Wizard Undercover

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The house on Chatterly Crescent felt horribly empty without Bibbie, Melissande and Gerald for company. To Monk, it didn’t matter that Melissande didn’t actually live there. The point was, she’d long since fallen into the pleasant habit of dropping by three or four times a week, so it felt like she lived there, and now there was a great big Melissande-shaped hole beneath the old mansion’s roof.

“Blimey,” said Reg, perched on the back of a kitchen chair. “It’s a bit bloody quiet around here, isn’t it?”

Half-heartedly smiling, he looked up from the range, where he was trying not to fry eggs and bacon into lumps of greasy charcoal.

“You’re reading my mind, Reg.”

The bird rattled her tail feathers, then balanced on one foot so she could scratch the side of her head. “And there was me thinking I could do without all the domestic drama.” She sniffed. “Fancy being wrong at my time of life. It’s enough to bring on a case of the dropsicals.”

“I didn’t think birds could contract the dropsicals.”

“Ha! Rumours of my aviosity have been greatly exaggerated.” A moment’s brooding silence, then Reg shuffled a bit. “That manky Sir Alec of yours. He’ll tell us if Splotze goes pear-shaped, will he?”

Wonderful. Trust Reg to stick her beak right into his imagination’s sore spot. Moodily, Monk poked at his crisping bacon. “Of course.”

“Because I wouldn’t put it past that bugger to keep his trap shut. His kind swallow secrets the way toddlers guzzle gumdrops.”

“You’re wrong, Reg,” he insisted, then prodded his frying eggs so hard he breached their wobbling yellow yolks. Damn. “But he won’t have to. Splotze won’t go pear-shaped. Not with Gerald on the job. And the girls.”

“’Course not,” said Reg, being valiant. “I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

Except she did, and so did he. Feeling cross and put upon, he fetched a plate and tipped his messy bacon and eggs onto it. Then he fetched Reg’s minced beef from the larder ice box and placed both suppers on the comfortably scarred kitchen table, which was supposed to have three more places set at it-and didn’t.

“Brandy?” said Reg hopefully, hopping down from the chair.

Monk thought about it, tempted, then shook his head. “Not with bacon and eggs. Or raw mince, for that matter. Besides…” He slid into his own chair and picked up his knife and fork. “Between you and me and the wine cellar, I think we’ve all of us been imbibing a bit too freely of late.”

“Ha!” said Reg, with an indignant ruffling of feathers. “Speak for yourself!”

“Look, Reg,” he said, sighing. “I know you’re feeling frazzled. I am, too. But brandy won’t help. We just need to be patient.”

“If I’m frazzled,” Reg said, glaring at her minced beef, “you can blame that manky Sir Alec. He should’ve let me go with them.”

With an effort Melissande would’ve admired, Monk restrained himself from throwing the salt cellar at the damned bird.

“As I’ve already agreed, more than once, probably he should’ve, yes. But he didn’t, Reg, which is typical and let’s face it, not surprising. So let’s leave the poor dead horse alone, shall we?”

Reg’s feathers fluffed again “I bet he’d have let the other Reg go with them.”

Oh. Well. Really damn. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t reach that conclusion. Because while he couldn’t say for certain, what with Sir Alec being a right unchancy bastard and not inclined to share his inner thoughts, he also knew first-hand that the man was unpredictable. Sending Bibbie to Splotze? He hadn’t seen that one coming. So yes… it was entirely possible he’d have sent the other Reg along as part of Gerald’s unlikely team. But it wouldn’t help to tell this Reg as much.

All of a sudden it was very important that he concentrate on cutting his bacon strips into handy bite-sized pieces.

“Well?” Reg said, belligerent. “Don’t just sit there massacring those charred bits of dead pig. Answer me! He would’ve, wouldn’t he?”

Lord, if only Melissande was here. She knew exactly what to say when the bird started one of her rants.

And to think I was going to work late and changed my mind. Why didn’t I work late? I’d rather face Dalrymple than the bird’s inquisition, any day.

