Wizard squared

CHAPTER FOUR

The other Ottosland, the same day

Right,” said Melissande. “I’ve had just about enough of this.”

Monk sighed. “I did warn you. Look, Melissande, they’ll get to us when they get to us so there’s no point-”

“No, Mr. Markham, there is every point! Because at the rate your precious Department’s going I’ll have qualified for the pension before they come to a decision!”

And stop calling me Melissande. Just because in a moment of weakness I sniveled all over you, that doesn’t mean you get to take liberites.

Except apparently it did, because she couldn’t quite bring herself to reprimand him out loud.

Squatting between them, Reg refluffed all her feathers and said, “Oh, give it a rest, you two, or I’ll do both of you a mischief.”

They were sitting uncomfortably side by side by side in a drab gray waiting room outside some official chamber or other in Ottosland’s antiquated Department of Thaumaturgy building. Apart from the back-breaking chairs there wasn’t a stick of furniture. Neither were there windows to look out of or any tedious old magazines to read. The room was cold and stuffy and not designed to succor its occupants.

Oh lord. I wish I knew what was happening to Gerald.

Shivering, she glanced through the open door to the drab gray corridor beyond. “Where the hell has Rupert got to? It doesn’t take this long to use the lavatory.”

“Ha,” said Reg. “He’s probably been side-tracked by a moth.”

“That’s not funny! Whatever you may think of him he really loved his butterflies, you horrible bird! And Lional killed them and now he’s grieving for them. He’s probably got his head buried in a towel right now, crying his heart out for those stupid, stupid insects!”

Monk, carelessly presumptuous and dangerously attractive, gave Reg a look. “You know, you’re really not helping.”

With an effort Melissande pulled herself back from the brink of embarrassment… and didn’t object when Monk took her hand in his. Even though she should. Even though public displays of affection were highly irregular. It was a wonder the bird wasn’t screeching about that, along with everything else.

“Nobody’s helping,” she muttered. “It was stupid to come here. Gerald had no business forcing me to come here. I should be at home, fighting for New Ottosland. After all, I’m prime minister and practically the queen!”

Not that she wanted to be. She couldn’t think of anything worse. I wonder if I’ll have to change my name to Lional…

Reg roused out of her slump. “Don’t you worry about New Ottosland, ducky. Gerald’s taking care of it. He’s a wizarding prodigy, he is. And we’ll be hearing from him any moment. You’ll see.”

She exchanged a mordant glance with Monk over the top of Reg’s head. Clearly the bird didn’t believe her own pep talk. I don’t believe it either. It’ll take more than a prodigy to beat Lional and his dragon. It’ll take a miracle… and I’m not sure they exist.

Monk tightened his fingers. “Don’t give up, Meli-I mean, Your Highness. The Department will come through for us. It’s just going to take a little time. It’s all such a bloody mess. At last count we’ve got five different nations involved and three of them aren’t officially talking to each other.”

Ah, politics. I am sick to death of politics. I think I’ll ban it when I’m queen. She pulled a face at him. “I’m not giving up. And call me Melissande.”

Despite his own imperfectly concealed worry, Monk’s lips quirked in a brief grin. “Thought you’d never ask. Look, do you want me to go hunting for Rupert while-”

The main chamber’s large double doors opened. “Come in, please,” said a discreet secretarial type dressed in sober black. “Lord Attaby will see you now.”

Abruptly aware of appearing less than her best, Melissande slid off the chair and lifted her chin, defiant. “And not a moment too soon. I was just about to make a Scene.”

As Reg hopped onto Monk’s waiting shoulder she marched past the discreet secretary and into the chamber. Stalked across the room’s dingy carpet, Monk and Reg at her heels, and halted in front of the long polished oak conference table on the far side of the room. There was a click behind her as the secretary closed the double doors.

To her fury she saw the Ottosland officials at the table had been drinking tea and eating biscuits. Tea and biscuits while my kingdom is dragged to hell in a hand-basket. How dare they? “Right,” she said, glaring at the three men ranged before her. “Which one of you is Lord bloody Attaby?”

