by K. E. Mills
But Bibbie shook her head. “I can’t, Melissande. I’m sorry. It’s not for me to say. You’ll have to ask Gerald.”
She slid off the bed. “Fine. Where is he?”
“In his room, getting gussied up.”
“Go and fetch him, would you? I needed to talk to him anyway. You two aren’t the only ones who’ve had an interesting night. Now, Bibbie. Or I’ll be late for the party.”
But when Bibbie returned, she was alone and frowning. “He’s gone down to the reception. He left a note.”
“The wedding reception?” Melissande said, disbelieving. “But you minions aren’t invited, he knows that. You’ve got drinks in the Servants’ Hall. What is he thinking? Upstairs isn’t going to let Algernon Rowbotham crash the pre-wedding party.”
“Trust me, Melissande,” said Bibbie, her expression grim. “He won’t give them a choice. He’s so angry about the fireworks. I’ve never seen him so angry. He swore he was going to unmask the plotters tonight or tear the wedding apart, trying.”
She could’ve screamed with frustration. “I’ve already unmasked them! It’s Dermit and Volker. Quick, Bibbie. Help me get changed. We need to find Gerald, just in case those Steinish bastards have figured out who keeps putting a spoke in their dirty wheel.”
But Bibbie was so still she might’ve been nailed to the carpet. “Dermit and Volker? Are you sure? How do you know?”
Heedless of seams and buttons, Melissande started undressing herself. “Abel Bestwick told me.”
“Abel Bestwick? When did you—”
“A few hours ago.” Melissande flailed out of the purple dress and flung it on the bed. “And no, I wasn’t holding a séance. He’s not dead, Bibbie. He’s been hiding in Mitzie the kitchen maid’s room in the palace.”
“Good lord,” Bibbie said faintly.
“I told you I’d had an interesting time,” she retorted. “Anyway, once I’d convinced him I wasn’t a madwoman, or an enemy agent, he told me everything he knew.”
“And he says it’s Harenstein? But—but what about the Lanruvians?”
“The Lanruvians have gone home,” she said, fumbling with the buttons on her boots. “I have no idea why. All I know is that Abel Bestwick swears blind that Dermit and Volker are our villains, and seeing as how one of them stabbed him I rather thought contradicting him would be impolite.”
“Good lord,” said Bibbie. “Dermit and Volker. Well, at least that explains why they wouldn’t succumb to my charms.”
Oh, for pity’s sake. “Yes, Emmerabiblia,” Melissande said slowly. “Because that’s what really matters. I’m so glad we’ve cleared that up. Now fetch me my bloody evening gown before I forget I’m a bloody princess and do you a bloody mischief they’ll write up in the Times!”
Bravely undeterred by the memory of crab puffs, and lured by the promise of limitless cherry liqueur, the well-placed and well-dressed of Hartwig’s acquaintance had arrived promptly to celebrate Splotze and Borovnik’s highly anticipated nuptials.
Eating, drinking, gossiping, the wedding guests swirled in a colourful cloud of national dress and perfume and sprightly music. Watching from a discreet nook halfway along one wall, almost but not quite hidden behind a crimson velvet curtain, Gerald paid special attention to the dancers who’d gone on the wedding tour … and admitted to a grudging respect. Life in the rough and tumble worlds of politics and international diplomacy certainly hardened the nerves. Not a one of them showed any sign of nerves over the near-tragedy at the Hanging Bridge. And if one of them was disappointed, well, he couldn’t tell that, either. Which was a damned shame.
The guests from Blonkken arrived, and were immediately plied with refreshments. But still no Lanruvians. Probably planning to make yet another fashionably late entrance. Puzzling bastards, they were. Try as he might, he couldn’t figure them out. He’d not felt them at the fireworks … but what did that mean? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. It was too soon to know.
The fireworks.
A dull, persistent ache was throbbing behind his eyes. And he felt oddly disconnected, as insubstantial as the music being played by Hartwig’s favourite ensemble. Echoes of the observation platform, belling through his blood.
I don’t know who or what I am any more, Bibbie. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m making this up as I go.
It was true then. It was true now. What he’d become … what he was becoming …
What I did tonight was impossible. Damn that other Gerald. Only a madman would meld a rogue potentia with grimoire magics.
