Lord, it better be. “Of course.”

  But Walthorpe was no fool. “Yeah. Look, Markham, leave your cubicle. I’ll desaturate it for you while you’re gone. And if Bailey does call I’ll fob him off.”

  “Thanks, Wally,” Monk said, touched. “I’ll try not to be all day. And when I get back I’ll take a gander at that third-level splice you’re working on. I’m not sure, but to artificially induce etheretic subsoms I suspect you’ll need to go deeper. Maybe a fifth-level splice. Have a think about it, anyway, while I’m gone.”

  Mildly cheered by the memory of Walthorpe’s almost boyish excitement, he drove his jalopy white-knuckled to Nettleworth. There he let himself into the dismally nondescript Department building through its dingy back entrance, jumping at the tingling buzz of the thaumic detector as it read his potentia and let him pass.

  When he tapped on Sir Alec’s open office door, Gerald’s superior didn’t look up, just waved him in and continued to read the report spread across the desk. Knowing better than to sit uninvited, Monk did his best to read the report for himself, upside down, while standing in front of the desk with his hands in his baggy pockets looking like he’d never dream of doing anything so impolite.

  What he read threatened to send him shrieking from the room.

  After a few moments, Sir Alec cleared his throat. “Mister Markham.”

  He was too shaken to even attempt a denial. “But sir, I thought we’d smashed the dirit weed trade.”

  “Did you?” Sir Alec shuffled the report’s pages together, slid them into a folder and set it to one side. “That was rather naive, wasn’t it?”

  Monk fought the urge to wince. “I’m guessing you didn’t ask me here to talk about dirit weed.”

  “Naive and yet, at the same time, peculiarly perspicacious,” said Sir Alec, his smile acidic enough to etch glass. “Sit.”

  “Sir,” said Monk, and sat with a bump in the old wooden visitor’s chair.

  “Regarding the mission to Splotze,” said Sir Alec, his grey gaze cool and watchful, as ever. “Miss Cadwallader informs me they are safely ensconced in the palace, with Mister Dunwoody and your sister’s false identities duly established. As we speak, Mister Dunwoody is attempting to ascertain the status of the agent whose whereabouts are currently unknown. I hope to hear from him shortly.”

  Giddy with relief, he nodded. “That’s good to know, sir. Thank you. Ah-was that all, sir? Only I’m right in the middle of this bloody awful project and-”

  Sir Alec folded his hands on the desk. “No, Mister Markham, that is not all. I have spoken with Sir Ralph, and he has agreed that, given your undesirable yet inevitable familiarity with the Splotze-Borovnik situation, and taking into account the fact that my Department finds itself temporarily over-stretched-” That watchful grey gaze flicked with cold contempt to the dirit weed report. “-I am within my purview to request your assistance.”

  Despite his deadline agitation, Monk felt a warm glow of pleasure. Ha. So Bibbie’s not the only honorary janitor in the family. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Anything I can do. Just name it. Anything.”

  Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “Thank you. Mister Markham, I need you to do a little discreet digging. I have asked Miss Cadwallader to provide me with the most recent wedding guest list, as well as the names and nationalities of all those guests’ retinues. As soon as I have it, I will pass it to you and you will educate yourself about these people so that you might, in turn, educate me. No detail about them should be considered too obscure-and it should be noted that I don’t much care how you go about discovering the information, provided you don’t get caught.” Another acidic smile. “If you do get caught, then you can expect to discover me afflicted with amnesia.”

  Of course he bloody could. “But…” Monk shifted on the uncomfortable chair. “What you’re asking. That’s spying, or something very like it. I thought you were talking thaumaturgics. I can do thaumaturgics. But I’m not trained to-”

  “Training has nothing to do with it,” said Sir Alec. “You’re a Markham. Intrigue is in your blood.”

  “Yes, well, that’s very flattering, Sir Alec, only-”

  “Mister Markham,” Sir Alec said, severe, “if you think the notion of once more dragging you into this Department’s business affords me any pleasure you’re entirely mistaken, but I don’t have a janitor to spare and you, as it happens, are uniquely qualified for this task.”

  He blinked. “I am?”

