Wizard Undercover

by K. E. Mills

  “No, there’s not,” Bibbie said tightly. “That’s nonsense put out by manky old men like Great-uncle Throgmorton, who want to keep gels in their place.”

  “So your potentia and Gerald’s, they’re compatible? I mean, you worked together at the Hanging Bridge, didn’t you? The way Monk and Gerald work together at home? And—you know, when they were stuck in the other Ottosland.”

  “Sort of,” Bibbie said, after a moment. “But teaming up potentias isn’t the same as breaking each other’s thaumaturgics. It’s true, I’ve managed to crack a few of Gerald’s hexes.” Her flattened palms became fists, and banged her frustration on the door. “But that was before he—”

  Suddenly, it seemed Bibbie had to stare at the peeling paint.

  “Before the grimoire magic?” Crossing her arms, Melissande rubbed her hands up and down to chase away the chill. “I know you said he’s changed, but even so … he got rid of it, didn’t he? He’s not—not permanently tainted, or anything? Is he?”

  Bibbie uncurled her fisted fingers one by one. “No. Of course he isn’t.”

  And that was a lie. Goaded beyond self-control, Melissande gave temper free rein. “Stop it, Emmerabiblia! I’m sick and bloody tired of you treating me like a gel! You of all people! I don’t know how you can!”

  “What’s this?” Reg demanded, abandoning her vigil on the pavement to hop onto a nearby step. “Has something else happened to Gerald?”

  “It’s not for me to say,” Bibbie answered, mulishly stubborn. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Well, ducky, I would, only he’s a bit poisoned just now!”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t—I won’t—tell you,” Bibbie said, dogged to the end. “So you might as well stop asking.”

  “All right, Emmerabiblia,” Melissande said wearily. “Keep your secrets, I don’t care. Just get us inside, will you, before we’re discovered?”

  Bibbie’s reply was to rest her forehead against the warded door. She stood there for what felt like hours, the fingers of her left hand gently drumming the wood, her Gladys Slack prettiness twisted ugly with painful effort. Beads of sweat stippled her skin, and her cheeks paled to sickliness. Her breathing deepened. Harshened. Became pants. Became gasps.

  And then, on a cry of anguish, she fell back.

  “It’s no good,” she said hoarsely. “His potentia’s too different now. I can’t get past his—there’s a thaumaturgical kink in there somewhere and I’m not strong enough to—”

  “Codswallop. You are strong enough,” Reg snapped. “You’re Emmerabiblia Markham.”

  “Yes, but he’s Gerald Dunwoody! And you don’t know what that means, Reg. Not any more.”

  Reg’s eyes gleamed in the miserly gaslight. “Oh, don’t I? Well, madam, speaking as an imposter, I’d say I—”

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Bibbie, the heel of her hand pressed to her temple. “Gerald’s not that.”

  Head tipped to one side, Reg narrowed her eyes. “Then what is he, Miss Markham?”

  Turning away, Bibbie picked up her reticule from the front door step. Retrieved from it a small crystal ball and tried to open a connection.

  “Oy!” said Reg. “That belongs to Gerald. Thieving now, are we, madam?”

  “He brought three with him,” Bibbie said distantly. “And it’s not like he’s using any of them at the moment.”

  Somewhere along the shabby lane, a cat yowled. Startled, Melissande stared into the shadows.

  Oh lord, this is taking too long. Why did we run? I should’ve screamed for Hartwig, not Bibbie.

  “Can you get it to work?”

  Bibbie cast a swift look around, as though she were examining the invisible air. “It feels like the ether’s starting to settle. I just hope it’s enough.”

  “If it is, contact Sir Alec. He should—”

  “No, I need Monk. I need to ask him about—well, never mind. It’s thaumaturgical. You wouldn’t understand.”

  No. Right. Of course she wouldn’t. Trying not to be offended, Melissande left Bibbie to her etheretics and retreated to crouch beside Gerald. A moment later Reg joined her in a flapping of wings.

  “His colour’s bad,” the bird said. “And he’s in a muck sweat. But he’s still breathing, so there’s hope. Even if his lungs are whistling like a kettle.” A thoughtful sniff. “I thought you said the poison acted fast?”

