Wizard Undercover ra-4, page 36
part #4 of Rogue agent Series
She left Sir Alec’s other janitor locked in Mitzie’s room. Made her way back down the long spiral staircase, through the heavy leather curtain and into the kitchens, caught Mitzie’s eye and dropped the little brass key on the floor, in passing. Then she returned to the Entrance Hall, where she took a moment to catch her breath amid the shining suits of armour.
Saint Snodgrass preserve her. What should she do now? Tell Hartwig? Lord, no. He likely wouldn’t believe her. Or worse, he would, and he’d confront Norbert, and all hell would break loose. No. Her only choice was to find Gerald. She nearly laughed out loud.
Find Gerald? Down at the Canal? When the Canal’s overflowing with tourists? How am I s’posed to do that? Stand on a rubbish bin and wave my arms until he sees me?
Well, yes. If she had to. If that was what it took. What a mercy she’d not changed out of her second-best day dress and comfortable shoes.
Heart racing, once again despicably close to tears, she took a deep breath, then another, and then headed down to the Canal.
Not hand in hand, but nearly, Gerald walked with Bibbie along the noisily festive streets of Grande Splotze, at long last close to reaching the Canal. Splotze’s capital was more crowded than ever, the air fairly humming with excited anticipation for the fireworks, and the wedding, and the dawn of a new day for Splotze and Borovnik.
“Blimey,” said Bibbie, her voice almost lost in the babble and din. “If we walk any slower we’ll be going backwards. I’ve never seen so many different nationalities in the same place at the same time.”
“It’s a sight, isn’t it?” he agreed. “Careful. Mind your step.”
Bibbie neatly avoided tripping into the smelly gutter. Bumped shoulders with a man from Graff, prettily apologised, then laughed.
“Lord, Algernon. What a crush!”
Yes. So many people. Too many. Imagining the panic and chaos if the fireworks went wrong, if he failed to prevent disaster, he shuddered. And then he jumped, as Bibbie took his arm.
“Stop that, Mister Rowbotham. Everything’s going to be fine.”
He looked down at her, and felt his heart leap. Breaking every promise he’d made to Monk, to himself, he’d kissed her. Abandoned cautious pragmatism… and opened the floodgates to love.
And I’m not sorry. In fact, as soon as I can I’m going to kiss her again.
“Algernon?” Bibbie gave his arm a little shake. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, and smiled, despite the danger. “Hold tight, Miss Slack. I’m done with dawdling. We’re going to pick up the pace.”
Using his potentia to nudge laggardly pedestrians out of their way, he hurried them across the last main thoroughfare and down several winding side streets until they reached the Canal promenade.
“Oh!” said Bibbie, delighted by the clowns and the jugglers and the cheeky dancing monkeys. “What a pity we don’t have time to play.”
He bent his head to her. “Maybe tomorrow. Let’s get past today first.”
“All right,” said Bibbie. “But before we do anything else, can we stop for a drink and something to eat?”
“Are your ribs playing knucklebones again?”
“They’re considering it,” she said. “Please, Algernon? We’ve got time.”
They had a little time, yes. And truth be told, he was hungry too. So they chose a food stall with the shortest queue, and bought cups of fresh cherry juice and fat spiced sausages, their skins split and dribbling juices. Then they cheated their way to a patch of grass on the Canal green and sat in the gradually waning afternoon sunshine to enjoy their hasty meal. To be safe, even though the tourists around them were caught up in the excitement of their own lives, Gerald blurred himself and Bibbie so they couldn’t be overhead.
“Clever,” said Bibbie, noticing. “And tricky. Learn that one in the Department, did you?”
No. He’d made it up just then. I want something, I get it. As simple as that. Except it wasn’t meant to be so simple. That was how the other Gerald had thought. That was grimoire magic’s slippery slope. And was he even now starting that insidious slide?
Bibbie was waiting for him to answer. “Must’ve done,” he said, and pointed. “Look. Doesn’t that monkey there remind you of Errol Haythwaite?”
Giggling, she poked him. “Now, now, Mister Rowbotham. Poor little monkey. It’s not nice to make fun.”
