Wizard Undercover ra-4, page 3
part #4 of Rogue agent Series
Sir Alec raised his glass, half-full of best Blonkken brandy. “If not for this, I might have. Shall I pour you one?”
“Please,” said Ralph, closing the door.
Obliging his sometime friend, sometime foe, Sir Alec rose from the comfortable leather armchair reserved for special guests and poured a second glass of brandy. There were those who’d say, disapprovingly, that it was far too early in the afternoon for alcohol. But given what he’d sat through at Nettleworth, and the frustrated exhaustion stamped into Ralph’s heavy face, it wasn’t an opinion he shared.
Not today, at least.
“Thanks,” said Ralph, taking the glass. “Bloody domestic security meeting ran over. I tell you, if Gaylord was tipped out tomorrow he could earn a decent living blowing hot air into balloons.”
Sir Alec smiled. “Anything I need to know about?”
“Officially?” Ralph swallowed deeply, then belched. “Of course not. Domestic matters are not your concern.”
“And unofficially?”
Perching on the front edge of his heavy mahogany desk, Ralph glowered into his glass. “Unofficially, this black market wizard is kicking our arses. Four more cases of illicit hexes in the past two weeks. One’s a fatality. Lady Barstow.”
“Yes. I heard.”
“I tell you, Alec, if we don’t pinch this nasty piece of work soon
…”
He shrugged. “Well, Ralph, you know what I think.”
“Oh, don’t start,” said Ralph, impatient. “If I thought there was a snowball’s hope in summertime of Gaylord and the rest agreeing to your people and his joining forces then we both know I’d leap at your offer. But those shortsighted fools won’t have a bar of it and I can’t afford to expend political capital on twisting their arms to make them agree.”
“No, you’d rather wait until this criminal wizard brings Ottosland to its knees so they’re forced to come crawling to you, cap in hand.” Sir Alec smoothed his grey tie. “Which might be gratifying, I grant you. But Ralph, is it wise?”
“Alec, what would you have me do?” Ralph demanded. “So far this-this weasel has confined his activities to home soil. As much as I’d like to, I can’t over-ride Gaylord and involve your janitors.” He raised a hand. “And don’t, for pity’s sake, try to use Errol Haythwaite against me. Loaning Scrimplesham’s services to one of Gaylord’s agents is not the same as ignoring the inflexible rules regarding agency territorial purviews.”
Sir Alec topped up his glass then returned to the comfort of the guest chair. “Well, it’s your decision, Ralph. And never fear, I’ll be on hand to pull your chestnuts out of the fire when this blows up in your face.”
“Thank you,” said Ralph, gloomily, and downed the rest of his brandy. “Just don’t gloat too loudly when the time comes, that’s all I ask. You’re not the one who has to put up with Gaylord day in and day out.”
Which, for Ravelard Gaylord’s sake, was fortunate. Repressing a shiver of distaste, Sir Alec sipped more brandy. Let his head rest against the armchair’s high back and enjoyed the smothering glow of fine, fermented peach.
“You look a bit washed up yourself,” said Ralph, shifting from the desk to the office’s other armchair. “How did it go?”
Because he couldn’t make use of Jennings without Ralph being told, and because telling the truth was out of the question, he’d concocted a story about a training mishap that had left Gerald Dunwoody tainted with the wrong kind of magic. Trusting him, Ralph hadn’t questioned the tale.
Now, instead of answering, he dropped his gaze to the amber depths of his brandy. As a man of many and varied experiences, he prided himself on his carefully cultivated self-control. Unexpectedly, though, that discipline was shaken by what Gerald Dunwoody had stubbornly endured at Jennings’s hands.
“Not much point lambasting yourself, Alec,” Ralph said gruffly. “Accidents happen.” He cleared his throat. “Are you going to tell him?”
Sir Alec looked up. “That the extraction wasn’t entirely successful? Unnecessary. I’ve no doubt Mister Dunwoody’s already worked it out for himself.”
“I meant,” Ralph said carefully, “are you going to tell him the extraction failed on purpose.”
On purpose. That had an ugly ring to it. And why wouldn’t it? What he’d done was ugly. But then that was what Sir Alec Oldman excelled at. The dark, dirty, ugly little tasks, performed in secret, shrouded in half-truths and outright lies. He did the things that needed to be done, for the people of Ottosland who wanted them done but didn’t want to know the unpleasant details… and who’d bay for his blood if they ever found out.