  “Yes. Thanks to your family, you know people who know people who will not talk to me but will talk to you, and who can very likely tell you what I need to know. So talk to them, Mister Markham. Help me to help your friend Mister Dunwoody. Again.”

  Blimey. Was he imagining things, or did Sir Alec sound rattled? “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  And then, belatedly, an unwelcome thought occurred. His current project, hurtling towards deadline and nowhere near completion. Had Uncle Ralph bothered to consult with Bailey on lending him to Sir Alec? Bailey, who called three times a day demanding an update. Bailey, who’d taken to accosting him in the men’s room, wild-eyed and practically foaming at the mouth. Bailey, who Sir Alec sat back. “Do not concern yourself with Bailey, Mister Markham. He will not interfere.”

  Dammit, how did the man do that? How did he always know? “Really, sir?” Monk said, not managing to hide his doubt. “Because Bailey, well, he’s-”

  “Taken care of,” said Sir Alec.

  “Oh. Right. Good. Only-” Monk cleared his throat. “The monitoring system I’m building for him? Actually, Sir Alec, it’s pretty crucial, really, and-”

  “Trust me, not as crucial as this.”

  His mouth dried. “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh.” Sir Alec’s eyes were like chips of ice. “Mister Markham, should the Splotze-Borovnik wedding be disturbed by any violent activity then no new thaumaturgic monitor that you could devise will prevent a conflagration the likes of which has never been seen. Believe me, it will make the Jandrian conflict look like a nursery school spat.”

  Because of that piddling Canal? But the Jandrian conflict had killed tens of thousands. Since when had the Splotze-Borovnik Canal been worth so many lost lives?

  Feeling sick, Monk stared at Gerald’s difficult superior. “Sir, Gerald said that you said my sister wouldn’t be in danger. She’s just window dressing. That’s what he said you said. Sir.”

  “And I did say it,” Sir Alec replied, his voice thin and distant. Then, steepling his fingers, he turned his head, just a little, to frown out of the office window. “But that was before I learned Lanruvia is attending the wedding.”

  “Lanruvia?” Monk swallowed, his heart knocking hard enough to crack a rib, surely. Because he was a Markham, and because his parents had always trusted him, he knew a lot more about a lot of things that most people had never heard of. Probably not even Gerald or Melissande knew what he knew about the deeply treacherous currents running through the waters of international thaumaturgical politics. “But why?”

  “I don’t know, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, sounding grim. “But between us I am rather hoping we can find out. Because as doubtless you know… wherever Lanruvia treads, trouble is bound to follow.”

  With Sir Alec’s alarming words of warning ringing in his ears, instead of returning directly to his cramped cubicle in Research and Development, Monk went home to the Markham mansion.

  “Hello, Dodsworth,” he said, as the butler stepped back from the front door to let him in. “Don’t suppose my brother’s about, is he?”

  “He is, Mister Monk,” said the butler warmly. “I believe you’ll find him in the Octagonal Library.”

  “Then that’s where I’ll be, if you need me. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” said Dodsworth, pushing the heavy front door closed. “Have you eaten, sir, or can I bring you some luncheon?”

  He nearly said No, don’t bother, I won’t be here that long, then changed his mind. He was ravenous, and lunch served from the Markham mansion’s kitchen was infinitely preferable to what he could scrounge for himself back at R amp;D. Especially since he suspected that Dalrymple would’ve done his best by now to make sure there’d be nothing left worth eating in the cafeteria.

  “Thanks,” he said, and patted Dodsworth’s stooped shoulder. “You’re a scholar and a gentleman.”

  Dodsworth’s smile was deprecating. “Neither, sir. But I’m sure it’s kind of you to say so. I’ll see you upstairs shortly.”

  Because he’d been expecting it, Aylesbury’s lack of enthusiasm at his appearance didn’t sting. Well, not much. Truth was, he was so used to it now that if his brother had evinced pleasure at seeing him he’d likely faint from the shock.

  “You’re still here, then,” he said, closing the library door behind him.

  Seated at the large reading table, Aylesbury shook his head without looking up. “My brother, ladies and gentlemen. Master of the obvious.”

  “Sorry. All I meant was that Bibbie mentioned your Aframbigi trip’s been delayed. I hope that’s not too awkward.”