“It isn’t? Then please accept my apologies, Miss Slack.”
She grinned. He grinned. They drank their cherry juice and ate their sausages and pretended they were two regular people without a care in the world.
Meal finished, licking grease from her fingers, Bibbie looked at him sidelong. “Algernon, you’re not really furious with Melissande, are you?”
Bloody Melissande. “I was. Maybe I still am. A bit. She crossed the line, Gladys. She agreed I was in charge here, and then-” He ate some more sausage. “She agreed I was in charge.”
“Yes, I know, but she’s Melissande,” said Bibbie. “You can’t really be surprised.”
No. Not really. “Sir Alec’s going to go spare.”
Bibbie shrugged. “Maybe. I think it depends on how everything turns out.”
Trust Bibbie to make him confront the unpalatable truth. This impromptu picnic was nothing but a mirage. He wasn’t Algernon Rowbotham on an outing with his young lady. He was a janitor with a job to do.
And Bibbie shouldn’t be here.
“But I am here, Gerald,” she said sharply. “And I’m not going away.”
How did she do that? How did she always know?
A fleeting, dimpled smile. “Monk’s not the only one who can read you like hieroglyphics.”
“Bibbie-”
She covered his hand with hers. Her touch was warm. Exciting. Comforting. Perilous. If he closed his eyes he’d see her true face, not the made-up brown eyes and dark hair of demure Gladys Slack.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Gerald,” she said quietly. No smiles now, no teasing. “I know what’s happened. To you. The grimoire magic and your potentia. I’m not entirely sure when, but I’m guessing it was in Abel Bestwick’s lodging.”
His mouth was dry, his heart sickly pounding. “You can’t know that.”
“Of course I can,” she said. “I’m Emmerabiblia Markham. And just so you know? I’m not afraid of you.”
He had to look away. “Perhaps you should be.”
“Gerald…” She sighed, her fingers tightening around his. “Listen to me. You aren’t him. He was a monster… and you’re the man I love.”
It couldn’t be right, to feel this happy. Not when the fate of two countries and countless lives hung in the balance, depending on him. Not when he could hear that other Gerald’s grimoire magic whispering in his blood.
Bibbie leaned in and kissed him, the merest butterfly brushing of her lips against his. “We need to get down to the Canal front. It’s time to inspect those fireworks pontoons.”
Yes. It was. But, as it turned out, that was going to be a great deal more easily said than done.
“Blimey,” said Bibbie, as they stood before the crowded Canal wall and stared across the water at the twenty pontoons tethered ready for the night’s event. “I wish you’d been right the first time, Algernon. I don’t think we’re going to get this done with a pilfered rowboat.”
“Even if there was a rowboat to pilfer,” he agreed. “And there’s not.”
The Canal had been entirely emptied of water craft. There wasn’t even a royal barge, because these were the wedding fireworks and after the last gloriously burning ember winked out, the wedding party would be returning to the palace for the reception, crab puffs to be conspicuously absent, then the marriage ceremony, then the treaty signing, and last of all the fifteen-course State Dinner.
Bibbie was frowning. “Gosh. I can feel the wardings from here. Can’t you?”
He certainly could. It seemed Hartwig was taking no chances with these fireworks, relying on someone sterner than Radley Blayling to keep them safe from Splotze’s erratic and exasperating etheretic field. But were they also stern enough to keep them safe from something worse?
“I can’t feel anything else, though,” Bibbie murmured. “Nothing rotten. No tampering.”
And neither could he. It was almost as though that sickening sense of danger he’d felt in the palace had been no more substantial than a dream.
“Mind you,” she added, “I didn’t feel the hexes at the Hanging Bridge until it was too late.” She shivered. “Whoever’s behind this is awfully good, Algernon.”
He nodded. “I know. But we’re better.”
We have to be. Because if we’re not…
Two sections of the Canal front had been cordoned off from the general public, with floating platforms put in place for a uniquely intimate view of the fireworks. One section was for the wedding party and its important guests, and the other was set aside for the lucky minions and lackeys who’d been deemed worthy of a front row seat.
