Wizard Undercover ra-4, page 12
part #4 of Rogue agent Series
Bloody hell. This mission better not turn out to be New Ottosland all over again.
If for no other reason than this time he didn’t have Reg around to save his hide.
Wheezing as they tackled the next flight of stairs, Splotze’s Crown Prince spared Melissande a curious look. “So you’re swanning about Ott at old Rupert’s behest, eh? Funny. I could’ve sworn Brunelda showed me a newspaper photo a while ago, of you with some young jackanapes, talking about you starting up a witching agency or something. Not even calling yourself by your proper title. Extraordinary. Brunelda read that and needed her smelling salts brought.”
“Oh,” said Melissande, after the merest hesitation. “Really? Well, can you ever believe what you read in the newspaper? I mean, really?”
“So it’s poppycock? Oh, good. Brunelda will be pleased.”
“Not exactly poppycock,” Melissande said, cautious. “It is true I’m dabbling in a little thaumaturgic venture, but that’s for Rupert too. He has plans for New Ottosland, you see, and it’s easier for me to look into certain opportunities than it is for him, being the king. You know what that’s like.”
The Crown Prince laughed, wheezily, then guided them off the staircase and onto a landing which led to a long narrow corridor. “I certainly do. If only the common man knew what we suffered, bearing the burden of a crown.”
As Bibbie gurgled a little in her throat, Gerald managed, but only just, not to swallow his tongue.
“So, Twiggy,” said Melissande, apparently unmoved by the Crown Prince’s ludicrous lament. “Is anyone else joining us on the wedding tour?”
“Oh, did I forget to mention them?” said the Crown Prince, sounding gloomy. “There is one more guest, yes. Lanruvia.”
“Really?” said Melissande, surprised. “Lanruvia?”
She wasn’t the only one who’d not expected that. Gerald felt his pulse race. Lanruvia? Sir Alec was going to go spare.
“But why Lanruvia?” Melissande persisted. “Splotze doesn’t have much to do with them, does it?”
The Crown Prince shuddered. “No. Of course not. But someone-don’t recall who-insisted on an invitation for them. A last minute thing. Can’t say I’m thrilled about it, but no one’s interested in my opinion. I’m here to foot the bill and keep out of the way.”
“Oh, Twiggy,” said Melissande, and sounded genuinely sorry. “It can’t be that bad.”
Crown Prince Hartwig halted in front of a wide set of double doors. “You wait. You’ll see. Now, here we are, my dear. Your secretary’s at the end of the corridor, the green door, and you’re in here. Don’t fret about your things, they’ll be brought up in a trice.” He cleared his throat. “These were my mother’s rooms, y’know. Wouldn’t give them to anyone else.”
“Oh, Twiggy,” said Melissande. “Don’t you dare make me cry. Just be about your important business and leave me to settle in.”
“Well!” said Bibbie, as soon as the Crown Prince was safely on his way back down the staircase. “What a ghastly old man. I hate to admit it, but Mother’s right. Aside from your brother, Melissande, I can’t think what the rest of the world sees in royalty!”
Melissande sighed. “No, well, I expect you need to have been brought up with it. Now d’you mind if we don’t stand in the corridor gossiping? There’ll be a maid along any moment and it’s bound to look odd.”
Gerald cleared his throat. “Actually, you two can settle in without me. I need to get cracking. Sir Alec’s anxious that I nose about Bestwick’s lodgings, just in case he’s still there, or left something behind if he’s not.”
“Still there?” said Bibbie. “But if he’s still there after all this time, won’t that mean-” She wrinkled her nose. “Oh. That’s disgusting.”
“No, Miss Slack, it’s my job,” he said, repressive. “So if you’ll excuse me? And don’t worry if I’m gone a while. These things tend to take time.”
“Wait,” said Melissande, as he turned away. “You can’t go alone. If there is a plot afoot, you could be in danger. Bibbie and I should-”
“No, you shouldn’t!” he snapped. “Are you mad? There might well be all kinds of classified material where I’m going and if there is and I let you see it, Sir Alec will pillage me. You two are here as Rupert’s royal sister and a meek little lady’s maid. You’re going to stay here and be them. Understood?”