The man in the middle, reeking of affluence and self-importance, inclined his head fractionally. His thinning silver hair was slicked to his skull with something smelly and expensive. “I am Lord Attaby, Minister of Thaumaturgy for the Ottosland government.”

She looked left then right at his silent bookends. “And these two?”

“My colleagues,” said Lord Attaby blandly.

“I see. And do they have names?”

“None that are relevant to these proceedings,” said Lord Attaby. “Madam.”

She snorted. “I’m not madam, I’m Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande, Prime Minister of New Ottosland and-and-Queen Presumptive.”

Lord Attaby laced his fingers before him, frowning. “Or so you claim.”

“ Claim?” she demanded. “What, you think I’m lying?”

“I think you are a young foreign woman lacking both identification and requisite travel documentation who has entered this country by dubious and possibly illegal means,” said Lord Attaby, looking down his nose at her. “And who, it would appear, has suborned one of its citizens into breaking some very, very serious laws.”

Monk stepped forward. “No, she hasn’t, Lord Attaby. That’s all on me. And she is who she says she is, I can vouch for that. Unless you think I’m lying too.”

Lord Attaby’s chilly expression plummeted below freezing. “It would appear, Mr. Markham, you have been laboring under the mistaken apprehension that your illustrious family name would afford you unlimited protection in this matter. Allow me to disabuse you of this naive-”

The man on Lord Attaby’s right lowered his almost-imperceptibly raised hand. Melissande looked at him more closely; anyone who could halt an aristocrat mid-tirade was worth examining. He was extremely… nondescript. Unlike Lord Attaby, whose shirt was silk, he wore plain cotton. His watchband was leather, not gold, and he altogether lacked a pampered air. His hooded gray eyes were years older than his round, faintly lined face and short, mousy brown hair suggested. He didn’t look like an enemy. He didn’t look like a friend. More than anything he looked like a greengrocer, or some other kind of inoffensive shopkeeper.

How very odd, she thought. I wonder who he is?

The man on Lord Attaby’s left took advantage of the silence and said, “Your part in this, Monk, will be dealt with in due course. For now let us focus on the reason for Her Highness’s unorthodox appearance in the country.”

Melissande glanced at Monk. He was subdued now and ever-so-slightly pink around the edges. “Yes, Unc-Sir Ralph.”

“Lord Attaby,” said Monk’s important relative, properly deferring. “Do continue, sir. I believe time is a commodity in short supply.”

“Time, Lord Attaby, has pretty well run out!” she said hotly. “At least for your citizen Professor Gerald Dunwoody! I’m assuming you do care about him at least, even if you couldn’t give a toss about the five dead wizards or the people of Kallarap or my people, in New Ottosland, some of whom are already dead because of this string of disasters! You know, none of this would ever have happened if people like you hadn’t failed to monitor Pomodoro Uffitzi more carefully! If he hadn’t got his hands on those dreadful grimoires I wouldn’t be standing here thaumaturgically related to a dragon!” She tilted her chin at him. “Now what have you to say about that?”

Lord Attaby sat back, thinly smiling. “A great deal, as it happens.” His fingers drummed the table, making his teaspoon dance on its saucer. “Am I to understand, Your Highness, that you… and your government… accept no responsibility for recent events? Are you claiming that your brother King Lional bears no culpability whatsoever for the murder of five wizards, one of whom was an Ottoslander, or the deaths of your unfortunate citizens and his intended invasion of your peaceful neighbor?”

Melissande felt herself turn red. “No,” she said curtly. “Of course Lional’s culpable. He’s also crazy. I’m not making excuses, I’m just giving you the facts.”

Lord Attaby’s smile was remarkably unpleasant. “In my experience, Prime Minister, facts are malleable things. They can be massaged to fit any number of scenarios depending upon a variety of preferred outcomes.”

“Really?” she said, seething.

He nodded. “Really.”

“How very interesting. Because in my experience that’s known as falsifying evidence. Manipulating the truth. To be blunt, Lord Attaby, it’s known as lying. Also covering your ass.”

