibbie grinned. “Slack by name but not by nature. Besides, Your Highness, I was only following orders. And very successfully, I might add. Give me another day or two and I’ll have completed my conquest of every male in the wedding party.”

  “So nine men—including a prince—diving into the Canal on your behalf wasn’t enough?”

  “Your Highness, nine men was but the beginning!”

  Gerald blinked. Saint Snodgrass defend us. I’ve created a monster. “Your help is appreciated, Gladys, but for all our sakes, please don’t get carried away. Your Highness, I don’t suppose Norbert said anything useful while he was rescuing you?”

  “Unfortunately not,” said Melissande. “Every time I asked him about his involvement in the wedding he launched into another story about his childhood. I did try to divert him, but once he gets going, well, stopping him is a bit like stopping Hartwig’s barge.”

  “Never mind,” he said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck next time.”

  “Maybe we both will,” said Bibbie, wrinkling her nose. “Because I’m afraid Norbert’s minions weren’t any more helpful than their master. Horribly rude, the pair of them. I tried to thank Grune Volker for diving into the Canal on my behalf and he had the nerve to lecture me about unladylike romping! And his friend, Dermit? All he can do is grunt.”

  “Really?” Melissande fought not to smile. “So not every male in the wedding party can be counted your conquest.”

  Bibbie squinted at her, unimpressed. “I feel bound to point out, Your Highness, that gloating is a most unattractive—”

  “Excellent! Then I think we can be on our way at last!”

  Crown Prince Hartwig’s shout reached almost to the last carriage. Wilting wedding tour guests immediately perked up. The horses perked up too, responding to the stir.

  Giving up her promising squabble with Melissande, Bibbie slumped in her seat. “Saint Snodgrass be praised. Although why your Norbert waited so long to take charge is beyond me.”

  “Good manners?” Melissande suggested. “You must have heard of them. And he’s not my Norbert.”

  On his way back to his own carriage, Harenstein’s marquis slowed and favoured Melissande with a broad wink. “All settled now, Madrigal.”

  “Yes, and I’m ever so grateful, Norbert,” she said. “However did you manage it?”

  Flattered, he stopped. “Dear Ermingard,” he murmured. “She’s getting quite emotional at the prospect of handing her only daughter over to Splotze. Though it’s to be expected, I suppose. A mother’s love.”

  “Heartbreaking, I’m sure. But can we leave now?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Norbert of Harenstein. “Although sadly, since we’ve lost so much time, we’ll have to forgo the pleasures of this region’s best scenery, and instead play catch up travelling by way of Putzi Gorge.”

  “Oh?” said Melissande. “You mean we shan’t be visiting Tirinz? Princess Ratafia will be so disappointed.”

  “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid,” said the marquis. “What with gels falling willynilly off perfectly safe barges and so forth.”

  Melissande cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. These things happen, Norbert. Ah—did you say Putzi Gorge? That sounds rather alarming.”

  “Alarming?” The marquis laughed indulgently. “Not at all, Marybelle. If I’ve traversed the gorge once I’ve traversed it a hundred times. It’s a bit dramatic, of course, but safe as Central Ott’s High Street, I promise.”

  “Well, Norbert, if you say so.”

  “And the good news is,” the marquis added, oblivious to the fact that now he was the one holding up the proceedings, with the Dowager Queen and Crown Prince Hartwig and Prince Ludwig returned to their respective carriages, “that even though we’re being denied Tirinz, and must settle for second-best scenery, we’ll still be spending the night at Lake Yablitz. And that means crossing its famous Hanging Bridge. So cheer up, Matilda! All is not lost.”

  “Hmm,” said Bibbie, once Norbert of Harenstein was safely out of earshot. “Putzi Gorge. Is it me, or does that sound like a suspiciously convenient place for an accident?”

  “What?” said Melissande, her eyes widening. “You think our mystery villain might try something in the gorge?”

  “I think I didn’t lose us that much time yesterday, falling into the Canal,” Bibbie said darkly. “And we made most of it up last night. But now, thanks to Erminium …”

  “You think Erminium would—”

  “Erminium, or someone taking advantage of her ghastly tantrums.”