Gerald patted his coat pocket. “Here’s an idea. We’ve got our passes, and without a rowboat I think that floating platform is the nearest we’re going to get to those bloody pontoons. If I’m right and something happens, sitting right down the front gives us our best chance of foiling the plot.”
But the palace guard they showed their passes to wouldn’t let them through the cordon. Far too early. Come back at sunset. Crown Prince’s orders. Go away.
Gerald was tempted to compel him, but Bibbie hustled him off before he could succumb.
“It was a good idea in theory,” she said. “But I think we’d cause a stir, sitting there all by ourselves for the next two-and-a-bit hours. It’s best if we blend in. Isn’t it?”
He was getting impatient. Letting fear over-ride good judgement. If Frank Dalby was here, there’d be some withering scorn.
“You’re right,” he said. “But we’ll keep wandering around the promenade. If there’s a change in the ether, if any grimoire thaumaturgics start stirring, here is the most likely place we’ll feel them.”
This was a mistake, Melissande thought, fetching up against a Canal promenade lamp post to catch her breath. What was I thinking? I’m never going to find Gerald and Bibbie in this wretched crowd.
Tourists and dancing dogs and jugglers and food stalls and ridiculous people on stilts. What sane adult staggered about the place on stilts? She must’ve been out of her mind. She should’ve stayed in the palace and waited for Gerald and Bibbie to come back. Or dragged Abel Bestwick out of Mitzie’s room and taken him to see Hartwig and bugger the politics. What was a little spying between not-currently-enemies when lives were at stake?
Harenstein? This is all Harenstein’s fault? How did I not see it? How did Gerald not see it? He’s the janitor here. It’s supposed to be his job!
It was getting late. According to Mister Ibblie’s polite list of instructions, anyone fortunate enough to be included with the wedding party should be dressed and ready to depart the palace at dusk. That meant she should go back now, because of the crowds and having to bathe and dress up for the night. And if Bibbie wasn’t waiting for her in their guest suite she’d have to dress herself, which would be interesting. She might need to kidnap a passing maid.
Saint Snodgrass preserve me. I never asked for this. When I get home, Sir Alec and I are going to have words.
“Look,” said Bibbie, pointing, as the gathered crowd on the promenade began chanting and cheering. “There’s the wedding party. Doesn’t Ratafia look sweet? Oh, and there’s Melissande. In purple. Hmm.” She frowned. “Which means she dressed herself. What a pity. Maybe that’s why she looks like she’s swallowed a hedgehog. But she did know not to expect us back, didn’t she?”
Gerald nodded. “I thought so.”
“Then maybe Ratafia’s still not speaking to her. Or maybe Erminium is.”
“Maybe,” he said, but he wasn’t really paying attention. They were standing on the Canal green edge closest to the cordoned-off royal enclosures. The promenade was lamplit now, dusk velvety and star-studded. Moths flirted with the glowing gaslights. Everywhere he looked he saw Grande Splotze’s townsfolk and visitors, laughing and cheering and clapping and innocent.
“Oh, at last,” said Bibbie. “They’re letting the minions into their pen. Come on, Algernon, quickly. Before we’re left stuck up the back. Although perhaps it won’t matter, since everything’s so quiet.”
Yes. The ether was quiet, more or less. Still twisted. Uniquely Splotzeish. But not tainted or tortured, ready to erupt in killing and maiming grimoire magic.
So why do I feel so jittery?
“Algernon?” Bibbie tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s go.”
There was a band playing on the Canal green. Too big for the gazebo, it had swallowed up half the grass and was serenading the crowd with cheerful music, lots of horns and trumpets, merry tunes to tap the toes. He wanted to clap his hands and melt those trumpets. He wanted to snap every violin string with a thought.
“Algernon.”
He took a step back. Looked at Bibbie. “No, Gladys. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
How could he explain his sudden sense of dread? There weren’t any words that made sense. But then he didn’t make sense, did he? That was what being rogue meant.
Bibbie’s expression changed. “I don’t feel anything. What do you feel?”
“Afraid,” he said. “I can’t go down there, Bibbie. And I can’t stay out here, with the crowd. Too many people. I can’t see. I can’t think. I need space, I need-”
The Grande Splotze observation tower.