What a blessing he’d had Bibbie. Without her to hold on to, to come back to, he’d never have survived. The observation platform, the Hanging Bridge. She’d saved him both times.
And when Sir Alec finds out …
But that was another bridge that could wait till tomorrow.
Lord Babcock and the Jandrians entered the reception chamber together, playing nicely for once. Behind them a clutch of local dignitaries and their wives. He’d seen them before, at the doomed State Dinner. Still no soon-to-be happy couple though, or their families. No Melissande, either. But Secretary of State Leopold Gertz was here, doing his damp best to jolly things along as discreet palace servants brought in more finger food on silver platters. Though he was bone weary, and hurting, Gerald felt himself smile.
Tuck in quick, everyone, before the Marquis of Harenstein arrives.
Cautiously he unshielded his potentia. Touched it lightly here and there, but felt nothing untoward. And perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps whoever had failed first at the Hanging Bridge and then with the fireworks had belatedly come to his senses.
But I won’t hold my breath. This villain, whoever he is, has come too far to turn back now.
By now the reception chamber was so crowded and gabbleish that Hartwig’s ensemble was having to play twice as loudly to be heard. And blimey, what were they playing? It was awful. But as he winced at the tuneless collection of sharps and flats, something distracted him.
Shifting his gaze towards the chamber’s far end, he glimpsed a man dressed in severely fashionable black and white sidling his way through a large knot of guests who stood beside an enormous urn filled with Borovnik wildflowers.
Losing sight of him, Gerald cursed. Too many men dressed in black and white, too many parading silver platters and eager hands reaching for the food. Stirred instinct prickled an urgent warning. There’d been something … furtive … in the way the man moved.
Dammit. If only I’d seen his face.
And then a commotion erupted before the loudly playing ensemble, raised voices and a ragged expiration of music.
“—too bad, Goby, this is entirely too bad! You were told not to play that caterwauling rubbish! Are you an imbecile or a typical Borovnik, too arrogant to live?”
The commotion rippled outwards as guests retreated, snickering and muttering and even laughing out loud. Gerald saw Leopold Gertz, like a damp bantam cockerel, fists clenched and chest thrust forward, confronting a man who clutched a conductor’s baton and seemed dangerously inclined to use it.
Excellent. Perfect timing. Thank you, Secretary Gertz.
Under cover of the swiftly escalating dispute, Gerald wove his unobtrusive way through the goggling guests to the far end of the chamber. Pressing his back to the nearest empty bit of wall, he closed his eyes and let loose his potentia.
And this time he felt them, the slumbering grimoire thaumaturgics. After the fireworks they couldn’t hide from him any more. The man, the mysterious villain he was hunting, had attached four sickeningly powerful hexes to the back of that flower-filled urn.
A touch, a thought, and he’d killed them. No-one was dying here tonight. Grimly smiling, he looked across the crowded room … straight into the shocked eyes of Bern Dermit. Who like himself was a lackey, and shouldn’t have been allowed into the reception.
But I have my potentia. What’s his excuse?
From one breath to the next, Dermit’s shock twisted to incredulou
s fury. To understanding. To hate.
I’ll be damned, thought Gerald, blinking. It’s you.
Melissande and Bibbie had nearly reached the bottom of the palace’s sweeping staircase when they crossed paths with the wedding party and got swept up in Hartwig’s expansive enthusiasm.
“Of course, Melissande, of course you must make a grand entrance with us,” he protested. “Why, you’re as good as family. Isn’t she, Brunelda?”
Poor gouty Brunelda, reduced to hobbling with a stick, seemed about to remonstrate … until she caught sight of Erminium’s face.
“Absolutely she’s like family, Hartwig,” she said, sweetly smiling. “The daughter we never had, my dear.”
With Hartwig choking on that one, and Erminium at long last speechless with rage, Melissande risked an eloquent glance at Bibbie.
Stay close. I’ll find Gerald.
Bibbie nodded, bless her, and demurely retreated to bring up the rear.
Ratafia smiled, radiant, soppily entwined with her besotted Ludwig. “I’m glad you’re here too, Melissande. And that’s a very nice dress. Green suits you.”
“Thank you,” said Melissande. And when she heard Bibbie giggle, thought, Oh, shut up.
