Wizard Undercover

by K. E. Mills

  But as various people keep on telling me, feelings aren’t facts. I might be wrong.

  “Algernon!” Bibbie said sharply. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he said, blinking himself free of furious thought. “Where are we?”

  “In Splotze,” Bibbie said sweetly, a glint in her eyes.

  Melissande poked Bibbie in the ribs with her elbow, then pointed. “I’m no expert on landscapes, but I think we’re coming up on Putzi Gorge. I mean, look around us. The countryside’s looking awfully gorge-like, if you ask me.”

  They were travelling through more spindly woodland, flanked left and right by large patches of dry ground scattered with leaf litter and rocks. Leaning over the side of the carriage and twisting round, through the thin scattering of trees Gerald saw the road ahead start to wind and dip.

  “You’re right,” he said, and felt his heart thump. Is it now? Is this it? Was I wrong about the fireworks after all? Does our villain intend the Splotze-Borovnik dream to die here? “That’s a gorge.”

  “I wonder how deep it goes … and how long it’ll take us to reach the other side,” said Melissande.

  She sounded like someone who was nervous and trying hard to be brave. He pulled back inside the carriage.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know. Your Highness, d’you mind if Miss Slack and I swap places? I’m afraid travelling backwards down a gorge will play havoc with my insides.”

  “And what about my insides?” said Bibbie, prepared to be indignant. And then, bless her, she realised that he needed to be able to see what lay ahead. “Never mind. By all means, Mister Rowbotham, let’s swap.”

  So they changed seats, and he settled himself next to Melissande. Risked taking her hand in his, and giving it a quick squeeze.

  Bibbie bent forward, her gaze intent. “I don’t feel anything beyond Splotze’s loopy etheretics. Do you?”

  Lowering his voice to match hers, a near whisper, he shook his head. “No.” At least not yet. “Gladys—”

  “I’ve been thinking too,” she said. “Perhaps even if our mystery villain does try something, it won’t work. The etheretics here are ridiculous. I don’t see how—”

  False hope was dangerous. “You felt what I felt on the barge, Gladys. The power of those thaumaturgics. Our villain must’ve been planning this for months. D’you really think he’s going to let some ridiculous etheretics get in his way?”

  She wanted to argue, but she was Emmerabiblia Markham. She didn’t fear to stare a hard truth in the face. “No.”

  Melissande’s fingers laced in her lap. “Are you saying you can’t stop him?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “I’m saying he’s good. But don’t worry. I’m better.”

  And for the love of Saint Snodgrass, don’t let that be a lie.

  Ludwig and Ratafia’s carriage led the wedding tour party down into the forested gorge. They lost the sunlight quickly, the cloudless blue sky soon criss-crossed by a latticework of branches. The air grew cool and damp. Water trickled over the mossy rocks that edged the inner side of the fern-fringed and downwards-winding road, and shadows pooled beneath the gnarled and overhanging trees.

  Only the horses’ hooves, the carriage wheels, the trickling water and the belling of hidden birds broke the deep silence.

  Gerald felt his potentia stir, its grimoire magic roused by the ether’s twists and folds and pockets of darkness. Cantankerous was a kind word, compared with what he sensed here. But was there villainy, too? He couldn’t sense it. Could Bibbie? Like him she was seeking trouble, and even with his dimming hex in place her potentia glowed before his mind’s eye, bright amid the gorge’s gloom.

  “Careful, Gladys,” he murmured. “You don’t want the wrong people knowing what you are.”

  Dreamily she nodded, and a moment later her brightness faded a little.

  The road unwound steadily, lowering them further and further from the sky. Here and there the trickling water turned into tiny falls, droplets splashing and spinning, making the lush green fernery dance.

  “Well,” said Melissande, hands still folded tightly in her lap. “So far, so good.”

  In front of them, one of the horses drawing Hartwig’s carriage spooked at a bird clattering out of a tree, in turn spooking its three companions. All four horses leapt forward in fright, crowding into the back of Ludwig and Ratafia’s carriage. Its team of four shied sideways, dangerously close to the road’s edge. Ratafia and Ludwig cried out. Small rocks tumbled, waking echoes all the way to the bottom of the gorge.