Not waiting for an answer, he left the girls standing in the corridor and headed down the stairs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the Gerald Dunwoody list of Things To Do, visit Splotze had always ranked high. It was a country of great natural beauty, with deep lakes and richly forested mountains, rippling green meadows and picture-perfect milch cows and goats. The headily potent cherry liqueur his parents had brought back from their trip-of-a-lifetime, Splotze’s most famous and lucrative export, was a pretty decent incentive too. If he had time, he’d have to buy himself a bottle or several while he was here.
And who knows? he considered, tromping down yet another flight of opulent stairs. It could be that with this marriage between Splotze and Borovnik, always assuming I can prevent it falling apart at the last minute, there’ll be lots of trade benefits and liqueur prices might actually come down.
In which case somebody, somewhere, would surely owe him a medal. Or possibly a lifetime’s supply of Splotze cherry liqueur. After all, a man could dream…
Nobody in Crown Prince Hartwig’s anthill-busy palace paid attention to him as he descended to its imposing ground floor Grand Entrance hall. In keeping with the country’s martial past-indeed, its martial present, thanks to all those tedious bloody Canal skirmishes-the hall was crowded with an amazing array of armour for man, horse and dog. Though fashioned for violence, the pieces were also works of art. Chased with intricate etching, loops and whirls and filigrees of infinite variety, inlaid with gold and copper and semi-precious stones, they stood testament to the irrepressible human urge to create beauty even out of barbarity.
Carefully, Gerald lowered his etheretic shield a little and examined the impressive collection through the lens of his potentia. To his surprise, he felt nothing. Not so much as one visor, greave, gauntlet or spiked dog collar had been fashioned with the use of thaumaturgics. Only good old fashioned love, blood and sweat had gone into their creation. That the pieces had been crafted long before ratification of the United Magical Nations’ accords prohibiting the manufacture of thaumaturgical weapons made it even more astonishing.
Just as impressive was the fact that he couldn’t detect any trace of thaumaturgical residue on the exterior of the armour, either. Which meant that the battles fought by the armour’s inhabitants had also been fought the old-fashioned way.
He wasn’t sure whether he should feel admiring, or appalled.
Sliding his shield back into place, he headed for the palace’s grand and guarded entrance. Still no-one challenged him. Interesting. Once someone was inside the palace it seemed nobody cared who they were or what they were doing. The assumption was, apparently, that anyone who was inside the palace belonged because they were inside. A definite lapse in security, there.
On the other hand, unless visitors were portalling directly to Hartwig’s little personal indulgence, the only public way into the palace was through its grand front doors. And that meant enduring the stern scrutiny of six tall guardsmen ranged across the foyer, a few paces from the doors. They wore suggestively militant uniforms of dark blue and gold, unsheathed daggers belted at their trim, muscular waists, and carried very tall, very sharp double-pronged pikes. It was a safe bet neither weapon was for decoration.
So that’s something done right, at least, Gerald thought, relieved. Because being a rogue wizard doesn’t make me a one-man army.
For a moment he was tempted to hex the guards with a no-see-’em, to make sure that Algernon Rowbotham was able to move about the place freely. But would that be wise? What if there was a changing of the guard while he was out breaking into Abel Bestwick’s lodgings? Well, yes, he could simply hex the new guards too, on his return, but either way he’d be bumping into the same problem. The no-see-’em incant was slippery and powerful. He’d have to switch off his etheretic shield entirely to use it, which would leave him vulnerable to detection by the thaumic gauges and monitors and tripwires and so forth riddling the place. And since most of them had been developed by Monk and his friends in Research and Development, he’d be detected.
Or would he?
Heart sinking, he looked the answer to that square in its face. No. He’d not be detected. Not if he took advantage of his unique personal thaumaturgics. With a nip here and a tuck there and a bit of squirrelling with the various devices’ matrixes, he’d be able to hex the palace guards without a soul-or one of Monk’s monitors-being any the wiser.
But if I flout the rules for no better reason than just because I can, well, it makes me someone who thinks the rules are for little people. Lesser wizards. It makes me that other Gerald Dunwoody.
