Wizard Undercover ra-4, page 32
part #4 of Rogue agent Series
Bloody horses. Bloody hell. Any moment now, any moment, the rest of the wedding tour’s carriage teams would start to panic… and there wasn’t any way for him to calm them with thaumaturgics.
“Hold tight, Your Highness,” he said. “Gladys?”
Bibbie’s face was pale, her hexed brown eyes narrowed in concentration as their carriage bounced alarmingly. “Nothing,” she muttered. “No incants. What about you?”
Did he dare drop his shield entirely? Could the writhing etheretics hide him, or would his true nature be revealed? And there was Bibbie, so close to him, lord, close enough to touch. What would she feel? Nothing? Or would she feel everything and turn away from him in fear?
Coward.
In a short, sharp burst he reached out with his full potentia, swift and searing like a lightning strike. Splotze’s ether convulsed. He heard Bibbie’s shocked gasp, feeling him untrammelled, then felt her take the same risk. Inspiration struck. He reached out again, letting her potentia blur his own. Bibbie gasped again, startled, and then she followed his lead. Used her potentia to hide his completely, leaving him free.
Desperate, he searched the ether. Clutched at the side of the carriage as it lurched again. The coachman was cursing in ripely inventive Splotzin, and he could hear other voices raised in alarm. Was this sudden upset the villainy he’d dreaded? And if it was, could they find the culprit and stop him in time?
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
But like Bibbie, he found nothing. The only grimoire magic in Putzi Gorge was his own. He opened his eyes.
“Nothing.”
Bibbie was staring, her eyes crowded with difficult questions.
He shook his head. “Not now, Gladys.”
“Not now what?” said Melissande, alarmed. She was clutching the side of the carriage, too. “Mister Rowbotham-”
“Everything’s fine, Your Highness,” he said, squeezing her hand again. “No need to worry. Look, Prince Ludwig’s coachman has his horses under control.”
And so did their own coachman, praise Saint Snodgrass, and the burly man in charge of Hartwig’s carriage team. Above the calmed thudding of hoofbeats they heard relieved laughter from Ludwig and Ratafia, booming praise to his coachman from Crown Prince Hartwig… and a rising tide of complaint from Borovnik’s Dowager Queen.
Melissande sighed. “Oh dear. She just can’t help herself, can she?” Then she leaned a little closer. “You’re quite sure we’re safe, Algernon?”
“As sure as I can be,” he replied softly. “As hard as I looked, there were no rotten thaumaturgics. I really do think we’re fine.”
“But from now on,” Bibbie added, scowling, “nobody is allowed to say so far, so good. Right?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Not quite an hour later, the wedding party emerged unscathed from the shadowed cool of Putzi Gorge into warm afternoon sunlight.
As Gerald and Bibbie changed seats again, she raised her eyebrows at him. Whatever qualms she was feeling, given what she knew of him after their little thaumaturgical adventure, she was keeping them well hidden.
“First the fireworks and now this,” she said lightly. “I wonder, Mister Rowbotham, if you’ve ever heard the story of the janitor who cried wolf?”
“And I wonder, Miss Slack,” said Melissande, “if the old saying better safe than sorry rings any bells for you?”
He gave them both a warning look. “Perhaps we should enjoy the scenery. Quietly.”
“Good idea!” said Bibbie. “And the first one to spot a rabbit wins a seat beside Dowager Queen Erminium at dinner.”
Really? Sitting back, Gerald folded his arms.
I wonder if it wouldn’t have been smarter of me to fall in love with Melissande, instead.
The carriages bowled on without further incident. Several more miles closer to Lake Yablitz, as they passed through countryside featuring trees and hedgerows but thankfully no rabbits, Crown Prince Hartwig called another halt so the horses could be watered again, and his guests could stretch their legs and so forth.
With nature remaining silent this time, Gerald and the girls contented themselves with alighting from their carriage and unkinking their various kinked bits.
“No, Gladys,” said Melissande, as Bibbie looked longingly along the verge at Norbert of Harenstein’s men, who stood apart in deep conversation. “I think, in this case, the time has come to accept defeat. Hard as it must be to admit, Bern Dermit and Grune Volker are apparently immune to your charms.”