  “What d’you think, Algernon?” said Melissande. “Are you worried something awful could happen in Putzi Gorge?”

  Gerald felt his muscles tighten. What he wouldn’t give to say no. But they’d know if he lied, and they’d never forgive him. “Anything’s possible, Melissande. But don’t worry. I’ll be watching.”

  “No, we’ll be watching,” said Bibbie, and patted Melissande’s knee. “It’s all right, Your Highness. Algernon and I won’t let anything happen.”

  Ah, yes. That was his Bibbie. Fearless and beautiful. An unstoppable force of nature.

  And then there was no time for more discussion, because their coachman climbed back onto his seat. What a mercy the carriage design had him perched right out the front, a good distance from his passengers. So long as they kept their voices low they’d be able to speak freely. Whips cracked, hooves stamped, and the cavalcade of carriages finally took to the road.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  If there was anything worse than waiting and waiting for something terrible to happen on the road to Lake Yablitz, not knowing when or where or how disaster would strike, Melisssande didn’t want to experience it. Stomach twisted into knots, she sat with Bibbie and Gerald in Hartwig’s beautifully sprung touring carriage and tried to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, but it was a dismal struggle. Her nervous tension made it almost impossible to enjoy Splotze’s second-best scenery, which was full of flower-dotted meadows and cherry orchards and milch cows and brown goats with tinkly silver bells around their necks. There also seemed to be rather a lot of rabbits, which insisted on making suicidal leaps in front of the oncoming carriages.

  Whenever she felt their own wheels bump, she closed her eyes, crossed her fingers and made sure not to look behind them.

  Gerald had sunk himself into some kind of inconspicuous thaumaturgical trance, doing his utmost to stay two steps ahead of trouble. As the carriage bowled along Hartwig’s immaculately maintained road, the horses’ hooves swift trotting clip-clop reliable as a metronome, she gazed into his disconcerting Algernon Rowbotham face and marvelled.

  I don’t know how he does it. Not just the thaumaturgics. I
don’t know how he can bear to have so many lives depending on him. On what he does. On who he is. It really is mad, this life.

  She’d had a taste of it herself, in New Ottosland, and the weight of responsibility had nearly broken her spirit. But Gerald seemed to be managing.

  I hope Bibbie’s wrong, about him changing again. He’s had enough changes to be going on with. He needs to stand still for a while, settle back inside his skin. And anyway, what does that mean, changing again? I wish she’d tell me. I know she knows more than she’s saying. How could she not? She’s Emmerabiblia Markham. But I wonder if she realises that she’s treating me like a gel?

  Beside her, Bibbie stirred. “At least we’re making good time,” she remarked, stifling a little yawn with her gloved hand. “Provided nobody loses a carriage wheel, and none of the horses breaks a leg, we should still be able to enjoy this evening’s reception at Lake Yablitz.”

  Melissande looked at her. “I don’t suppose it ever occurs to you to think happy thoughts?”

  “Your Highness …” Bibbie shrugged. “Those are my happy thoughts.”

  Her stomach knotted tighter. “Oh.”

  Somewhere ahead of them was the Putzi Gorge. She tried not to think of sudden stops and long, screaming plunges. If the wedding’s masked villain really was one of them, travelling in front or behind as part of their merry cavalcade, surely he—or she—wouldn’t be so reckless as to endanger his or her own life?

  Unless, of course, this is a cause worth dying for.

  No, no. Happy thoughts, Melissande. Happy thoughts.

  Lolling now against her side of the carriage, apparently heedless of creasing her green-striped muslin dress, Bibbie stifled another yawn then waved vaguely at the passing countryside. “Oh, look. Another bunny. I’m not sure I can stand the excitement.”

  Melissande nudged her sharply. Their coachman was yet to utter a word, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening like a bat.

  “Thank you, Miss Slack. That will be quite enough from you. I’m sure Splotze’s rabbits are the most picturesque in the world.”