  “Do you?” Aylesbury rested one finger on his place in the report he was reading and lifted his unenthusiastic gaze. “I can’t imagine why.”

  As always, that undertone of mocking cynicism. But he couldn’t let it distract him. Bibs and Melissande and Gerald were counting on Monk Markham to save the day.

  “Anyway,” he said, closing a little of the physical distance between himself and his brother. “Have you got a moment? I wanted to ask you something.”

  Aylesbury scowled. Because this was a business day he wasn’t wearing his neck ruff and velvets, and his earlobe was empty of his favourite dropped pearl. Instead he looked like any ordinary wizard, in a plain charcoal grey suit and restrained dark red tie.

  “Look, Monk,” he said, not even attempting a cursory courtesy. “I might not be in the office, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got time to lark about. With the Aframbigi trip on hold it means I’m back to juggling three other clients, all of whom are convinced the other two don’t matter a toss.”

  Monk dropped into the nearest overstuffed leather reading chair. “It’s important.”

  “So’s this! Find someone else to pester.”

  It was hard, but he kept his temper in check. “Trust me, Aylesbury, if there was someone else I would. But it’s you, or no-one. And this can’t wait.”

  Intrigued despite himself, Aylesbury sat back and considered him with tightly narrowed eyes. “Fine. I’m listening. But not for long.”

  “Thank you,” he said, managing to keep the sarcasm at bay. “So, what can you tell me about whispers from Lanruvia?”

  “Lanruvia?” Aylesbury’s eyes widened. Then he shrugged. “Nothing. There haven’t been any whispers. Not for years.”

  It wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. “Are you sure? I mean, your people have a lot of interests on the Andabedin Continent. And there’s not much that escapes the notice of local businessmen and traders.”

  Aylesbury’s lips pinched in annoyance. “Yes, Monk, I’m sure. What, d’you think I’m being untruthful?”

  No. Not exactly. But ever since childhood, whenever Aylesbury found something his little brother wanted he did his best to make sure he never got it.

  So maybe I do think he’s lying. But really, is that fair? I mean, he’s got no earthly reason to.

  “Why d’you want to know, anyway?” said Aylesbury. “Nobody in their right mind crosses paths with a Lanruvian.”

  Ah. “It’s a work thing. Someone mentioned something in passing and it tweaked my interest.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll bloody well tweak you if you’re not careful,” Aylesbury retorted. “I’ve got better things to be doing than-”

  “Please, Aylesbury,” he said. “Indulge me, just this once.”

  Aylesbury laughed, his expression scornfully impatient. “No, Monk, I won’t. There needs to be one person in the world who refuses to indulge the great Monk Markham.”

  This wasn’t the time for one of their childish argy-bargies, so he throttled resentment. “Please.”

  Clearly baffled, Aylesbury threw up a hand. “Fine. Ever since that near miss in ’91, everybody within spitting distance of Lanruvia sleeps with one eye open. I promise you, little brother, those slippery buggers are minding their manners. You hardly see them around any more.” He sneered. “But if you don’t believe me, why not ask Uncle Ralph? In fact, why not ask him in the first place, instead of bothering me?”

  “Because sometimes the last person to know what’s happening in a place like Lanruvia is a man like Uncle Ralph.”

  Aylesbury drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “This isn’t you pulling my leg, is it?” he said, after a moment. “You really are windy. Monk, what’s going on? And don’t give me that tripe about something in passing. It’s more than that.”

  Yes, indeed, his brother was far from being a cabbage. “Ah…” Monk rubbed his chin. “Honestly, Aylesbury, I’d tell you if I could. I will tell you, once I’m cleared to. But in the meantime, could you keep an ear out for whispers about Lanruvia? Please? Because-”

  He turned as the library door opened and Dodsworth entered carrying a large silver tray, on which were two covered plates and two glasses of red wine.

  “Luncheon, gentlemen,” the butler announced. “Might I place it on the large reading table?”

  “Do what you like it with it,” Aylesbury snapped, standing, and began shoving his reports into his briefcase. “I’ve a long-distance conference. I’ll be in my private study. Don’t disturb me unless one of Father’s experiments blows the roof off. And as for Lanruvia-” He flipped the briefcase catches shut. “You should think about cultivating a few more contacts, Monk. Last time I looked I wasn’t your dogsbody.”