Bibbie heaved a sigh. “Well, I suppose there must be a first time for everything. Although now I really am sorry Volker didn’t catch pneumonia when he went over the barge’s railing with me into the Canal.”
“When he what?” Gerald stared. “Went over with you? But he dived in after you. Didn’t he?”
Bibbie was frowning at the two men, clearly rankled by her failed conquest. “With me, after me, does it really matter which?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and resisted the urge to shake her. “Maybe. Do you actually remember him going in with you or is it just a figure of speech?”
“Oh,” said Bibbie, abruptly seeing his point. “You mean did Dermit lie? Well-I’m not sure. It’s all still a blank, what happened. Only for some reason, just then, I thought… I felt…”
“You felt what?” he persisted. “Come on, Gladys. Think.”
She swatted at him. “I am thinking. Don’t bully me.”
“You’re not suggesting Volker was trying to harm Gladys, are you?” said Melissande, disbelieving. “On purpose? But Algernon, why would he? He’s from Harenstein.”
Biting his lip, Gerald stared at Grune Volker. Yes, he was. And at first glance nothing could be more ridiculous than the notion that Harenstein was behind the plot against the wedding.
But nothing is impossible. And someone here is guilty.
With another gusty sigh, Bibbie pressed fingertips to her temples and turned away. “No. I’m sorry. Whatever I thought I felt, or remembered, it’s gone.”
He smothered disappointment. “Never mind. Melissande’s probably right. The notion of Harenstein as the villain is rather far-fetched.”
But as soon as he could punch through Splotze’s ether to Sir Alec, he was going to ask his superior to take a very close look at bluff, bumptious Norbert and his men.
And then Princess Ratafia joined them, resplendent in turquoise silk and glowing like the happiest bride-to-be in the world. Playing the part of well-trained secretary, Gerald retreated a few paces, taking Bibbie with him. She didn’t pull away from him. He had to think that was good.
“Putzi Gorge was exciting, Melissande, wasn’t it!” Ratafia exclaimed. “Especially when the horses decided to be silly. Were you frightened? I was. But then Luddie put his arms around me and I knew we’d be safe.”
“The gorge certainly had its moments, yes,” Melissande agreed. “But does it make up for missing the cheering townsfolk in Tirinz?”
The princess giggled. “Oh, I’m not bothered about missing Tirinz. I don’t care where I am, so long as I’m with Ludwig. Anyway, Hartwig says we need to get on. So I’ll see you again at Lake Yablitz!”
“Don’t suppose anyone’s got a lemon handy, have they?” said Bibbie, as Ratafia of Borovnik danced away. “Only that much sugar makes me feel ill.”
“Since when?” said Melissande, snorting. “I’m not the one who ate four office sticky buns in one sitting.”
I miss Reg, Gerald thought, as he ushered the bickering girls back into the carriage. Where’s Reg when I need her? If I poke them in their unmentionables I’ll end up behind bars.
More miles through second-best scenery, still no rabbits. Hedgerowed fields gave way to open moorland. More miles and the countryside grew hilly, the road undulating, in places quite steep.
Remembering his Department briefing notes, and the photographs included with them, Gerald looked at the girls. “I think we’re quite close, now.”
“Good,” said Bibbie. “Because my posterior’s positively snoring.”
“That’s not very delicate, Gladys,” said Melissande.
Bibbie grimaced. “You think of something, anything, delicate about a numb bum, Your Highness, and I’ll sit next to Erminium at dinner.”
Ignoring that, Melissande clasped her hands in her lap. “And everything’s still all right, is it, Mister Rowbotham?”
“I think so,” he said, after a moment. “My bum’s not numb, anyway.”
That made her smile, which was what he’d wanted. Poor Melissande. She wasn’t having much fun on this mission. In her own way she was as brave and bold as Bibbie, but she really wasn’t cut out for the janitoring life.
They lapsed back into silence. Another few miles rolled by. He risked lowering his shield, yet again, to test the surrounding etheretics. Nothing different. No alarm bells. Only the same busy, tizzied twistings.
Four years in this place? I don’t know how Bestwick didn’t go mad. It must’ve been like sleeping under sandpaper sheets, all this rubbing against his potentia.