The nondescript man on Lord Attaby’s right looked down, lips twitching. Monk’s illustrious relative frowned disapprovingly. Lord Attaby scowled, his pouchy face burnished dull crimson. “Young woman-”

“No, not ‘young woman,’” she snapped. “You were right the first time. Do at least try to keep the protocol intact.” Leaning her fists on the oak conference table she thrust her face into his. “Now let’s get something straight, my lord. As far as I’m concerned there’s plenty of blame to go around for this fiasco. And when it’s over by all means, let’s sit down with tea and biscuits and parcel it out like lumps of sugar. But before that, if it’s not too much to ask, could you and your hoity-toity Departmental chums here stop pointing fingers for five seconds and do something constructive?” She raked them with a furious gaze. “Because in case you’ve forgotten, gentlemen, people are dying! And in light of that, how I got here and so on and so forth is just a steaming pile of bollocks!”

“I’m so sorry, gentlemen,” said a brisk voice from the doorway. “You mustn’t be offended. My sister has a temper but her heart is in the right place. And as it happens this time I agree with her. We don’t have time for recriminations.”

Melissand spun around. “ Rupert? Rupert, where the hell have you been?”

As the discreet secretary closed the doors again Rupert walked towards her, one hand outstretched. “Darling Melly.” He still looked ridiculous in his ruined blue velvet knickerbockers and orange silk shirt but even so… something was different. He’d changed. The way he carried himself, the look in his eyes. Even the sound of his voice was different. No longer shrinkingly apologetic, but sure and strong. Reaching her, he took her hand and kissed her cheek. “I’ve been sorting out a few things. Lord Attaby?”

Horrible Lord Attaby was on his feet. So were his bookends. “Your Majesty,” he murmured. “I take it you and the Prime Minister have reached an agreement?”

“We have,” said Rupert. “Everything’s arranged.”

Dumbfounded, Melissande stared at Monk then Reg then back at Rupert. “I’m sorry,” she said, and pulled her hand free. “ What’s arranged? Rupert, what are you-”

He kissed her cheek again. “I’ll explain everything later. You have my word. But right now you need to come with me, all of you. We don’t have much time if we’re going to save Gerald.”

Folding her arms, she shook her head. “Sorry, Rupert, but I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on. This has been a very long, very bad day, and I’m just about ready to-”

Without even so much as a courteous knock the drab chamber’s doors banged open again and an alarmingly flustered minion scuttled in, a piece of paper clutched in one hand. Lord Attaby, freshly crimson, thumped a fist on the table. This time all three teaspoons, and the teacups, leaped and rattled in their saucers.

“Juby! What is the meaning of this? We are in private session! Have you taken leave of your few paltry senses, man, barging in here when-”

“I’m sorry, my lord. I’m terribly sorry,” the minion wailed. He had an odd, squarish-shaped face and every inch of it was sweating. “But this couldn’t wait.” He thrust the piece of paper at outraged Lord Attaby. “From Priority Monitoring, my lord.”

Lord Attaby flicked a glance left and right at his silently concerned bookends then took the piece of paper from Juby. Melissande heard an odd little sound beside her and turned, to see Monk easing a finger between throat and shirt collar. His eyes were wide and glassy with concern.

“What?” she murmured. “Monk, what’s going on?”

“Dunno,” he murmured back. “But it won’t be good.”

“Priority Monitoring means trouble?”

He nodded. “Big trouble.”

“What kind?”

“Sorry. No idea.”

“Reg?”

Still firmly ensconced on Monk’s shoulder, the dratted bird ruffled her feathers and shrugged. “Don’t ask me, ducky. Bang their snooty heads together if you want some answers.”

Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. “Lord Attaby, what-”

“Hush, Mel,” said her strangely altered brother, with an authority she’d never before heard in his voice. “Wait.”