He sighed. “Reg…”

“Yes, he bloody well would’ve,” said Reg, determined not only to beat the dead horse but to bounce up and down on its corpse for good measure. “And what’s more, even if he’d tried to keep her out of it, I’ll bet that other Reg wouldn’t have let him, would she? She’d never have taken no for an answer. Come on, Mister Markham. It’s an easy question. In fact, I’ve already answered it. Doing all the work here, I am. That other Reg-”

“Is dead,” he said quietly, and tried to ignore the ache in his throat. “So it doesn’t matter what she would or wouldn’t have done, or what Sir Alec might or might not have allowed, does it? She’s dead and you’re not. Now if you don’t mind, Reg, I’d like to finish my supper. Cold fried egg gives me wind.”

“Sorry,” said Reg, after a short, subdued silence. “I don’t mean to upset you. I know I’m not-I know I can’t-well. Sorry.”

And that was the most alarming thing of all, hearing her small and pained and uncertain. Saying sorry in that tiny voice, and meaning it. Reg. It brought back the dreadful memory of her dead twin, stuffed in that horrible cage, the other Gerald’s helpless prisoner.

“No, Reg, I’m sorry,” he said, letting his knife and fork drop. “There’s no point pretending this situation isn’t bloody awkward, because it is, but I don’t want you feeling like you have to apologise because you’re alive. I never want to hear you apologise for that.” He let out a sharp breath, feeling a tremble in his gut. “It’s not your fault she’s dead.”

Head tipped to one side, Reg regarded him with a disconcertingly knowing gaze. “No. And it’s not yours that he’s dead. That other Monk.”

The tremble in his gut tightened into a pain. “Yeah, okay, look-”

“No, Mister Markham, you look,” said Reg, with a sharp rattle of her tail. “I might not be her, but that doesn’t make me blind or stupid. You need to stop breaking your heart over what happened, sunshine, because there was no saving him. That other Monk. Believe you me, his Gerald was always going to kill him sooner or later. It’s just your bad luck he ended up dying here.”

The memory of the other Monk’s cruel death, still raw, still too near, closed his aching throat.

“So what say we start over,” said Reg, her careful gaze not shifting from his face. “No more wallowing in yesterday. No more flogging corpsed horses. They’re dead, we’re not, and life carries on.”

It sounded horribly heartless, put baldly like that. But she was right. Short of creating a thaumaturgically transduced temporal slipshift, recent events could not be undone.

And while that might be doable, maybe, not even I’m mad enough to give it a go.

“Agreed,” he sighed. “We’ll start over, starting now. Only…” He impaled a piece of crispy bacon on the end of his fork. “I’m not so sure about Gerald. If he can put it all behind him, I mean. That leftover grimoire magic? I’m telling you, Reg, he’s so scared of the filthy stuff he can hardly see straight. He’s scared of himself. And I’m worried he’ll-”

She chattered her beak. “Just you leave that boy to me. Because here’s what I know, if I don’t know anything else: whichever Reg I am, sunshine, first and foremost he’s my Gerald. And I’ll bloody well set myself on fire before I let him go the way of that other one.”

Whatever she’d been once, human, a witch queen, with possibly dubious powers, she was a frail, vulnerable bird now. More vulnerable than ever, given her ordeals in that other world. Even so, Monk felt bolstered by her stark declaration. More and more he was coming to believe that in her heart, where it counted, despite all the differences, she was still Reg.

He nodded. “Good. But when he gets back from Splotze, I think you and I need to-”

They both turned their heads at the sound of the front door bell, deeply chiming.

“Bugger,” said Reg. “Expecting visitors, are you?”

As he pushed back his chair, the door bell chimed again. “No. You?”

“Ha,” she snorted. “Very funny. Now go see who that is before they break the bloody bell.”

He opened the front door to find his brother scowling on the welcome mat. “It’s about time. What are you, Monk? Deaf?”

“Aylesbury,” he said stupidly. “Was I expecting you?”

With a roll of his eyes, Aylesbury shoved past him into the shabby foyer. “How should I know what you’re expecting? You can’t even answer your own front door in a timely manner.”