They arrived at the reception chamber to find Leopold Gertz and another man hurling spittled insults like hammers, much to the astonished amusement of Hartwig’s many guests. Melissande looked at the other man’s waving baton.
Good lord. Master Goby, I presume.
But then Leopold Gertz realised the wedding party had arrived, and the altercation collapsed in a mutual exchange of fulminating glares. Goby turned back to his musicians, and a moment later the chamber was blasted by a brass fanfare.
As Gertz retreated in embarrassed confusion, Melissande looked for Gerald. And there he was, standing beside a huge flowerpot, his expression oddly blank. She bounced a little bit and waved to attract his attention. No response. And then he saw her.
“Won’t be a moment,” she said to an oblivious Ratafia, and braved the crush of guests to join him. They collided almost halfway.
“It’s Harenstein!” they declared in simultaneous undertones.
“How did you know?” Gerald demanded, catching hold of her arm and tugging her towards the wall.
“Abel Bestwick told me. Have you seen him too?”
“Bestwick?” Gerald gaped, then shook his head. “No. I just caught Bern Dermit setting grimoire hexes. It’s all right, I killed them, but the bastard’s given me the slip. He could be anywhere in the palace setting some more. Where’s Bibbie? I need her to help me find him. And I want you to warn Hartwig, politics be damned.”
Her head was spinning. “Bibbie’s outside. Gerald, are you sure about telling Hartwig? Sir Alec—”
“Damn him, too,” he said, furiously intent. “If we don’t stop Dermit, Sir Alec will be the least of our worries.”
Very true.
But they’d not made it five paces before Leopold Gertz appeared in front of them, holding two glasses of richly red cherry liqueur.
“Your Highness!” he said, his face pallid and sweating. “Don’t go. Master Goby has played his last trick, I promise. Here.” He held out a glass to her. “We’ll drink to it, shall we? Here you are, sir.” He gave the other glass to Gerald, then snatched a flute of sparkling wine for himself from a passing servant. “To Splotze and her music! May she reign forever sovereign!”
It would take more time to protest and excuse themselves than make the toast. With a flicker of his eyelid—Come on, let’s drink and run—Gerald raised his glass.
“Indeed. To Splotze!”
Loathing cherry liqueur, Melissande pressed the lip of her glass deceptively against her teeth. Pretending to sip, she watched Splotze’s Secretary of State watch Gerald drain his glass dry. Lord, Gertz really did look dreadful. And his eyes … Hungrily avid. Almost manic.
Then, just for a moment, his alarming gaze shifted past Gerald towards something, or someone, standing behind them. Terror. Triumph. Shame. She saw them all in Gertz’s sweating face, and spun round.
Bern Dermit. Standing with him, Grune Volker. And in their faces she saw nothing but gloating hate.
Dropping her own glass she grabbed Gertz by the arm. “Leopold! What have you done?”
Gertz pulled free and backed away. “What I had to do. For Splotze. You wouldn’t understand.”
With a grunt, Gerald pressed a fist to his belly. Then he looked at her, astonished pain dawning.
“Melissande?”
Catching hold of him as he folded, she turned on Leopold Gertz. “You’ve poisoned him?”
Not waiting for Gertz to answer, because she already knew, she started dragging Gerald towards the reception chamber’s door … and saw Dermit and Volker, those two Steinish bastards, bullying their way through Hartwig’s heedless guests with murder in their eyes.
“Bibbie!”
And Bibbie was beside her, taking Gerald’s other arm, helping to drag him towards the chamber doors. Now people were turning, curious, too bloody stupid to get out of the way. Dermit’s hand was in his pocket. Everything about him screamed: You’re dead.
“Bibbie, he’s got hexes,” she said, nearly sobbing. “We need a diversion!”
Bibbie clenched a fist and whispered. All around the chamber, curtains burst into flame.
“Done,” she said, vicious. “Now let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Oy, you pair of hoydens! Put a sock in it, right now! And then tell me what you’ve gone and done to my Gerald!”
An ambush of tears, hot and smarting. Melissande blinked them away. Help had come at last.
“Reg? How did you—”
Flapped onto the Canal wall, Reg was staring at Gerald. “That Markham boy made himself useful for once.” She jerked her beak. “Is it poison?”
“Yes,” said Bibbie. “Where’s Monk? For pity’s sake don’t tell me you came alone!”