Then again, Bestwick did succumb to the charms of kitchen-maid Mitzie, knowing full well what Sir Alec would say. So perhaps he had gone mad.
The carriages followed the road round a wide, sweeping bend. Bibbie sat up and pointed. “Oy. Out there. Am I seeing things, or does that look like a bridge?”
As Melissande shaded her eyes and squinted, Gerald shifted round on his seat. Leaning sideways again, so he could see past the coachman and horses and the two carriages in front of them, he squinted too until the hazy suggestion of bridginess resolved into solidity: Splotze’s famous Hanging Bridge of Yablitz. His parents had sent him a post-card, and covered the back with exclamation marks.
Constructed of ornately carved wood, the bridge stood high and deceptively fragile above a narrow silver ribbon of river, which doubled back on itself in a long lazy loop to pour into distant Lake Yablitz. The horizon-sliding sun gilded the wide, still water and burnished the roofs of picturesque Lake Yablitz township.
As the road began to drop away before them, leading down to the bridge, the carriage horses slowed from a trot to a walk. The road’s left-hand side was open, while up ahead its right-hand side was crowded by a high and wide rock-strewn slope of hill. Spindly saplings struggled for life between the stones.
“Algernon…”
Gerald pulled himself back into the carriage, nerves scraped by the warning note in Bibbie’s voice. “Gladys?”
“What’s wrong?” said Melissande. “Is something wrong?”
Brows pinched in a frown, Bibbie was staring at the top of the hill, where rocks were carelessly scattered like a giant’s abandoned game of knucklebones.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “Algernon?”
His rear end might not be numb, but his potentia was feeling muffled. The grimoire parts of it, especially, resented Splotze’s tortured ether. He followed Bibbie’s troubled gaze to the hilltop, and risked a thaumaturgial look. Felt his own face collapse in a frown.
“I don’t know, either. There might be something. It’s hard to say.” The frown twisted into a sarcastic grimace. “I don’t like to cry wolf.”
Bibbie shook her head. “I take that back, Mister Rowbotham. You cry wolf as many times as you like.”
He was almost sure he couldn’t feel any rank thaumaturgics. But she was Monk’s sister. He’d be mad not to take her unease seriously.
Damn. And now I really wish Reg was here.
What he wouldn’t give to have her flying up there for a good stickybeak around. She’d become his second set of eyes, and he’d hardly noticed. Just taken her for granted.
I won’t do that again.
“Look,” said Melissande, “I don’t like to nag, but are we in trouble or aren’t we? Because if we are, I think someone has to tell Hartwig what’s going on.”
“Really?” said Bibbie. “You want to confess you’ve been lying to him since you got here? I don’t see how that’ll help.”
“No, it’ll be awful,” Melissande said, her expression dogged. “But that’s beside the point. I won’t sit here saying nothing if Ratafia and-”
“Stop it,” Gerald said. “Nobody’s saying anything, not unless I-”
Shooting bolts of pain obliterated coherent thought. As he slid boneless off his seat and onto the carriage floor, he heard Bibbie cry out, echoing his distress.
“Algernon! Gladys!” cried Melissande. “Coachman, coachman, stop! Something’s terribly wrong!”
Splotze’s ether had turned whiplike, lashing him in fury. The stench of grimoire thaumaturgics smothered his potentia, clogged his senses. He could barely breathe. He heard Bibbie’s harsh sobbing breaths, felt her fingers groping for his hand. He caught hold of her, a lifeline.
Another whipcrack of tainted magic, much closer this time. Coming from one of the other carriages? He thought so, but which one? The writhing ether was a blanket, blotting out sight.
Then Melissande gasped. “Oh, no! Look!”
Fighting pain and confusion, Gerald opened his eyes. Saw Bibbie, and tried to smile. And then he heard a deep, ominous grinding, rock against rock. The ether twisted tighter, convulsing. Horses whinnied in fear. Raised voices, coachmen shouting. Their carriage slewed to a halt, hard behind Hartwig’s carriage, nearly sliding off the road.
Melissande was on her feet, gaping in alarm. Gerald hauled himself to his knees, hauling Bibbie with him. Dazed by grimoire magic he looked at the bridge-just in time to see the first of three huge rocks plunge down the side of the steep hill and strike it. Timber shattered. Splinters flew. Water plumed as the hexed rocks smashed into the river below.