Bugger. It was turning into one of those kind of nights. Resigned to aggravation, Monk closed the door and trailed after his brother, who was acquainted enough with Great-uncle Throgmorton’s old house that he didn’t need to ask directions to the parlour.

“Do help yourself to a drink, Aylesbury,” he said, entering the large, comfortably untidy room.

His brother was already pouring a generous measure of brandy into a glass. A swift quirk of one eyebrow was his only response to the sarcasm. Without asking if he could pour his host a drink, too, he downed the brandy, sploshed another generous measure into the glass, then turned.

“So. Lanruvia. Seems I was a trifle… behind the times. Apparently they’re dipping their toes into murky waters again.”

Oh, lord. Monk crossed to the drinks trolley, poured himself three fat fingers of fermented peach and swallowed all of them in one go.

“What kind of murky waters?” he said hoarsely, as the brandy ignited a trail of fire down his throat and into his almost empty belly.

Aylesbury began an aimless wandering of the parlour. “I was pretty bloody peeved, you know, when Throgmorton handed you this place,” he said, his gaze roaming the faded wallpaper and the tatty carpet and the wide, curtain-covered windows. “He knew I wanted it. That’s why you got it, of course.”

Monk said the only thing he could think of. “Sorry.”

“Of course you are.” Aylesbury sipped more brandy, then smiled one of his small, sardonic smiles. “Bet the old codger’s spinning in the family sepulchre as we speak, knowing our dear little sister’s taken up residence. Assuming he does know.” Another smile. “We can but hope.”

Monk considered his brother. Aylesbury in his day-to-day work clothes was always more approachable than the brother who aped a lost age in velvets and neck ruff. And he had driven all the way out here with news of Lanruvia. That counted for something, surely. Meant there was maybe some hope for them to be more than impolite strangers. So perhaps, just this once, they might find common ground.

“Aylesbury… why aren’t we friends?”

Aylesbury choked on his brandy, then laughed. “Because you’re a pillock.”

Or possibly not. “I don’t mean to be.”

“And snakes don’t mean to be poisonous, but they’ll still kill you.”

“You think I’m a snake?”

“I think you’re a spoiled brat, Monk,” Aylesbury said, shrugging. “I think you’re so used to being fawned over as a genius you can’t imagine being wrong or not entitled to adoration. Everything you want, you get. You always have. You always will. You break the rules, you’re winked at. You ignore the rules, you’re winked at. You make up your own rules, you’re winked at. Your path’s strewn with roses and the rest of us walk in shit.” Another shrug. “That’s what I think.”

Monk blinked. His brother’s indifferent dislike hurt, far more than he expected. Or wanted. “And yet you came to tell me about Lanruvia.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

Hitching his hip against the back of the old sofa, Aylesbury gestured vaguely. “You asked. Besides, I like those Lanruvian bastards even less than I like you.”

He put down his empty brandy glass. “You still haven’t told me what kind of murky waters they’re splashing about in.”

“That’s because I don’t know,” said Aylesbury. “Not exactly. Nobody likes to talk about Lanruvia, Monk. The folk who have regular dealings with them know what happens to gossips.”

“But you’ve heard something, you must have,” he insisted. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve heard two things,” Aylesbury admitted, after a teasing pause. “The first is that we had an enquiry about locating and shipping a thaumicle extractor to Maneez.”

“Well…” Monk frowned. “Extractors are restricted, sure, but Maneez is on the approved list of purchasers.”

“Maneez is, but Lanruvia isn’t. And at the Trade Fair in Budolph week before last, I saw with my own eyes the Maneezi and Lanruvian delegates being very friendly.”

“And that’s unusual, is it?”

Aylesbury snorted. “No, Monk, I’m mentioning it because them hobnobbing in corners happens every bloody day of the week.”

“Right. Sorry.” He chewed at his lip. “And what was the other thing?”

“They got an invite to the Splotze-Borovnik wedding.”