“I’ll remember that, madam,” the bird said with a pointed sniff. “What kind of poison, d’you know?”
“No,” said Melissande. “But he drank it, if that helps.” Her voice was wobbling. Very unroyal. “Oh, Reg, it started working so fast and we—”
“And you thought the best way to help my Gerald was take him on a midnight tour of Grande Splotze?”
Bibbie turned on her. “If you’ve portable portalled all the way from Chatterly Crescent to do nothing but carp, then I suggest you portal yourself back again right now, you—you— bloody imposter!”
On the cobbles at their feet, Gerald rolled his head and moaned. The small sound was shockingly loud in the silence.
A sniff. A soft rattling of long tail feathers. “So,” said Reg. “Are you two running to somewhere in particular, or—”
“Abel Bestwick’s lodging,” said Melissande, subdued. “It’s at—”
“45b Voblinz Lane. I know.” Reg gave her tail another good shake. “But why take him there? Why not send for a doctor? You were in the palace weren’t you? Don’t tell me Hartwig doesn’t keep a doctor in his pocket, just in case he collapses with an attack of ingrown toenail.”
She glanced at Bibbie, but Monk’s sister had dropped to one knee beside stuporous Gerald and was chafing his wrist between her hands.
“There wasn’t time, Reg. The bastards who did this were about to finish the job. We had to run. And we thought Abel might keep some kind of all-round poison remedy. You know, since he’s a janitor.” A bubble of despair rose in her throat. “Only those poisoning pillocks must be following us and I think we’re lost and—”
Reassuringly brisk, Reg rattled her tail again. “Not to worry. Along with a locator hex for finding Gerald, that Markham boy gave me excellent directions to Mister Bestwick’s humble abode, just in case. So let’s get cracking, shall we? Miss Markham—it’d be a good idea if you tarted up your obfuscation hex before we go.”
Another appalled silence. Melissande stared at Bibbie, and Bibbie stared
back.
“Oh, my giddy aunt,” Reg said, disgusted. “Call yourself a witch, madam? Call yourself a Markham? I know what I’d call you, I’d call you—”
“The woman Gerald loves, actually,” Melissande snapped. “So leave her be, Reg, and lead the way to Voblinz Lane. Now.”
“No, wait,” said Bibbie. “She’s right. Let me just—”
Oh, lord. At this rate they were going to argue themselves right into Dermit and Volker’s murderous clutches. “There’s no time, Bibbie! Those bastards could stumble over us at any moment! Now come on. I’ll take his top half and you take his legs, just like before. Don’t worry. We’ve made it this far. We’ll make it the rest of the way.”
“Blimey,” said Reg, when they had Gerald once more slung between them. “There’s a circus act in there somewhere.” With a flapping of wings, she was airborne. “Well, ladies, what are you waiting for? Follow me!”
She led them through the hushed, shadowed streets to Voblinz Lane without making a single wrong turn. Thank you, Monk. The narrow street was darkly narrow and noisome, scattered with rain-sodden refuse. Only one of its gaslights was working. And that was the first and last bit of good news to be found.
“I don’t believe it,” Bibbie said, both hands pressed to the warped and paint-peeling front door of 45b. “Gerald’s warded the wretched hovel. Running after blood magic and he still remembers to lock the door!”
Melissande swallowed another bubble of despair. Oh, lord. I can’t take much more of this. “You’re sure it’s Gerald’s hexwork?”
“Yes,” Bibbie said, with an impatient glance. “I can feel some older hexes too, probably Bestwick’s, but they’re all kaput. Trust me, this is Gerald’s doing. I’d know one of his hexes anywhere.”
Wonderful. As if they didn’t have enough headaches to be going on with. “Well … can you break it?”
“She has to,” said Reg, sitting on the cracked pavement beside Gerald. Her beak caressed his cheek, once. “Because our boy is fighting the fight of his life and we’re not going to be any help to him out here.”
“Bibs …” Afraid, uncertain, Melissande rested a hand on Bibbie’s shoulder, feeling her tense and trembling. “You and Monk and Gerald, you’ve spent months and months mucking about with thaumaturgics in the attic. Monk says you’re easily as good as him these days. I know there’s a difference between witch and wizard potentias, but—”