  Melissande squeaked as their own carriage lurched, its horses quick to believe there was danger. “Algernon!”

  Bloody horses. Bloody hell. Any moment now, any moment, the rest of the wedding tour’s carriage teams would start to panic … and there wasn’t any way for him to calm them with thaumaturgics.

  “Hold tight, Your Highness,” he said. “Gladys?”

  Bibbie’s face was pale, her hexed brown eyes narrowed in concentration as their carriage bounced alarmingly. “Nothing,” she muttered. “No incants. What about you?”

  Did he dare drop his shield entirely? Could the writhing etheretics hide him, or would his true nature be revealed? And there was Bibbie, so close to him, lord, close enough to touch. What would she feel? Nothing? Or would she feel everything and turn away from him in fear?

  Coward.

  In a short, sharp burst he reached out with his full potentia, swift and searing like a lightning strike. Splotze’s ether convulsed. He heard Bibbie’s shocked gasp, feeling him untrammelled, then felt her take the same risk. Inspiration struck. He reached out again, letting her potentia blur his own. Bibbie gasped again, startled, and then she followed his lead. Used her potentia to hide his completely, leaving him free.

  Desperate, he searched the ether. Clutched at the side of the carriage as it lurched again. The coachman was cursing in ripely inventive Splotzin, and he could hear other voices raised in alarm. Was this sudden upset the villainy he’d dreaded? And if it was, could they find the culprit and stop him in time?

  Come out, come out, wherever you are.

  But like Bibbie, he found nothing. The only grimoire magic in Putzi Gorge was his own. He opened his eyes.

  “Nothing.”

  Bibbie was staring, her eyes crowded with difficult questions.

  He shook his head. “Not now, Gladys.”

  “Not now what?” said Melissande, alarmed. She was clutching the side of the carriage, too. “Mister Rowbotham—”

  “Everything’s fine, Your Highness,” he said, squeezing her hand again. “No need to worry. Look, Prince Ludwig’s coachman has his horses under control.”

  And so did their own coachman, praise Saint Snodgrass, and the burly man in charge of Hartwig’s carriage team. Above the calmed thudding of hoofbeats they heard relieved laughter from Ludwig and Ratafia, booming praise to his coachman from Crown Prince Hartwig … and a rising tide of complaint from Borovnik’s Dowager Queen.

  Melissande sighed. “Oh dear. She just can’t help herself, can she?” Then she leaned a little closer. “You’re quite sure we’re safe, Algernon?”

  “As sure as I can be,” he replied softly. “As hard as I looked, there were no rotten thaumaturgics. I really do think we’re fine.”

  “But from now on,” Bibbie added, scowling, “nobody is allowed to say so far, so good. Right?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Not quite an hour later, the wedding party emerged unscathed from the shadowed cool of Putzi Gorge into warm afternoon sunlight.

  As Gerald and Bibbie changed seats again, she raised her eyebrows at him. Whatever qualms she was feeling, given what she knew of him after their little thaumaturgical adventure, she was keeping them well hidden.

  “First the fireworks and now this,” she said lightly. “I wonder, Mister Rowbotham, if you’ve ever heard the story of the janitor who cried wolf?”

  “And I wonder, Miss Slack,” said Melissande, “if the old sayi
ng better safe than sorry rings any bells for you?”

  He gave them both a warning look. “Perhaps we should enjoy the scenery. Quietly.”

  “Good idea!” said Bibbie. “And the first one to spot a rabbit wins a seat beside Dowager Queen Erminium at dinner.”

  Really? Sitting back, Gerald folded his arms.

  I wonder if it wouldn’t have been smarter of me to fall in love with Melissande, instead.

  The carriages bowled on without further incident. Several more miles closer to Lake Yablitz, as they passed through countryside featuring trees and hedgerows but thankfully no rabbits, Crown Prince Hartwig called another halt so the horses could be watered again, and his guests could stretch their legs and so forth.

  With nature remaining silent this time, Gerald and the girls contented themselves with alighting from their carriage and unkinking their various kinked bits.

  “No, Gladys,” said Melissande, as Bibbie looked longingly along the verge at Norbert of Harenstein’s men, who stood apart in deep conversation. “I think, in this case, the time has come to accept defeat. Hard as it must be to admit, Bern Dermit and Grune Volker are apparently immune to your charms.”