Lord Attaby was rereading the urgent note with a look on his face that said he hadn’t believed it the first time and didn’t want to believe it now. Was it a trick of the chamber’s lighting or could she see sweat on his brow? Silently the minister pushed the note towards Monk’s important uncle, who pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his inside coat pocket, placed them precisely on his nose and read the minion’s urgent missive.

Monk’s important uncle stopped breathing, just for a moment.

“If I may?” the nondescript third man at the table said quietly, and held out his hand. Without bothering to ask Lord Attaby’s permission Monk’s uncle passed the note to him. The nondescript man read it, just the once. When he was finished he closed his eyes. Melissande, watching him, thought it the most alarming thing she’d ever seen. Because in his eyes, before he’d hidden them…

Oh lord. Oh Saint Snodgrass. This is bad, isn’t it?

“All right,” she said, heedless of good manners and international protocol. “What exactly is going on? What’s this Priority Monitoring station, and what’s it monitored that’s put all three of you terribly self-contained gentlemen into a tizzy?”

As the minion Juby’s eyes bugged nearly out of his head at her tone, and Rupert touched warning fingers to her arm, and Lord Attaby sucked in a swift, offended breath, the nondescript man flicked the piece of paper across the table towards her.

“See for yourself, Your Highness.”

“ Sir Alec! I have not-”

“We can’t hide it from them, my lord,” said the mysterious Sir Alec, who looked like a greengrocer but clearly wasn’t. “We might not like it but they are involved.”

Before Rupert could take the note she snatched it off the table and scanned the scribbled message. “ An unprecedented thaumaturgical event. What’s that when it’s at home?” She glanced at the note again. “Or in this case New Ottosland.”

“Show me,” said Monk, and plucked the note from her suddenly cold fingers. He read it quickly then looked up, every last skerrick of color drained from his cheeks. “Are you sure about this, Jubes? Somebody’s not playing a practical joke?”

“Of course I’m sure!” said the minion Juby, his voice shaking. “I was bloody there, wasn’t I, when the alarms went off. The gauges melted, Monk. They’re nothing but etheretic goo. I’m telling you-” And then he choked to a halt as Lord Attaby thumped the table again. “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s just-I never-”

“You’re dismissed, Juby,” said Lord Attaby coldly. “Get back to your post. And not a word about this to anyone who wasn’t present at the time, is that clear?”

Juby nodded so hard and fast his neck almost snapped. “My lord,” he squeaked, and fled.

“I think, Lord Attaby,” Rupert said in the same mild voice Lional used just before somebody was made very sorry for something, “that you need to explain what’s going on.”

His expression horribly grim, Lord Attaby folded his hands neatly on the table. “I can’t do that, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, I think you can,” said Rupert. Never in his whole life had he sounded so dangerous. “And I think you will. This business touches upon my kingdom and its welfare. Therefore you will tell me-”

“He can’t,” said Sir Alec, the deceptive greengrocer. “Because he doesn’t know. None of us knows precisely what has happened in your kingdom, Your Majesty. Only that it’s catastrophic.”

“Yes, but what does that mean exactly?” Melissande demanded. “Are you saying that between them Gerald and Lional have-have-that somehow they’ve managed to destroy the whole place?”

“That’s-unlikely,” said Sir Alec. “But something has definitely occurred, something-”

“If you say catastrophic one more time,” she said crossly, “I will give you such a smack.”

He blinked at her, once. “Something we are currently unable to quantify,” he said at last, “beyond the fact that the event is unprecedented.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means Gerald’s in even more trouble than he was when we left,” said Monk, furious. “I’m a blithering idiot. I never should have let him-”

“Please, Mr. Markham,” said Rupert, “let’s not. I’m sure once the dust has settled there’ll be plenty of blame to go around. Now. This unprecedented thaumaturgical event. It seems obvious to me that either Gerald or my unfortunate brother Lional is behind it. If it’s Gerald then I venture we have cause for optimism. But if it’s Lional — ”

Melissande flinched. Found herself wishing quite desperately that she could take hold of Monk Markham’s hand. “Please don’t say that, Rupes. I don’t think I could bear it if-” She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words out loud. “Sir Alec, can’t you tell who’s behind what’s happened?”