“In time,” he said at last. “When I can trust he’ll not take my actions amiss.”
“And you’re sure that time will come, are you?”
“Dunwoody’s not a fool, Ralph. Once the heat of the moment has passed, he’ll understand.”
Ralph shook his head. “You hope. Have to tell you, Alec, if it were me, I’m not sure I would.”
“That’s hardly surprising, Ralph,” he said, indulging in a little malice. “You’re not a janitor.”
The sly dig earned him a look. Then Ralph drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “It’s a big risk you’ve taken. Grimoire hexes are bad enough. I mean, they’re restricted for a reason. But matched with Dunwoody’s rogue potentia? Who knows what mischief that might brew?”
Sir Alec set aside his unfinished brandy. “Nobody. Which was always the point, wasn’t it? To find out. And I seem to recall you thought it was the thing to do, when I raised the matter.”
Which he’d done most reluctantly. But with Ralph’s already deep involvement in Gerald’s case, not to mention the need for his support, he’d had no choice. In this, as in so much else, he and Ralph were wary allies.
“Yes,” said Ralph, frowning. “And despite my reservations I still do. An accident like this-you’d be mad not to take advantage. It’s not like we can go around deliberately feeding that kind of grimoire muck to our people.”
“But?” Sir Alec prompted, knowing there was more.
“But I wish it had been anyone other than Dunwoody. That unnatural young wizard is already too dangerous.”
Sometimes it seemed he spent half his life defending Gerald Dunwoody. “We’re all of us dangerous, Ralph, in our own little ways. Don’t fret. I keep that young man on a suitably short leash.”
“I know, Alec,” said Ralph, levering himself out of his armchair. “But you’d do well to remember that leashes can snap. Now, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me. I’m due for an early dinner with Wolfgang and the rest of the family. But look-before I go, is there anything I should know?”
“D’you mean has your nephew done anything appalling of late?” Standing, Sir Alec shook his head. “No. Not to my knowledge.”
“Wonderful,” Ralph groaned. “That can only mean we’re overdue for a disaster.” He collected his coat, hat and brief case. “I tell you, I do wonder what I did to deserve Monk. Him and his sister. There ought to be a law.”
Sir Alec patted his shoulder in passing. “Well, Ralph, why don’t you devise one? Since there’s no plan in place to apprehend your black market wizard, it seems to me you must have plenty of time.”
And on that satisfying note, he took his leave.
CHAPTER TWO
“Oy!” Aylesbury slapped his hand on the round dining table’s antique lace tablecloth. “Monk! Stop acting deaf, you grubby little stoat! I said pass me the gravy before you and Emmerabiblia guzzle the bloody lot.”
Seated opposite his irascible brother, Monk turned to their sister. “You know, Bibs, I think I need to visit the doctor.”
“Why, Monk?” said Bibbie, her eyes alight with mischief. “What’s wrong?”
“Something very peculiar. Whenever anyone forgets to say please, I’m stricken with an odd kind of paralysis.”
“Really?” Bibbie fanned herself in mock distress. “Monk, that sounds awful. If I were you, I’d-”
“Now, now, you two, stop teasing Aylesbury,” their mother said, calmly passing her eldest offspring the gravy boat. “This is the small dining room, not the nursery.”
Slopping more horseradish onto his plate, Uncle Ralph snorted. “Could’ve fooled me, Sofilia.”
Their mother smiled sweetly. “Speaking as a Thackeray, Ralph, I’m sure that’s true. With one or two notable exceptions-” She patted her daydreaming husband’s arm. “I’m afraid the Markhams are rather easily befuddled.”
“Eh?” Uncle Ralph sat back in his chair. “Wolfgang! Are you going to let your wife insult the Markham name with impunity?”
As their father continued to dream thaumaturgics and eat his dinner, unheeding, and their mother and Uncle Ralph fell to familiar, good-natured bickering, Monk rolled his eyes at Bibbie, who giggled, then settled his gaze on Aylesbury. Feeling the scrutiny, Aylesbury paused in fastidiously cutting away the fat from his roast beef and looked up.