“Up there?” said Bibbie, following his gaze. “Gerald, are you sure?”
He took her hand and pulled her with him, reckless with his potentia as he bullied tourist after tourist out of their way.
The observation tower was closed to the public, its gate secured with chain and lock. A wave of his hand blurred him and Bibbie from detection. A single word swung the gate wide.
“Ah… Gerald…” said Bibbie, stepping over the discarded security chain. “Perhaps you’d better-”
He snapped his fingers twice, and the gate clanged closed and warded behind them.
“Right,” said Bibbie, half-laughing. “Very efficient.”
“I’m sorry, there are quite a lot of stairs,” he said, looking up. “Four hundred and twenty-three, if you’re counting. I know-” he added, as she groaned. “It’s a bugger, but there you are.”
The cheerful band music helped them keep time as they climbed. The jostling crowd below made a sound like the ocean, no words up here, only a susurration of voices. They reached the top of the tower, panting, and gasped for air beneath the darkening sky and the distant stars.
Bibbie moved to the viewing platform’s warded edge and looked down at the Canal, crowded with fireworks pontoons. Then she looked back over her shoulder, her eyes bright with courage.
“Right, then, Mister Dunwoody. What now?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The fireworks were about to start any moment. Seated with Hartwig on the crowded wedding party viewing platform, since poor gouty Brunelda was still confined to her couch, Melissande craned her neck to see in between the guests from Ottosland and Fandawandi and Graff and Blonkken, across to the next platform where various and sundry minions and lackeys were laughing and chatting and drinking cider.
Algernon Rowbotham and Gladys Slack, who’d not returned to the palace, weren’t among them.
Oh, lord. Oh, Saint Snodgrass. I hope they’re all right.
She also hoped the fireworks weren’t tampered with, because thanks to their special viewing platform she was sitting awfully bloody close.
Erminium, ruler-straight in the chair on Hartwig’s other side, was making clear her opinion of spoiled rotten servants who didn’t know how to enjoy themselves quietly.
Norbert of Harenstein, standing nearby with his young, beautiful wife, sighed and wagged a finger at the Dowager Queen. “Come, come, Erminium. It’s not so bad.”
Swallowing, Melissande stared at him as he coaxed Ratafia’s perpetually dissatisfied mother into taking another glass of cherry liqueur. How could Norbert be involved in the plot? He was here, with his empty-headed marquise. If the fireworks had been tampered with he’d be somewhere else, surely.
Like Volker and Dermit. They’re not here either. But then, they really are villains.
Of course, if Gerald was wrong again, and the fireworks were safe, then perhaps Norbert was a villain, too.
I hate this. I’ve had enough. I want to go home.
“Melissande?” said Ratafia, who’d decided to forgive her. She stood resplendent in topaz-gold silk, with Ludwig’s arm about her slender waist, blooming like a bride. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, smiling, feeling sick enough to weep. “I’m just excited.”
“So am I!” said Ratafia, her beautiful face aglow. “I love fireworks, and I love Luddie. This will be a perfect night!”
Melissande nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
A perfect night, or perfectly dreadful. If only I knew which.
“Blimey, I hate waiting,” said Bibbie. “How lucky are you, Gerald, that I’m not scared of heights?”
Pacing the observation tower’s viewing platform, skin crawling, palms sweating, Gerald stared down at the fireworks pontoons.
“Very. Can you feel anything yet?”
She sighed. “No. Still not yet.”
No. He dragged his hand down his face, felt the tremble in his fingers. Dread was alive in him now, howling through his bones.
Damn and blast. What I wouldn’t give to be wrong.
With a whistling rush the first fireworks ignited, tracing lines of green and gold against the deepening night sky. The crowd roared, drowning the screaming whizz of the thaumaturgically enhanced gunpowder. All the smiling upturned faces, splashed with colour, reflected wonder and joy. Next came a blossoming of flowers, gold and crimson and purple and white, promise of a distant spring.
Bibbie turned, laughing. “Look at them, Gerald. They’re fabulous!”