  “It did,” she said. Oh, Gerald. He looked so helpless, so vulnerable lying on the cobbles. This is all my fault. If I’d never asked him for help in New Ottosland … “Moments after he drank his cherry liqueur, he doubled over in pain and collapsed.”

  “Hmm,” said Reg. “Open his shirt, ducky.” With Gerald’s slowly rising and falling chest exposed, she leaned down for a closer look. “Bugger. See those little purplish blisters? I’ve seen ’em before. There’s a good chance our boy’s swallowed tincture of dirit.”

  “Dirit? I’ve never—”

  “It’s a weed,” Reg said darkly. “And a scourge. If you’re a witch or a wizard and you smoke the stuff, nine times out of ten you’ll croak yourself. Slowly. Might take a few months. But if you drink it …”

  The grim finality in Reg’s voice iced her blood. “Is there a cure?”

  Reg’s feathers flattened. “Not that I’ve ever found.”

  “Oh,” she said, and fastened Gerald’s shirt and smart evening jacket with fingers gone cold and numb.

  “The mystery is—” Reg chattered her beak. “—why isn’t he dead already? Because if we are talking tincture of dirit, and I’m pretty sure that’s it, he should’ve turned up his toes long before you girls reached the Canal.”

  Shivering, Melissande smoothed Gerald’s blond, Algernon hair. She was finally starting to get used to it. “Don’t tell me you’re complaining, Reg.”

  “Don’t be bloody silly,” the bird retorted. “But—”

  “Oh, you poxy, poxy—” Bibbie snarled, shaking the crystal ball. “Make the connection!”

  Distracted from belly-churning thoughts of death, she frowned at Monk’s sister. “Why won’t the call connect, Reg? If you portalled in—”

  “In’s not the same as out when it comes to Splotze’s dodgy etheretics,” said Reg. “In my case it was a one way trip. It’s just a bloody shame I couldn’t get here an hour or two earlier. Then I could’ve stopped those buggers from feeding Gerald tinctured dirit.” An angry chatter of beak. “That manky Sir Alec! This never would’ve happened if he’d let me come with you. First rule around these parts: never accept a drink from a man of the Steinish persuasion! I’m speaking from personal experience, you understand. When I—”

  “It wasn’t Dermit and Volker who gave him the liqueur,” Melissande said, following Bibbie’s example and chafing Gerald’s lax wrist. Beneath her cold fingers his pulse alternately stuttered and raced. “It was Leopold Gertz, Hartwig’s Secretary of State.” And though she’d stood there and watched that damp little man poison Gerald, still she was finding it almost impossible to believe. “But why he’d do it, why he’d be working with—” And then she realised what the bird had said. “Wait a minute. How do you know Harenstein is up to its armpits in this mess?”

  “Ah,” said Reg, raising her voice over the top of Bibbie’s extravagant cursing. “Well, me and that Markham boy and the Markham family’s doddering butler, we’ve been doing a little sleuthing of our own. Popping in and out of a few foreign embassies, looking for clues. Only you didn’t hear me say that.”

  A rush of relief. “Monk found something.”

  “He did,” said Reg, sounding pleased and proud. “Encrypted instructions from the Marquis of Harenstein to Roland Dermit, his Ambassador to Ott. Be so kind as to contact that terribly helpful blackmarket wizard you know, and present him with this wish list of highly illegal and dangerous thaumaturgical hexes. Money no object, time of the essence. Or words to that effect.” A thoughtful sniff. “Y’know, if ever he gets tired of inventing portable portals, that young man of yours has quite th
e future in codebreaking.”

  Dermit. There was the connection. Feeling ill, Melissande carefully tucked Gerald’s arm back to his side. Some of those blackmarket hexes must’ve been for protection. Against the rock slide, against the fireworks. Against who knew what else?

  So Norbert is to blame. And none of us saw his true face behind the jovial mask.

  “Now, now, ducky, don’t go hating yourself for getting hoodwinked,” said Reg. “Some buggers are very, very good at being bad.”

  Yes, they were, weren’t they? Buggers like Lional, and Permelia Wycliffe and her ghastly brother. Quite a list of villains she was accumulating.