Sir Alec shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rupert, very clipped. “But I find that hard to believe. It’s my understanding Ottosland’s Department of Thaumaturgy prides itself on being the most comprehensive establishment of its kind in the world. And yet there you sit claiming you can’t tell who has triggered this unprecedented thaumaturgic event?”

As the three men at the table exchanged inscrutable looks, Monk cleared his throat. “Actually, Your Highness, it’s true. We can’t. Our international monitoring stations aren’t calibrated that way. Not for individual thaumic signatures. Sorry.”

Rupert stared at Monk, and Monk stared at Rupert. Then Rupes nodded, apparently satisfied.

Struck again by how different her brother was, Melissande touched Monk’s sleeve. “Can’t you work out what’s happened? I mean, you were able to find Bondaningo’s thaumic signature in the hex Lional put on my doors and… well… Gerald’s your best friend. If anyone can work out if he’s the one behind this thaumaturgical event, surely it’s you.”

Painful shadows shifted in Monk’s eyes. “Melissande-Your Highness-I would if I could, believe me. But it doesn’t work like that. I don’t think anyone’s been able to read a thaumaturgic event long-distance. At least not this kind of long-distance.”

“True,” said Sir Alec, suspiciously mild. “But to my knowledge, Mr. Markham, nobody has ever invented a portable portal before, either. So perhaps Her Highness’s suggestion isn’t-”

“Now you wait a moment, Alec,” said Monk’s uncle. “That’s my reprobate of a nephew you’re enticing into yet more unsanctioned, unpalatable and patently unsafe thaumaturgic shenanigans and I don’t appreciate you meddling in my family’s-”

“Thank you, Sir Ralph,” Lord Attaby snapped. “Your sentiments are understandable but irrelevant. This is a crisis and in a crisis it’s a case of all hands on deck. Mr. Markham-”

Monk jumped, then yelped as Reg dug all her claws through his coat to stop herself from falling off his shoulder. “My lord?”

“Can you do it?” said Lord Attaby, leaning across the polished oak conference table toward him. “Are you able to ascertain which wizard is behind this unprecedented thaumaturgic event?”

“Um,” said Monk, his voice strangled. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“How, Monk?” said his uncle, incredulous. “You’ve no reference points, no thaumic signature on record for comparisons, no-”

“Oh dear,” said Lord Attaby, all his teeth on show in a deeply unamused smile. “And would that be guilt plastered across your face, Mr. Markham?” He looked at Sir Ralph. “I think there’s something your enterprising nephew has neglected to tell us, Sir Ralph.”

Sir Ralph covered his face with one hand. “When this is over, I am going to kill him.”

“Certainly that would be one way of solving the problem,” Lord Attaby agreed. “But if we could for the moment stay focused on our more immediate concerns?” Sitting back, he laced his fingers across his middle. “Come now, Mr. Markham. Those of a religious persuasion tell us confession is good for the soul. If I were you I’d start confessing, for I suspect your soul needs all the help it can get.”

Melissande tightened her fingers on Monk’s arm. “Please? You might be New Ottosland’s only hope. And whatever trouble you get into afterwards, Rupert and I will help you out of it. My promise as a princess and a prime minister and an almost-queen.”

With a groan, his face milky pale, Monk nodded. Then he looked at his three superiors, grimly entrenched behind the oak conference table. “I covered up for Gerald when he transmogged King Lional’s cat into a lion.”

“I’m sorry?” said Lord Attaby, after a moment. His ferocious smile had vanished behind a frown. “Did I hear you aright? You falsified official Department records?”

“No!” said Monk, alarmed. “No, of course not, Lord Attaby. I just-I turned off the monitoring alarm before anyone else heard it and reset the etheretic calibrators. The information should still be there. All I did was… gloss over it.”

“All you did,” his appalled uncle moaned. “Nephew, I swear-”

“So what you’re saying,” said Sir Alec, before Monk’s uncle made good on his murderous threat, “is that we have a captured sample of Mr. Dunwoody’s enhanced thaumic signature?”