  Bibbie heaved a sigh. “Well, I suppose there must be a first time for everything. Although now I really am sorry Volker didn’t catch pneumonia when he went over the barge’s railing with me into the Canal.”

  “When he what?” Gerald stared. “Went over with you? But he dived in after you. Didn’t he?”

  Bibbie was frowning at the two men, clearly rankled by her failed conquest. “With me, after me, does it really matter which?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, and resisted the urge to shake her. “Maybe. Do you actually remember him going in with you or is it just a figure of speech?”

  “Oh,” said Bibbie, abruptly seeing his point. “You mean did Dermit lie? Well—I’m not sure. It’s all still a blank, what happened. Only for some reason, just then, I thought … I felt …”

  “You felt what?” he persisted. “Come on, Gladys. Think.”

  She swatted at him. “I am thinking. Don’t bully me.”

  “You’re not suggesting Volker was trying to harm Gladys, are you?” said Melissande, disbelieving. “On purpose? But Algernon, why would he? He’s from Harenstein.”

  Biting his lip, Gerald stared at Grune Volker. Yes, he was. And at first glance nothing could be more ridiculous than the notion that Harenstein was behind the plot against the wedding.

  But nothing is impossible. And someone here is guilty.

  With another gusty sigh, Bibbie pressed fingertips to her temples and turned away. “No. I’m sorry. Whatever I thought I felt, or remembered, it’s gone.”

  He smothered disappointment. “Never mind. Melissande’s probably right. The notion of Harenstein as the villain is rather far-fetched.”

  But as soon as he could punch through Splotze’s ether to Sir Alec, he was going to ask his superior to take a very close look at bluff, bumptious Norbert and his men.

  And then Princess Ratafia joined them, resplendent in turquoise silk and glowing like the happiest bride-to-be in the world. Playing the part of well-trained secretary, Gerald retreated a few paces, taking Bibbie with him. She didn’t pull away from him. He had to think that was good.

  “Putzi Gorge was exciting, Melissande, wasn’t it!” Ratafia exclaimed. “Especially when the horses decided to be silly. Were you frightened? I was. But then Luddie put his arms around me and I knew we’d be safe.”

  “The gorge certainly had its moments, yes,” Melissande agreed. “But does it make up for missing the cheering townsfolk in Tirinz?”

  The princess giggled. “Oh, I’m not bothered about missing Tirinz. I don’t care where I am, so long as I’m with Ludwig. Anyway, Hartwig says we need to get on. So I’ll see you again at Lake Yablitz!”

  “Don’t suppose anyone’s got a lemon handy, have they?” said Bibbie, as Ratafia of Borovnik danced away. “Only that much sugar makes me feel ill.”

  “Since when?” said Melissande, snorting. “I’m not the one who ate four office sticky buns in one sitting.”

  I miss Reg, Gerald thought, as he ushered the bickering girls back into the carriage. Where’s Reg when I need her? If I poke them in their unmentionables I’ll end up behind bars.

  More miles through second-best scenery, still no rabbits. Hedgerowed fields gave way to open moorland. More miles and the countryside grew hilly, the road undulating, in places quite steep.

  Remembering his Department briefing notes, and the photographs included with them, Gerald looked at the girls. “I think we’re quite close, now.”

  “Good,” said Bibbie. “Because my posterior’s positively snoring.”

  “That’s not very delicate, Gladys,” said Melissande.

  Bibbie grimaced. “You think of something, anything, delicate about a numb bum, Your Highness, and I’ll sit next to Erminium at dinner.”

  Ignoring that, Melissande clasped her hands in her lap. “And everything’s still all right, is it, Mister Rowbotham?”

  “I think so,” he said, after a moment. “My bum’s not numb, anyway.”

  That made her smile, which was what he’d wanted. Poor Melissande. She wasn’t having much fun on this mission. In her own way she was as brave and bold as Bibbie, but she really wasn’t cut out for the janitoring life.

  They lapsed back into silence. Another few miles rolled by. He risked lowering his shield, yet again, to test the surrounding etheretics. Nothing different. No alarm bells. Only the same busy, tizzied twistings.