Distracted by the unsettling notion of the Lanruvians mucking about with thaumicle extractions, he nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“You know?” Lips tightening, Aylesbury stared into his unfinished brandy. Then he finished it and slapped the emptied glass onto the nearest table. “I see. Doubtless Uncle Ralph, or one of his government cronies, mentioned it to you in passing. As they do. All the time. Must be nice, not to mention warm, hugging all those terribly important secrets to your skinny chest.”

Damn. Monk took a step towards him. “Aylesbury, I’m sorry. I’d tell you what’s going on if I could, but-”

Up came his brother’s hands, in mock-entreaty. “No, no, that’s quite all right. Wouldn’t want Ottosland compromised, would we? Wouldn’t want you compromised. Not you, the great and mysterious Monk Markham. No-don’t bother. I can see myself out.”

Stranded in the parlour, Monk flinched as the front door slammed shut. Then a flapping of wings, and Reg was gliding into the room. She landed on the back of the sofa and looked pointedly at the two empty brandy glasses.

“He’s a bit of a plonker, your brother, isn’t he?”

“You were eavesdropping?”

Reg’s dark eyes gleamed. “I was holding myself in readiness in case fisticuffs broke out.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“You’re welcome. Well? Was him dropping by worth letting your dinner get cold?”

Groaning, Monk collapsed into the nearest armchair. “I’ve no idea. But I’ll pass on what he said. Perhaps Sir Alec can make sense of it.”

“And speaking of that Department stooge,” said Reg, her feathers fluffing with disdain, “he’s left a message for you in your crystal ball. The one in the kitchen. Didn’t sound particularly urgent but then you never can tell with that cagey bugger, can you?”

To hell with dignity. He ran out of the room, Reg flapping behind him.

The message was short and sweet. “Contact me via this vibration.” Because dealing with Sir Alec required razor sharp reflexes, and there was too much brandy sloshing about in his belly, he ate what remained of his cold bacon-it looked like Reg had helped herself while his back was turned, drat her-then activated his crystal ball.

“Ah. Mister Markham,” Sir Alec greeted him, looking washed out and weary but no more worried than usual, which was a relief. “Good. You’re free to talk?”

“Yes, sir. Sir, is everything all right?”

“Not really,” said Sir Alec, very dry. “Mister Dunwoody reports that Abel Bestwick appears to have met with some thaumaturgical foul play. Which means, Mister Markham, I need you to brush up on blood magic hexes. I should shortly have a sample for you to unravel.”

Blood magic? Monk swallowed bile. Hell, what was Gerald mixed up in this time? And Bibbie… and Melissande…

And if Sir Alec can give me a heads up about blood hexes and not be looking more worried than usual, what does that say about a typical day in his Department?

Nothing he wanted to think about too closely.

“Yes, sir. I can do that. Only-” Deep breath, take the plunge. “Sir, blood magic hexes are pretty dicey. I’m not sure I like the idea of my sister-”

“Your sister is in no danger, Mister Markham.”

“Not yet.”

“You have my word she’ll be extracted should circumstances merit.”

Which was nice of him, but no guarantee. “Sir Alec-”

Sir Alec’s etheretically transmitted face tightened with temper. “Mister Markham, I refuse to argue this with you every time we have occasion to speak. Miss Markham is a gifted thaumaturgist who accompanied Mister Dunwoody of her own free will. I strongly suggest you stop thinking of her as a helpless gel made victim of my nefarious machinations.”

Perched on the back of a handy chair, Reg rattled her tail feathers. “He might be a Department stooge, sunshine, but he’s right. That giddy sister of yours is no fainting Fanny. So get a bloody grip.”

Sir Alec’s lips twitched. “Indeed.”

Feeling unfairly ambushed, Monk threw Reg a hurt look. “Yeah, well, gifted or not, Bibbie’s safety is still my responsibility!”

“No, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, very quiet. “Until the Splotze mission is concluded, the responsibility is mine.”

Oh. Monk closed his mouth. Even through the etheretics of crystal ball communication, he could see something daunting in Sir Alec’s grey eyes… and was surprised to feel his fears for Bibbie easing.