The thought churned him sick.
Somebody brushed past him, needing to get outside. So much frantic activity. Surely palace security was on highest alert. And yes indeed, it was, because one of the eagle-eyed, tautly attentive guards was watching him without appearing to be watching him. Not a good sign. The last thing he needed to do was raise official suspicions.
Recalling Rupert’s remarkably effective gormless butterfly prince routine, Gerald offered the interested guard a foolish, slack-lipped smile and crabbed his way close enough for conversation.
“Ah… excuse me? I say there, so sorry to bother you when you’re busy, only there’s something I feel you ought to know. Oh dear.” He rubbed at his nose, feeling its real shape beneath the obfuscation hex’s snubby illusion. “I say, d’you speak Ottish?”
The guard, a tall, bronze-skinned young fellow with typically Splotzeish ginger-red hair and a truly amazing breadth of muscled shoulders, looked down his long, narrow nose.
“Yes,” he said, his voice heavily accented. The merest hint of a sneer curling his lip suggested the question was an insult. Or perhaps being forced to sully his tongue with Ottish was the insult. According to the Department’s briefing notes, Splotze was at once dazzlingly cosmopolitan and fiercely nationalistic. It was an interesting, and sometimes combustible, combination.
Gerald risked another foolish smile. “Wonderful! Well, the thing is, y’see, I’m on Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland’s staff. We’ve just arrived, through the Crown Prince’s private portal. Princess Melissande is invited to the wedding, y’know.”
The guard didn’t quite manage to swallow his sigh. Tourists. “We know the approved guests for Prince Ludwig’s wedding. Her Royal Highness is welcome to Splotze.”
“Excellent!” Gerald said, beaming. “Well, it happens I need to toddle off for a bit. And I just wanted to make sure you know who I am, so you’ll let me back into the palace when I return.”
The guard thought for a moment. “Name?”
“Rowbotham. Algernon Rowbotham.”
More thought on the part of the guard. Risking a glance at the young man’s five brothers-in-arms, Gerald saw that although their gazes remained strictly front-and-center they were closely listening, ready to take action should they perceive any threat.
Thinking concluded, the guard held out his hand. It was heavily callused, as though he spent many hours training with his dagger and his sharp, double-pronged pike.
“Papers.”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” said Gerald, and slid his own uncalloused, yet still lethal, hand inside his boring tweed coat and extracted from its concealed pocket the identity paperwork so meticulously prepared for him by Beevish Trotter, the Department’s document specialist. “Here you are. All in order, I hope!”
The guard scanned Algernon Rowbotham’s particulars then scanned them again, for good measure. Waiting for his false identification to be approved, Gerald noted from the corner of his eye three remarkably vivid individuals mounting the marble steps leading up from the palace forecourt and into the Entrance hall.
Well, well. So the Lanruvians really are here. I wonder what for? And why Sir Alec didn’t know they’d been invited…
The Lanruvians were impossible to miss or ignore, with their scalp-locks dyed bright emerald and lips tattooed cobalt blue. Tall and disturbingly thin, the three men were swathed head to toe in sand-white woollen robes. Their shimmering skin was very nearly the same shade. One of them had beads of jet and ivory dangling from his pierced nose, marking him as his wedding party’s Spirit Speaker. The Lanruvians were thaumaturgists, after a fashion, but their etheretics were wrapped so tightly in the chains of religious mysticism that as far as the Lanruvian people were concerned they might as well not exist. On that score Lanruvians weren’t terribly unlike the Kallarapi. Only compared to them, the Kallarapi were the life of any party.
Watching the guards draw themselves that little bit taller as the Lanruvians approached, Gerald hid his consternation. With his etheretic shield engaged it was much harder to feel their inner power, but it was there, elusive as a name on the tip of his tongue. Smarmy, Crown Prince Hartwig had called them, and he wasn’t entirely wrong. There was a slickness to the Lanruvians that couldn’t sit easily with anyone who possessed an aptitude for thaumaturgics.
Blimey. I hope they’re not the ones causing trouble. Because if they were, his job was going to be nigh impossible. And then Sir Alec really will go spare.