  Monk watched his brother march out of the library, then sighed. Bloody typical. With Aylesbury, in the end everything was reduced to the personal. Trying not to mind, he turned to the butler.

  “The large table’s fine, Dodsworth. And since we now seem to have a spare serving, why don’t you join me? There’s no point letting good food go to waste.”

  Dodsworth hesitated. “Really, Mister Monk, that’s most kind of you but-”

  He slid off the arm of the chair. “Dodsworth, I insist. In fact, I’ll not take no for an answer.”

  So Dodsworth set out the two plates, uncovered them, placed the covers and the silver tray out of the way, and joined him at the large reading table for a fragrant slice of Cook’s best venison pie.

  Grinning, Monk lifted his glass of wine in a toast. “Here’s mud in your eye, Dodsworth.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said the butler. “You are too kind.”

  Savouring his first gravy-rich mouthful of flaky pastry and meat, Monk was struck by a thought. Can I? Should I? Sir Alec did make it clear it was results he cared about, not methods. And he doesn’t strike me as being a snob… Besides, from the outside, life as the Markham family’s butler looked awfully dull. He’d be doing their old family retainer a favour if he enlisted his help. Surely, after a lifetime of good care, he owed Dodsworth a little adventure in his old age.

  And with Aylesbury so bloody unhelpful, I’m not sure I can do what Sir Alec wants without him.

  “I say, Dodsworth,” he said slowly. “You’re a butler.”

  Dodsworth considered him gravely. “Indeed, sir. I am.”

  “And you know a lot of other butlers, don’t you?”

  “That I do, sir. Yes. Were you perhaps thinking of engaging a man for Chatterly Crescent, sir? If so I would be pleased to-”

  “What? No!” he said, recoiling. His own butler? How ghastly. Bad enough he had to answer to Bibbie for his scattered socks. “No, this is something else. Look. All these butlers you know. I don’t suppose any of them buttle at Ott’s foreign embassies, do they, by any chance?”

  Dodsworth gave him an old-fashioned look. “Ah-Mister Monk…”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, grinning. “Right. Good. So, listen carefully Doddsy, my old chum. There’s something important I need you to do.”

  Trying not to breathe too deeply, Gerald blinked the ceaseless sweat out of his stinging eyes. How much time had passed since he’d tripped this stinking entrapment hex? It felt like years… but he guessed it wasn’t more than a couple of hours.

  Oh, lord. The girls will be going spare.

  He was going a bit spare himself, to be honest. The hex holding him was the most powerful of its kind he’d ever encountered. Every time he caught hold of one strand, started teasing it undone, the other strands tightened to strangling point. All this time fighting it, and he was exhausted. Defeated. Covered in wire-thin bruises. He could feel them, and see some of them, snaking round his wrists and between his fingers.

  So much for being a rogue wizard. I’m an idiot, that’s what I am. If only I’d listened to Sir Alec and left that grimoire magic where it was…

  Because with his luck, the other Gerald had given him the perfect key to unlock this thaumaturgical door. But he’d never know now, would he? All he knew for certain was that no key lurked in the grimoire magic’s remaining dregs. He’d looked. So he was trapped here, with every chance that the men responsible for his capture, for Abel Bestwick, were on their way back right now, eager to see what insect wriggled in their clever web. And when they found him, they’d kill him. Or worse.

  Come on, Dunnywood, come on. Think what Errol Haythwaite would say if he could see you now. Think what Reg would say, or Monk, or Sir Alec. Think!

  A tickle in the back of his empty, aching mind. Words, a memory, drifting dreamlike to the surface.

  I know more than I did. I just don’t know what I know. Y’know?

  He’d said that to Monk, in the kitchen at Chatterly Crescent. A lifetime ago, or so it seemed.

  I know more than I did. I just don’t know what I know. Y’know?

  Yes, all right, he’d said it. But what did it mean?

  He knew what he was afraid it meant. He was afraid it meant that he did have the power to break free from this hex… but only if he crossed a terrible line. Because there was using the grimoire magic and there was becoming the grimoire magic. And lacking a specific hex, to escape his entrapment he’d have no choice but to embrace it so completely that he became it.

 

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