He nodded. “Yes, sir. Sir, there’s something else. I have news about Lanruvia.”

Gerald’s unsettling superior listened without interruption, then frowned. “You consider your brother’s sources reliable?”

“I don’t know who his sources are, Sir Alec. But I do know Aylesbury. He wouldn’t have told me if he didn’t think the whisper was true.”

“Even if he is a plonker,” Reg added. “And he bloody well is.”

Again, Sir Alec’s lips twitched. “Mister Markham, what progress have you made with the wedding guest list?”

Should he mention Dodsworth, and the butler’s efforts on his behalf? Probably not. What Sir Alec didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Monk Markham.

“None yet, sir. Soon, I hope.”

“As do I, Mister Markham.”

“Sir Alec, what does it mean if the Lanruvians really are trying to get their hands on a thaumicle extractor?”

“It means, Mister Markham, that we will be obliged to thwart their efforts.”

Yeah. Right. Just like that. “I see.”

“Do you? How encouraging. Good night, Mister Markham. ”

Reg chattered her beak. “Blimey, but he’s a sarky bugger! No wonder my Gerald ended up-”

“Ended up what?” said Monk, eyeing the remains of his cold fried egg with distaste.

“Never mind,” said Reg, and fluffed all her feathers. “Now come along, sunshine. Either finish your dinner or bin it, because we’ve got work to do. I’ve forgotten more about blood magic than anyone else you know, so you can pin back your ears and get an education. All right?”

“All right,” he said slowly. “But I think I ought to ask how it is you-”

“No,” said Reg. “You really oughtn’t. Not if you want to sleep tonight.”

And on that trenchant note she flapped out of the kitchen. Monk binned his cold fried egg, and followed.

The Servants’ Hall in Grande Splotze’s palace was enormous. Buttoned into his precisely selected dinner suit-not too careworn, not too sleek, designed to reflect well upon his royal employer without hinting at undue largesse-Gerald waited in a slowly shuffling line with Bibbie to be formally admitted, and looked ahead into what he could see of the crowded room. How mad was it, anyway, such a sprawling space? So many servants? Splotze’s royal family was of middling size, as far as royal families went. Surely they couldn’t need so many people catering to their every whim? Two hundred and twelve, according to the briefing notes.

Two hundred and twelve people whose lives and livelihoods hang on Hartwig’s slightest whim. I don’t know how they bear it.

Standing beside him, masked by Gladys Slack, Bibbie remained her beautiful, brilliant self. He felt a cold chill run down his spine. If only there was a way to send her home. After Abel Bestwick’s lodgings

… the entrapment hex… the blood magic… this mission could spin out of control at any moment.

Leaning close, Bibbie brushed her cheek against his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

His heart thumped. “Nothing.”

“Really?” Bibbie murmured. “You’re going to keep on trying to fool me? That is a waste of time, Mister Rowbotham. You’re still upset. And you’re walking differently. Did something else happen while you were out? Are you hurt?”

Her soft questions set his pulse racing. “Hurt? No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The line shuffled forward, and they shuffled with it.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, even though it was a lie. His dragon magic slept lightly, a shallow breath beneath his skin. But she couldn’t be feeling its presence. His shield was up. He was hidden, even from her. “Miss Slack, this isn’t the time or place.”

“Then make the time and choose a place,” she said, her fingers tightening on his arm. “Because I am not-the princess. You can’t fob me off with vague assurances and half-truths.”

So many fellow-guests, crowded in front of them and behind. He couldn’t shout at her, couldn’t wave his arms and splutter. The most he could do was snap, “Miss Slack.”

Bibbie dropped her hand and eased herself away from him. “I’m just saying.”

Yes, she was… in her inimitable Bibbie style. Damn, how did she know always what he was thinking and feeling? And how was it she could make his heart leap even when she didn’t look like Emmerabiblia Markham? But she could. She did. She was doing it now. It wasn’t her face, it was her. The sheer Bibbieness of her, that shone through no matter what face she was wearing.