  Four years in this place? I don’t know how Bestwick didn’t go mad. It must’ve been like sleeping under sandpaper sheets, all this rubbing against his potentia.

  Then again, Bestwick did succumb to the charms of kitchen-maid Mitzie, knowing full well what Sir Alec would say. So perhaps he had gone mad.

  The carriages followed the road round a wide, sweeping bend. Bibbie sat up and pointed. “Oy. Out there. Am I seeing things, or does that look like a bridge?”

  As Melissande shaded her eyes and squinted, Gerald shifted round on his seat. Leaning sideways again, so he could see past the coachman and horses and the two carriages in front of them, he squinted too until the hazy suggestion of bridginess resolved into solidity: Splotze’s famous Hanging Bridge of Yablitz. His parents had sent him a post-card, and covered the back with exclamation marks.

  Constructed of ornately carved wood, the bridge stood high and deceptively fragile above a narrow silver ribbon of river, which doubled back on itself in a long lazy loop to pour into distant Lake Yablitz. The horizon-sliding sun gilded the wide, still water and burnished the roofs of picturesque Lake Yablitz township.

  As the road began to drop away before them, leading down to the bridge, the carriage horses slowed from a trot to a walk. The road’s left-hand side was open, while up ahead its right-hand side was crowded by a high and wide rock-strewn slope of hill. Spindly saplings struggled for life between the stones.

  “Algernon …”

  Gerald pulled himself back into the carriage, nerves scraped by the warning note in Bibbie’s voice. “Gladys?”

  “What’s wrong?” said Melissande. “Is something wrong?”

  Brows pinched in a frown, Bibbie was staring at the top of the hill, where rocks were carelessly scattered like a giant’s abandoned game of knucklebones.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Algernon?”

  His rear end might not be numb, but his potentia was feeling muffled. The grimoire parts of it, especially, resented Splotze’s tortured ether. He followed Bibbie’s troubled gaze to the hilltop, and risked a thaumaturgial look. Felt his own face collapse in a frown.

  “I don’t know, either. There might be something. It’s hard to say.” The frown twisted into a sarcastic grimace. “I don’t like to cry wolf.”

  Bibbie shook her head. “I take that back, Mister Rowbotham. You cry wolf as many times as you like.”

  He was almost sur
e he couldn’t feel any rank thaumaturgics. But she was Monk’s sister. He’d be mad not to take her unease seriously.

  Damn. And now I really wish Reg was here.

  What he wouldn’t give to have her flying up there for a good stickybeak around. She’d become his second set of eyes, and he’d hardly noticed. Just taken her for granted.

  I won’t do that again.

  “Look,” said Melissande, “I don’t like to nag, but are we in trouble or aren’t we? Because if we are, I think someone has to tell Hartwig what’s going on.”

  “Really?” said Bibbie. “You want to confess you’ve been lying to him since you got here? I don’t see how that’ll help.”

  “No, it’ll be awful,” Melissande said, her expression dogged. “But that’s beside the point. I won’t sit here saying nothing if Ratafia and—”

  “Stop it,” Gerald said. “Nobody’s saying anything, not unless I—”

  Shooting bolts of pain obliterated coherent thought. As he slid boneless off his seat and onto the carriage floor, he heard Bibbie cry out, echoing his distress.

  “Algernon! Gladys!” cried Melissande. “Coachman, coachman, stop! Something’s terribly wrong!”

  Splotze’s ether had turned whiplike, lashing him in fury. The stench of grimoire thaumaturgics smothered his potentia, clogged his senses. He could barely breathe. He heard Bibbie’s harsh sobbing breaths, felt her fingers groping for his hand. He caught hold of her, a lifeline.

  Another whipcrack of tainted magic, much closer this time. Coming from one of the other carriages? He thought so, but which one? The writhing ether was a blanket, blotting out sight.

  Then Melissande gasped. “Oh, no! Look!”

  Fighting pain and confusion, Gerald opened his eyes. Saw Bibbie, and tried to smile. And then he heard a deep, ominous grinding, rock against rock. The ether twisted tighter, convulsing. Horses whinnied in fear. Raised voices, coachmen shouting. Their carriage slewed to a halt, hard behind Hartwig’s carriage, nearly sliding off the road.