Monk nodded. “Provided nobody’s accidentally purged the records, yes.”

“And you’re confident you can use this sample to establish the cause of our monitoring meltdown?”

“Confident, sir?” Monk swallowed. “Well, I don’t know about confident but I’ll give it my best shot.”

Lord Attaby pushed his heavy oak chair back from the table and stood. “Then I suggest we waste no more time on recriminations and expostulations and instead get on down to Priority Monitoring. Your Majesty, I’ll have you and your-er-your prime minister escorted to a more comfortable chamber where you can-”

Melissande gave him a look worthy of Lional. “Oh no, you won’t. This is our kingdom you’re talking about, my lord. We’re coming down to Priority Monitoring with you. Aren’t we, Rupert?”

“Why yes, Melissande,” Rupert drawled. “I rather think we are.”

For the briefest moment she thought Lord Attaby might argue the point-but then he gave up. Smart man. “Very well,” he sighed. “Upon the understanding, Your Majesty, that you will be under the strictest code of confidentiality. Whatever you see or hear cannot be discussed with anyone not currently in this chamber. And frankly, after today, I’d rather it were never discussed again. Do I have your word on that?”

“You do, Lord Attaby,” said Rupert, with the most regal nod. “Mine and my sister’s.”

Lord Attaby heaved another sigh. “Fine. Mr. Markham, find somewhere to put that ridiculous bird, will you? This is the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy, not a zoological garden. And if you can’t procure a cage you can stuff it in a cupboard!”

“I beg your bloody pardon?” said Reg, tail feathers rattling. “Stuff yourself in a cupboard, you silly old goat!”

A paralyzed silence. And then Monk plucked Reg off his shoulder and held her up to his face, nose-to-beak. “You had to do it, didn’t you?” he said, sounding desperate. “You had to mouth off and make everything worse. You couldn’t just-just sit in a cage for an hour until I worked out how to help Gerald, could you?”

“Oh, please!” Reg retorted. “As if Gerald’s getting out of this pickle without my help! This pickle you landed him in, sunshine, when you showed him madam’s stupid Position Vacant advertisement without waiting to consult me on whether-”

“Oh for the love of Saint Snodgrass, would the pair of you shut up?” Melissande shouted, and fetched Monk a resounding clout on the back of his head. “What’s wrong with you? Carping and bickering while Gerald’s in trouble!”

“Hey!” said Monk, turning on her. “D’you mind? That hurt!”

“Really?” she retorted. “I find that hard to believe, seeing as how your head’s a solid block of wood!”

Reg rattled her tail even harder than before. “Ha! You tell him, ducky!”

“Shut up, Reg, or I’ll clout you too,” she said, glaring. “Monk’s right, ducky. You should’ve kept your beak shut. I was just about to tell Lord Attaby that you had to come with us because you’re a beloved childhood pet but now — ”

“Now,” said Lord Attaby, his expression forbidding, “I can see we have yet another crisis to contain. I take it this isn’t a mere trained talking bird?”

“Far from it,” said Sir Alec. His voice and face were impassive but there was a definite gleam in his chilly gray eyes. “In fact, my lord, upon a closer examination, I think you’ll find this isn’t a bird at all.”

Lord Attaby stared at him. “Not a bird? What are you talking about man, it’s got feathers. And a beak.”

“True,” said Sir Alec. “But appearances can be deceiving-can’t they, Your Majesty?”

With a puffing effort Reg wrenched herself free of Monk’s grip and flapped onto the oak conference table. Head tipped to one side, she gazed gimlet-eyed at him.

“Speaking from experience, are we, sunshine?”

“Something like that,” said Sir Alec, dry as a desert. “And when this current crisis is resolved I’m sure it will be most edifying to compare notes. But in the meantime-” He turned. “My lord, the bird might well prove useful to our cause. I suggest it accompanies us down to Priority Monitoring.”

Lord Attaby’s jaw dropped. “You suggest-” And then he shook his head. “Very well, Sir Alec. There’s no time for a lengthy debate-and Saint Snodgrass knows your instincts have proven sound in the past. But you can stand surety for its trustworthiness.”