I saw what she could be, in that other Ottosland. What she might become, the worst flaws in her magnified… just as I saw all the worst parts of me. So how is it I’m not afraid of her the way I’m afraid of myself?

And he was afraid, now more than ever. After today, there was no going back. Not even Monk would be able to suck the grimoire magic out of him after what he’d done. It was his blood, his bones, the air he breathed. His life.

Bugger. Monk’s going to go spare.

The line shuffled forward a few more paces. And yes, he was walking differently. He could feel it. With two good eyes again, his depth perception had returned to normal. Perhaps that explained the nagging ache in his head.

Or perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps I’m on the brink of thaumaturgical chaos…

No. No. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He had a job to do. A wedding to save. A few more minutes and he’d be up to his armpits in suspects. Well, possible suspects. Or possible sources of information that would lead to the thwarting of the plot against Splotze and Borovnik.

His heart thudded again, but not because of Bibbie. Lord, could he do this? Could he prevent yet another international disaster? He’d averted calamity three times already, that was true, but only by accident. He’d stumbled into those other crises unwittingly. What if he wasn’t up to this task? Had Sir Alec lost his marbles, sending grimoire-tainted Gerald Dunwoody to Splotze? The whole bloody set up was so nebulous. And now with the discovery of that filthy blood magic, far more lethal than surely even Sir Alec had guessed, so much hung in the balance. There were so many dangerous knives to juggle, and he had the girls to worry about…

Hell’s bells, I wish Reg was here.

Probably he should be flattered that Sir Alec had such trust in him. He should take it as a compliment and use his superior’s confidence as a shield. Instead he felt crushed by the responsibility. The possibility of failure.

Besides, will he still trust me when he finds out what I’ve done? When he learns I’m no longer a simple rogue wizard?

A hand on his arm. He looked down, seeing not Gladys Slack but Bibbie Markham. His Bibbie. The girl he loved, and could never fear. She was staring at him with such an intent look in her changed eyes.

“Wherever you are, Algernon, it’s time to come back,” she whispered fiercely. “Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it. But we’ll have to fix it later.”

She was right, Saint Snodgrass bless her. So he found a small, proper smile for her, royal secretary to lady’s maid, then stepped up to the very stiff, very formal Splotze official barring their way into the Servants’ Hall.

“Names?” the official said, looking down his large, Splotzeish nose.

Gerald cleared his throat. “Mister Algernon Rowbotham and Miss Gladys Slack, attached to Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland.”

The Splotze official looked for their names on his clipboard. “Ah. Yes.” A reserved, thin-lipped smile. “Of course. On behalf of the Crown Prince and Princess, welcome to Splotze. Enjoy your evening.”

Shrinking into herself, Bibbie bobbed the official a shy curtsey. “Oh, that’s ever so kind of you, sir. Thank you. I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time.”

“Yes,” Gerald added, wishing he could kick Bibbie’s ankle. “It was good of you to ask us. Come along, Miss Slack. Let’s not hold up the line.”

As soon as they’d entered the crowded Servants’ Hall, Bibbie tugged at his sleeve.

“Right,” she said, abandoning demure Gladys Slack. “So you take this side of the room, I’ll take that side, and between us we should be able to talk to everyone here before the end of the night. And don’t forget to keep an eye on me, because if I find someone you need to talk to, I’ll give you a sign. All clear? Good. Then off we go!”

And before he could stop her, or sharply remind her that hello, he was the only janitor here, and she wasn’t meant to be drawing attention to herself, or him, she’d plunged into the jostling crowd of staff and servants, leaving him with no choice but to do as he was told.

Wonderful. Thanks ever so, Sir Alec.

He took a moment to make sure of his etheretic shield, rearranged his altered features into an expression of non-threatening, slightly bucolic pleasantness, turned to the nearest Splotze-liveried minion and beamed.

“I say there. Good evening. I’m Algernon Rowbotham, from New Ottosland. What a perfectly splendid shindig. And if might I ask, sir, who are you?”