“Ratafia!” cried Melissande. “And Ludwig!”
Their carriage was a mere stone’s throw from the ruined bridge. Its horses reared and whinnied, terrified. The coachman was doing his best to control them, but he was losing the fight.
Shouts from Hartwig’s carriage. Then more shouts from behind, as the other guests panicked. Another stony, grinding rumble. Gerald choked on fresh pain, feeling Bibbie’s fingers close vise-like on his hand. He turned to see two more enormous boulders ponderously skipping down the hill, dragging with them a horde of smaller rocks, raising a dirt cloud, knocking stubby trees aside like skittles. The rocks struck the road, blocking it, scant feet from the rear of the last carriage containing Lord Babcock of Ottosland and his secretary, Hever Mistle. Its horses rose onto their hind legs, their terror leaping to the team pulling the Lanruvians’ carriage, directly in front.
There was nowhere to run. The wedding tour party was trapped.
Yet another deafening rumble and a shower of small stones. More rocks were sliding towards the road, towards the bridge. All the horses were fear-blinded now, rearing dangerously high and waving their forelegs, threatening to hurt themselves and each other. It was Putzi Gorge all over again, only a hundred times worse. The air was full of dust and shredded leaves and terror.
“Gerald, do something!” said Melissande, close to tears. “Those rocks are going to hit Ratafia’s carriage!”
He smeared his vision clear. Dammit, she was right. More rocks were sliding fast, half the hillside sliding with them. Where were Ratafia and Ludwig? Damn, they were still in the carriage, too frightened to leap out. Or maybe they were hurt. Either way…
He turned to Bibbie. “Hide me, Bibs. Now. Like you did in the gorge.”
A flash of her smile, still hers though she was Gladys. Burning within her, the wild, reckless courage that would not be denied. She flung her potentia around him… and he threw away his shield. Familiar light and strange darkness, bound within him as one. His grimoire potentia, twisted like the ether, shuddering to break free. If he let it loose, would he be safe? And could he find himself again? No choice. He had to risk it. If he got lost, Bibbie would find him.
Trusting her, he let go.
And nearly fell over with shock, because the Lanruvians, his prime suspects, were using their powers to avert disaster. Or trying to. Only they were failing. The men from Lanruvia weren’t the right kind of wizards.
But I am. Bloody hell.
Bibbie’s potentia was on fire, swirling around him like living flame. He was hiding in her inferno. He was running out of time. He let blind instinct guide him. Let the blocking and binding incants pour out of him in an almost silent stream and focused his will on preventing bloody death.
Come on, Dunnywood! Time to earn your damned keep!
The swiftly sliding rocks had been hexed to tumble and kill. A small part of his mind was screaming How? Who? But investigation had to wait. Drenched in sweat, his muscles shaking, he over-rode the filthy, murderous incants and bent the rocks to his will. Slowed them
… and slowed them… and told them to crack. He could hear Bibbie gasping as she kept him from sight, could hear Melissande’s whispered encouragement. Come on, come on, come on. And then Melissande shouted, gladly, and he shouted too, as the rocks shattered into shards that struck the road and the carriages and the unfortunate horses, drawing blood, gouging splinters… but not taking life.
With a strangled groan he collapsed in a heap on the floor of their carriage. Half a heartbeat later, Bibbie collapsed beside him. Her shroud of flames fell with her, leaving him exposed. But that didn’t matter, because he was his changed self again, his grimoire potentia under control. He wasn’t lost. He was safe. Not caring who could see him, he reached for Bibbie’s hand. Pulled her close and kissed her.
The world and its terrible troubles went away.
A hundred years later he opened his eyes and let her go. He could feel his silly Rowbotham face stretched wide in a smile. Gladys Slack was smiling too, but behind her face was Bibbie. His Bibbie. His heart.
Somewhere close by there was a lot of shouting and chaos. Horses whinnying. Dust settling. There was weeping, he could hear it. He looked up. It wasn’t Melissande. He’d have been very surprised if it was.
Still. She did look shaken, down to her bones. He clambered upright and put a hand on her shoulder.
“You’re all right, Mel? We’re all right. It’s over now, I think.”