Melissande held out her arm. “Come on, Reg. Let’s go.”

So Reg hopped onto her arm and from there to her shoulder and they all trooped down into the bowels of the Department of Thaumaturgy building, a stiff-backed Lord Attaby leading the way. The Priority Monitoring station was a small, windowless cubbyhole buried beneath floors and floors of less-secret government divisions. Almost every square foot was crammed full of cluttered desks and rickety chairs and extraordinary machines sprouting gauges and thaumostats and wiggly, jiggly thaumatographs. Some of them had indeed melted to goo.

“Everybody out,” Lord Attaby ordered, sweeping his goggle-eyed minions with a glare guaranteed to petrify wood. “In fact, go home. You’re relieved of duty until tomorrow. And not a word about any of this, do I make myself clear? Consider yourselves bound by the Official Secrets Act.”

A chorus of obedient Yes, sirs, and then the four astonished wizards, including Juby, departed before their superior could change his mind about the early mark.

“Right then,” said Lord Attaby, once they were alone. “Get on with it, Mr. Markham.”

As Monk stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, and Lord Attaby withdrew to quietly confer with Sir Alec and Sir Ralph, Melissande let Rupert tug her sideways for their own private conference.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, smoothing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“No, of course I’m not,” she said, feeling snappish. Refusing to be charmed by his sweet, caring gesture. “Rupert, what’s going on? What’s happened to you?”

Rupert looked at Reg. “Do you mind?”

“Huh,” Reg said, sniffing. “All these public displays of affection. Not what I’d call royal, ducky.”

“Nobody asked you, Reg,” she said, and twitched her shoulder. “Get off. I want to hug my brother.”

“I don’t know,” Reg grumbled, and hopped onto the back of the nearest empty chair. “No decorum. That’s your problem, ducky. You’ve got no bloody decorum.”

Folded hard to Rupert’s skinny chest, surprised by the sudden wiry strength in his arms, she rested her cheek against his velvet coat and sighed.

“You knew all along there was something the matter with Lional, didn’t you?”

“I’m afraid I did, yes, Melly,” said Rupert, his voice aching with regret. “Since I was a boy. Sorry. It wasn’t safe to tell you.”

There was so much she could have said. But what was the point? It wouldn’t change a single thing that had happened.

“Oh, Mel,” Rupert sighed. “I knew he was bad, and probably mad, but I never dreamed about the wizards.”

She tightened her embrace. “Oh, Rupes. None of this is your fault. And it’s not mine, either. This is Lional’s doing, all of it.”

“Mel…”

She could feel the tears crowding thickly in her throat. “I know,” she said, choking. “He has to be stopped. And if he won’t surrender willingly-”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Of course they could hope-but hope wasn’t exactly a fearsome weapon, was it? “What d’you suppose has happened back home?” she whispered. “D’you think it’s possible Gerald’s managed to-to kill him?”

Rupert shook his head. “I don’t know. Is Gerald the kind of chap who could bring himself to kill?”

Shamelessly eavesdropping, Reg snorted. “Blimey bloody Charlie. You won’t last five minutes as king with that kind of noddy thinking, Butterfly Boy. Every man jack in the world has got at least one murder in him. Justified or not, in cold blood or in hot. And after what your charming brother did to my Gerald-”

Melissande pulled out of her brother’s arms. Felt herself shudder, remembering what Gerald had told them in the cave. Seeing Rupert’s confusion, she patted his cheek.

“I’ll explain later, Rupes.”

Over at one of the terribly complicated thaumaturgical monitoring stations that hadn’t melted to goo, Monk sat back with a relieved sigh. “All right. The information’s still here.” He held up a small crystal. “I’ve copied it.”

“Very well,” said Lord Attaby, tight-lipped and tense. “What now?”

“Now, sir?” Monk wiped a shirt-sleeve across his sweaty face. “Now I figure out what the hell is going on in New Ottosland. I hope.”