“What?”
Monk shrugged. “Nothing. Only I think you might’ve missed your true calling. I’d bet the Central Ott morgue is crying out for a man with your knife skills.”
Eyeing him coldly, Aylesbury set down his cutlery and reached for the gravy boat. “If you volunteered yourself for me to practice on I’d consider offering my services.”
Hmm. Was his brother joking? Most likely not. Where he was concerned, Aylesbury’s sense of humour was conspicuously lacking.
“Anyway, Ralph,” said their mother, waving an airy hand. “It’s neither here nor there, is it, because though I was born a Thackeray I’m now a Markham by marriage. And everyone knows it’s perfectly acceptable to insult your own. Emmerabiblia, stop eating. Who’s going to marry you if you’re the size of a cart horse?”
A pinched line appeared between Bibbie’s perfectly arched eyebrows. “Another cart horse?” she suggested, and looked over her shoulder at the family’s stoically silent senior footman. “Cheevers? The roast potatoes, please.”
“Really, Emmerabiblia,” their mother sighed, as Cheevers fetched the dish of potatoes from the serving board. “You are tiresome. Next you’ll be saying you don’t want to get married!”
Bibbie helped herself to a crisply golden potato, then dismissed Cheevers with a smile. “And so I don’t. Not yet, anyway. I’m far too busy.”
She sounded cheerful enough, but Monk felt his insides twist. Bibbie’s trouble was that she did want to get married. To Gerald.
And that’s the last thing I want for her.
Though it made him feel a traitor to their friendship, he couldn’t settle with the notion of Gerald and his sister getting… involved. Not only because his best friend was one of Sir Alec’s secretive, dangerous janitors, but because after their ghastly adventures in that other Ottosland, he was more convinced than ever that if Bibbie and Gerald did act on their feelings, she would only end up hurt.
Because the Gerald who came back isn’t the same Gerald who went.
Aylesbury was favouring Bibbie with a scathing stare. “Come now, Mother. Emmerabiblia’s never going to convince someone to marry her while she’s footling about with that ridiculous hobby of hers.”
Pink with indignation, Bibbie glared. “Witches Incorporated is not a hobby! We are a legitimate business enterprise, and-”
“Don’t, Bibs,” Monk said, treading lightly on her foot. “He’s trying to get a rise out of you.”
“It’s true,” Aylesbury retorted. “The rest of the family might be too soft-headed to protest her nonsense but I don’t suffer from the same complaint! You must know, Emmerabiblia, that you and that misguided, ragtag bit of royalty you’ve teamed up with are turning the Markham name into a laughing stock.”
Monk winced as Bibbie sucked in a furious breath. Oh, lord. She was going to lose her temper and reveal the truth about Witches Inc.’s interesting little arrangement with Sir Alec’s secret government department. But before he could intervene, Uncle Ralph leaned a little sideways and clapped Aylesbury hard on his velvet-clad shoulder.
“Now, now, nephew, come along,” he said, in a heartily patronising tone calculated to raise Aylesbury’s hackles. “Don’t be so stuffy. These are modern times we’re living in, eh? Gels like to have a bit of fun, doncha know? And I think the Markham reputation can withstand a bit of girlish romping.” He chuckled. “But speaking of weddings, what d’you all make of this fuss over Splotze and Borovnik’s upcoming nuptials?”
Typically mercurial, Bibbie abandoned temper. “Melissande was invited to attend,” she said sounding pleased and proud. “The wedding and the royal tour.” She flicked a mordant glance at Aylesbury. “Which only goes to show that she isn’t ragtag.”
“Really, Emmerabiblia? How very prestigious,” said their mother, brightening. “Perhaps you could wangle your way into her retinue.”
Rousing from his reverie, their father smoothed back his unruly salt-and-pepper hair. “What are you on about, Sofilia? You don’t approve of royalty.”
“Really, Wolfgang, do try not to be dense,” said their mother, with an impatient tsk. “For all their faults, royalty can occasionally prove useful. There’ll be scads of unspoken-for young men gadding about this wedding. Who knows what kind of eligible personage our unwed and rapidly aging daughter might meet?”
“ I know, Mother,” said Bibbie, with a glittering smile. “Not a one, because Melissande’s declined the invitation. Something about the Crown Prince of Splotze and his wandering hands.”