  Remembering Permelia and her use of illegal thaumaturgics, she looked at Reg. “The wizard who sold Norbert all those hexes … is there any chance that—”

  “That he’s the same blackmarket wizard what’s put the cat among the pigeons at home?” said Reg. “The thought did cross your young man’s busy mind. I expect he’s telling that manky Sir Alec about it right now. Always assuming said government stooge hasn’t bitten his head off for sending me here without mentioning it beforehand.”

  “What?” said Bibbie, giving up on the crystal ball. “Monk’s gone and thumbed his nose at the Department again? Oh, honestly!”

  Reg shrugged. “First rule of dealing with Departments: forgiveness after the fact is come by faster than permission before. Especially if you make the Department look good.”

  “Maybe,” said Bibbie, scowling. “But if I end up back on a stationary pushbike in the bloody attic because of Monk, I’ll be buying hexes from that damned blackmarket wizard!” With an exasperated sigh, she returned the useless crystal ball to her reticule then crouched beside Gerald and took hold of his hand. Her Gladys Slack face was suddenly tender. Pressing her other hand to his cheek, she bent down. “Gerald. It’s Bibbie. Can you hear me?”

  Gerald’s closed eyelids fluttered. His breathing hitched. His eyebrows pinched in a frown.

  Bibbie bent lower and brushed her lips against his. “Please, Gerald? I need you.”

  Gerald moaned, the faintest breath of sound.

  “Gerald, you have to help me get past Abel Bestwick’s front door. I need the key to that hex. Please, Gerald. Don’t give up. You beat the fireworks. You can beat this too.”

  He moaned again, as a shudder ran through him. Seized with painful hope, Melissande squeezed his knee. “Listen to Bibbie, Gerald. Come on. What’s the point of being a rogue wizard if you’re just going to lie there taking a nap?”

  A muscle leapt along his jaw.

  “Keeping trying,” Reg urged. “I don’t know how, but you’re getting through.”

  Now Bibbie framed Gerald’s face between her hands. “I can’t break your hexes, Gerald,” she whispered. “Not any more. And I can’t reach Monk. Please. You have to fight, you have to help me, because if you don’t—”

  They all heard it. The clatter, bang and scrape as a piece of discarded tin was kicked across the cracked and broken cobbles of dirty Voblinz Lane. And then they saw, shadow-like and back-lit, the indistinct figures of two men standing motionless at the lane’s southern end.

  Fear, cold and curdling. Dermit and Volker. It was to be. Melissande lifted her chin. “Well, they’ve certainly taken their time. They must have strolled here. I’ll bet they’ve not even broken a sweat. If I were Norbert, I’d be docking their pay.”

  “Right,” said Reg, and fluffed up her feathers. “You two hoydens sit tight with Gerald, while I go and—”

  “No, Reg,” said Bibbie. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Reg chattered her beak. “I beg your pardon, ducky? I don’t recall making you the captain of me!”

  Bibbie leapt to her feet and looked down at the bird. “If that is Dermit and Volker, Reg, then they strolled here because they didn’t need to run. They knew where to find us. Last time they brought a blood magic hex. There’s no saying what they’ve got in their pockets this time.”

  “All the more reason for me to flap on down there and take a look!” said Reg. “Because you can’t go and wag your finger at them for being naughty!”

  Bibbie smiled. “Actually, I think I can.”

  “No, you bloody well can’t! Those buggers are dangerous!”

  “True,” she admitted. “But as you pointed out, Reg? I’m Emmerabiblia Markham. In fact …” She snapped her fingers. The illusion of Gladys Slack wavered, then vanished. In the gloomy light, her hair gleamed a bright gold. “There. That’s better.”

  Melissande bit her lip. “I don’t know, Bibbie. Is that a good idea? Sir Alec did stress how important it is for you to—”

  Bibbie’s glance was scornful. “D’you really think that matters now? Anyway …” Another smile, this time with edges. “I want those bastards to see the real me. I want them to know exactly who they crossed tonight.”

  It was no good. She couldn’t argue on her knees. Standing, she reached out an imploring hand. “Please don’t, Bibbie. If anything happens to you, what do I tell Gerald? What do I tell Monk?”

  Bibbie pointed to the end of the alley, and the shadow figures standing there who still hadn’t moved. “What d’you want to do, Mel? Wait for them to make the first move? Or would you rather cross your fingers that Splotze’s ridiculous etheretics will miraculously clear in the next three minutes, and a team of Sir Alec’s janitors will come galloping to our rescue?”