As the Lanruvians passed unchallenged into the palace, just a rap of five pikes to the marble-covered floor in honour of the Crown Prince’s guests, the guard held out the false paperwork. “You are free to go, Mister Rowbotham, and free to return.” A sardonic smile. “Enjoy your little visit to Grande Splotze.”
Gerald shoved the papers back inside his tweed coat. “Thank you! D’you know, I think I will!”
He’d memorised a suitably havey-cavey route from the palace to Abel Bestwick’s lodgings, one that made sure he took in some of the more popular attractions a visitor might wish to see in Grande Splotze. As the crow flew it was no more than a brisk three-quarter hour’s walk to his destination, cutting through various side-streets and alleyways, but it was the kind of route that only someone familiar with Grand Splotze would use. If Algernon Rowbotham was seen nipping along it smartish, like a man who knew precisely where he was off to, eyebrows would rise. And if they weren’t friendly eyebrows, well, the next thing being lifted might well be a knife. Not that there was any reason to think that Algernon Rowbotham, secretary to Princess Melissande, would be the object of scrutiny.
But under the circumstances, he couldn’t afford to take the chance.
On a deep breath, Gerald marched off to give his best impression of a gormless tourist-about-town.
Splotze’s royal capital was abuzz with a feverish anticipation of the upcoming wedding. Being very late in autumn, with a definite nip in the air but no picture-postcard snow to delight visitors from warmer climes, this was the time of year that tended to fall between two seasonal sightseeing stools. At least, ordinarily. But the pending nuptials between Hartwig’s young brother, Prince Ludwig, and Borovnik’s only daughter, the Princess Ratafia, had turned ordinarily on its head.
The people of Splotze were easy to spot, with their abundant hair in varying shades of chestnut red and the men sporting moustaches most walruses would gladly claim. But for every proud local, Gerald saw a face that didn’t belong. His own folk from Ottosland, with their indefinable yet distinctive cast of features. A great many dark-haired, dark-eyed Borovniks, which was only to be expected. They were very well behaved, for once. In startling contrast to their trim swarthiness were the floridly well-fleshed visitors from Blonkken, with their blond hair thick as straw. They were almost as well-fleshed as the tourists from Graff, with whom they shared a common ancestry and a great many squabbles. And if that weren’t enough to turn Grande Splotze into a human zoo, there were also ebony-skinned Aframbigins, wiry-haired Steinish folk and even a few silk-wrapped Fandawandins shimmering in the cool sunshine like Rupert’s late, lamented butterflies.
Indeed, Grande Splotze was so crushed and crowded with visitors that Gerald was slowed to a maddening hop-step-and-shuffle as he made his way from the palace to the township’s heart. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, just in case someone was watching, instead of causing a fuss when confronted by yet another pedestrian of the voluminously-attired female persuasion, he simply stepped into the gutter. Sadly, the city’s gutters weren’t empty. By the time he’d navigated the length of Palace Way and reached the junction with Bessleslitz Circus he was mired well over the instep with a variety of evil-smelling substances he didn’t dare investigate too closely.
Bugger, he thought, casting another look behind him at the cheerful crowd. If I am being followed, how will I know?
The thronged centre of Grande Splotze was gaily festive. Garlands swooped from lamp post to curlicued, wrought-iron lamp post, intricately entwined in royal blue, gold and crimson. In the middle of each swoop was a portrait of the prince and princess, and if a certain amount of artistic licence had been taken with Ludwig’s likeness, well, it was a wedding, after all, starring the prince as The Dashing Bridegroom.
And it wasn’t just the lamp post garlands that created the air of celebration. Every shop front was festooned with bunting, every window graced with a larger version of the happy couple’s official portrait. In the pastry shops’ displays he saw cakes baked in the royal likenesses, some of them terrifyingly life-like. One ambitious baker had produced a figured cake to actual size and standing upright, with Ludwig and Ratafia’s iced hands coyly clasped-which seemed on the whole to be a sad waste of flour, eggs and sugar. He couldn’t imagine anyone eating the thing. Surely they’d be tried for treason if they did.