“Oh,” said their mother, disappointed. “Well. That’s terribly unobliging of her, I must say. As your friend she should be prepared for some trifling inconvenience if it means you could meet the right man. Monk, you’re dallying with the young woman, aren’t you? What are you doing to see that she changes her mind about attending this wedding?”
Monk trod on Bibbie’s foot again, more emphatically, and favoured their mother with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Mama, but when it comes to persuadability Melissande is quite a lot like you. Once she’s made up her mind, there’s no changing it.”
“Well, I call that sadly lily-livered!” their mother retorted. “For your poor sister’s sake, Monk, I demand that you try!”
There was no point arguing. “Yes, all right. But I’m not making any promises.” And now it was time to change the subject. He looked at Uncle Ralph. “I must admit I haven’t been paying a lot of attention to the Splotze-Borovnik fuss, sir. I’m still working on that big project for-” Just in time he remembered Aylesbury, who was employed by Ottosland’s largest international trading company and didn’t possess the right kind of government clearances. “That’s to say, I’ve been busy. D’you honestly think something as simple as a wedding can patch up more than two hundred years of disputes and skirmishes and the occasional all-out war?”
“I can’t say,” said Uncle Ralph, after a considering moment. “But at least it’ll give them something different to skirmish over. Weddings? From my experience they’re little more than an excuse to settle old feuds and start new ones.”
“Uncle Ralph, are you saying there’s going to be trouble?” Bibbie said, pushing her emptied dinner plate away. “Because with Melissande not going to Splotze, and New Ottosland not wanting to risk various trading concessions, now it’ll be King Rupert flying the flag at the wedding and it would be awful if something happened. He’s the only brother Mel’s got left and she’s terribly fond of him.”
“There!” said their mother, signalling Cheevers to start clearing the table for the dessert course. “That is precisely what I’m talking about. Your friend’s brother. King Rupert. What is he if not a perfectly good unmarried monarch cluttering up the landscape? If this Princess Melissande was really your friend, Emmerabiblia, she’d introduce you to him. Monk, why haven’t you arranged it?”
“Mama…” He sighed deeply, ruefully resigned. “Probably she would, if I asked, but even if I did, as a rule kings don’t marry commoners.”
“Commoners? With the blood of Thackerays and Markhams coursing through her veins, Monk, your sister is anything but common!”
“I know,” he said patiently, because at times like this their mother required careful handling. “Only, Mama, you can’t be serious. I mean, if Bibs married Rupert she’d have to go and live in New Ottosland.”
“And get all excited about butterflies,” Bibbie added, wrinkling her nose. “Because according to Mel, that habit’s stuck. So I think I’ll pass on Rupert, thanks all the same.”
“And you know, Sofilia,” Uncle Ralph added, “she’s not likely to find the right sort of chap at this bloody Splotze-Borovnik affair. It’ll be crawling with foreigners of dubious lineage. Last thing this family needs is Emmerabiblia making sheep’s eyes at someone unsuitable from Graff or Harenstein or Blonkken.”
Being careful to keep his expression safely amused at indignant Bibbie’s expense, Monk looked at their important, powerful uncle and wondered. For all his joviality, there was a shadow in his eyes. So either something was bothering him about the Splotze-Borovnik wedding
… or else some other cloud was looming on the thaumaturgical horizon.
But what could it be? I’ve heard no rumblings. And if something was up, Gerald would’ve told me.
At least, he’d like to think so. Only things between him and Gerald hadn’t been entirely comfortable since their return from the other Ottosland. They were keeping mismatched work hours, and when their paths did cross, in the kitchen or on the stairs of his inherited town house, it never seemed to be the right time for a fraught conversation. And anyway, he had no idea what to say.
I know you tried to kill me, mate, but no hard feelings. You weren’t yourself. And incidentally, how’s that grimoire magic working out for you? Had any more overwhelming homicidal urges lately?
No. No, he couldn’t say that. Trouble was, it seemed he couldn’t say anything that didn’t run the risk of revealing a harsh truth: that every time he looked at his best friend, just for a split second he remembered that hideous killing hex, the cruelty in Gerald’s face, the pain and the disbelief and the horror of impending death… and was afraid.