  Dammit. The girl was impossible. Melissande turned to Reg. “Well? Are you just going to sit there?”

  “No,” said Reg. “I’m going to give Gerald my moral support.”

  “Oh!” She could slap the damn bird. “Bibbie—”

  “Don’t bother, Melissande. I’ve made up my mind.” Looking like an ice maiden, Bibbie stared down at Gerald. “If this goes pear-shaped for me, and he pulls through, tell him … tell him …” Eyes glittering, her chin tilted defiantly. “Tell him to tell Monk that if he doesn’t put an end to this bloody blackmarket wizard, once and for all, then I shall come back and haunt him for the rest of his life!”

  “Well, well,” said Reg, as Bibbie walked away. “And here’s me thinking your Miss Markham and the other one have bugger all in common.” A snort. “She set the palace on fire, I s’pose?”

  Melissande clutched her hands together, so they couldn’t tremble. “I don’t think she meant to.”

  “No,” said Reg, very pensive. “Her sort never do.”

  There was just enough light at the southern end of Voblinz Lane for her to see Dermit and Volker’s arrogant assurance fade to confusion as she approached.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Are you lost?”

  Norbert’s henchmen exchanged unsettled glances, then Dermit folded his arms. Such a manly man. Urrggh. To think that she’d simpered at him. And as for Volker, he was looking at her in the way some men did. Here’s a pretty piece of crumpet. His gaze kept dragging chest-wards as though she had a magnet in her dress.

  “Who are you?” Dermit demanded, so arrogant.

  Bibbie smiled. “A friend of Gladys Slack’s. You might as well know, she’s told me everything. Well … almost everything. I am rather curious about Leopold Gertz. How much did you have to pay him, to poison the wizard?”

  He blinked. “What do you know of Gertz? And poisoning?”

  “I told you.” Bibbie held up crossed fingers. “Gladys and me? We’re like that.”

  “We paid him nothing,” said Volker. Now he was undressing her with his eyes. “Gertz is a crackpot Splotze patriot. He did it for Crown Prince and Country.”

  Ah, Bibbie thought. So they have come to kill. Nobody answers awkward questions unless they think what they say will never be repeated.

  Funnily enough, it felt rather liberating, staring into the faces of the two men she and Gerald had managed to thwart at every turn. Who mistakenly thought they were going to kill her. And Gerald. And Melissande. Yes. Definitely liberating … and exhilarating.

  But then Mother does say I have no proper sense of dec
orum.

  “The wizard,” said Dermit. “Is he dead yet?”

  “Not even a little bit,” she said cheerfully. “But you did give it your best try and, after all, that’s what matters, isn’t it? Anyway, gentlemen, here’s what I really can’t fathom. Were you or were you not working fist-in-glove with the Lanruvians? Because everyone I know says they’re right proper villains, but then they tried to stop the landslide at the bridge. So which is it, Dermit? Are they friend or foe?”

  Volker’s scarred face tightened. “I do not like this, Dermit. The girl knows too much.”

  “She does.” Expression menacing, right hand hovering near his pocket, Dermit took a step forward. “ Who are you?”

  Bibbie sighed. “Oh, all right then, if you must know.”

  Snap, snap, went her fingers. Gladys Slack appeared, then vanished.

  As the men gaped at her, momentarily stunned to frozen silence, she tried to read what was in Dermit’s pocket. But she wasn’t Gerald. Their hexes could hide from her. Damn. Still, it was safe to say their commissioned thaumaturgics would be hazardous to her health.

  And Gerald’s, and Melissande’s, and Reg’s too. Probably. I can’t let this drag on much longer.

  Dermit recovered first. “You are a foreign agent? But you cannot be. Women are not agents!”

  “That’s true,” she said, shrugging. “At the moment. But times change. Ah—Lanruvia?”

  “Who do you work for?” said Volker, his eyes narrowed.

  “Myself, actually.”

  Dermit sneered. “A lie.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said, feigning indignation, keeping an eye on his hand, so close to his pocket. Of the two men, he was by far the more dangerous. “Lanruvia.”

  “Enough of this,” said Dermit. “It does not matter who you are, girl, or who has sent you.” He jerked his chin towards the other end of the lane. “We are here for the wizard.”