Wizard Undercover

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Alarmed, Ratafia stretched out her hand. “Are you all right, Melissande? You’ve gone awfully pale.”

“What? Oh. Yes. I’m fine.” With her knees suddenly wobbly, she clutched at the promenade deck’s polished hand rail. And that’s a lie, it’s a great big fib. Staring over the barge’s side, all the way down to the greenish-grey water and the piebald ducks with their yellow beaks and curly tails, industriously paddling, Melissande breathed hard and waited for the horror to subside. “Though I think your mother might be right,” she added, over her shoulder. “That peppercorn sauce. Especially on top of everything else!”

“Hartwig does love his food,” Ratafia said, with a smothered giggle. “And he loves to share. I shall have to be careful or I’ll not fit into my wedding dress.”

Ratafia’s wedding dress. Her wedding. Scant days away now, and no hope of changing her mind. The scandal would be lethal. Frozen, Melissande stared at the ducks. So many of them. This stretch of the Canal was like a little duck city.

How can I ask her if Ludwig’s love is real? I can’t. She’ll pitch me over the side. I’ll create an international incident and Sir Alec will go spare.

She uncramped her fingers from the hand rail and made herself turn round. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Ratafia. I’m sure you’ll look beautiful.”

“Well, I hope so,” Ratafia sighed. “Because I do want to make Luddie proud. And I want to make Borovnik proud, too. This marriage is so important. It’s our chance, perhaps our only chance, for lasting peace.”

She really was a sweet girl. Too sweet, perhaps, to survive the shark-infested waters into which she was about to plunge.

Unless of course she’s lying. Maybe I’m wrong about Ludwig. Maybe Ratafia is being pressured to marry and the only way out is to sabotage her own wedding.

It wasn’t a completely far-fetched notion. Hadn’t she done her own feeble best to scupper Lional’s mad plan to marry her off? And so what if Ratafia was sweet? That could be an act. Beneath the sweetness, the girl might well be a seething morass of bitter scheming. Look at Permelia Wycliffe, that so-called bastion of Ottish Pastry Guild respectability. As it turned out, the woman had been a bogtrotting nutter.

“Melissande?” said Ratafia, anxious. “Are you sure you’re all right? You do look rather odd.”

Ignoring the churning nerves, she made herself smile at Borovnik’s princess. “Well, to be honest, Ratafia, I am a trifle worried. About you. Because I think I know a little bit of what you’re going through just now. Feeling like a leaf swept up in a windstorm, tossed hither and yon, at the mercy of so many powerful forces. It makes you wonder if anyone’s stopped to think about you, and what you want.”

“Oh.” Gaze faltering, Ratafia blushed. “Yes. It is a little- only, not really. I wouldn’t like you to think me ungrateful, or unmindful of-”

“It’s not about gratitude,” Melissande said quickly. “Or owing something to others. Ratafia, your first obligation is to yourself. It must be. How can you make someone else happy if you’re miserable?”

Another blush. “Mother says a woman’s true happiness is found in the happiness of others,” Ratafia said softly. “Especially a husband.”

“Oh, really?” Melissande retorted. “Well, your mother might be a dab hand when it comes to peppercorn sauce, but that doesn’t make her an expert on everything!”

Ratafia stepped back. “Melissande!”

Bugger, bugger, bugger. “I’m sorry, Ratafia,” she said, grimacing. “It’s just-well, the thing is, you remind me of me, from not so long ago. When Lional was determined I should marry Sultan Zazoor. I didn’t want to, and he didn’t care, and I felt so alone, so helpless, that I got drunk and climbed into a fountain full of goldfish. And there might’ve been singing, but it’s all a bit of a blur.”

Ratafia’s rosebud mouth opened into a perfect little O. “How awful for you!” she whispered. “But you’re wrong, Melissande. I don’t the least bit want to get drunk and serenade goldfish. I want to marry Luddie.”

“Because you honestly love him? Not because it’s the only way to seal a lasting peace over the Canal?”

Ratafia stared across the water at the moist brown clods of earth in the ploughed field beyond the Canal’s far bank. Creeping into her lovely eyes, a mingling of iron and acceptance.

“Of course there’s the politics. For people like us there’s always politics, Melissande. But it isn’t just politics. I won’t let it be just politics. And neither will Luddie.”

She sounded so sure of Hartwig’s younger brother, Melissande didn’t have the heart to question her resolve. If the girl was love-blind, marriage would restore her sight soon enough.

And in the meantime, I’ll find out what I can about Prince Ludwig and his resolve.

If it turned out her suspicions were right, and Ludwig proved himself a villain, she’d have Gerald take steps. Which yes, would break Ratafia’s heart.

But better a broken heart than a funeral — or a lifetime of being hexed. Just ask Reg.

She and Ratafia started strolling again, companionably silent, the climbing sun warm on their cheeks. They passed one barge-hand polishing the promenade deck’s railing, and another oiling some rope. Drifting up from the saloon on the middle deck beneath them, gentlemen’s laughter and the teasing tang of cigar smoke. Hearing her Luddie’s raucous mirth, Ratafia smiled. The look on her face caught Melissande sharply unprepared. Stirred up thoughts of Monk, who loved thaumaturgics so much it sometimes seemed there wasn’t room in his life for anything… anyone… else.

She winced. Stop being a gel, woman. You’ve a job to do, so do it. Let her be sidetracked into mooning over Bibbie’s infuriating, bewildering brother and she’d likely miss an important clue.

“Ratafia, can I ask you something?”

Borovnik’s princess trailed her fingertips along a stretch of freshly polished timber hand rail. “Yes, of course.”

“You might think me impertinent.”

An amused smile. “Friends can’t be impertinent.”

Friends. It was a nice thought. A pity she was here under false pretences.

Come on, you ditherer. Ask. It’s not like you’re betraying her. You’ve only just met, and when this business is over likely you’ll never see her again. So what does it matter?

But it did matter. Her scruples, it seemed, weren’t so easily abandoned. Going out of her way to befriend Ratafia simply to lull her into sharing confidences? That was cold. Fancy being Gerald, doing this sort of thing for the rest of his life. Hardly surprising he often looked sad.

“Well, I was wondering how it came about, you know, that you and Prince Ludwig-” Annoyed, Melissande felt herself turning pink. “How you-I mean-”

“Fell in love?” said Ratafia, with a swift, mischievous grin, as they swung about the barge’s gently rounded stern and started back towards the bow. Their fashionable silk day dresses made little swishing sounds with each measured step. “Actually, it’s all Uncle Norbert’s fault. He encouraged our acquaintance last year, at Harenstein’s First Snow Fair.”

And that was unexpected. “Uncle Norbert? I didn’t realize you’re related to the Marquis of Harenstein.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Ratafia said, pausing to admire the barge’s ceremonial brass bell. “It’s a courtesy title. To be honest-” Her voice lowered confidingly. “It feels a little odd, acquiring an uncle at my age. But when he asked for the honour I didn’t like to say no. He’s done so much for me and Luddie, you see.”

“So, you and Prince Ludwig hadn’t met before the fair?”

Ratafia wrinkled her perfect nose. “Well, yes, we’d met. A few times. But I’d hardly said more than hello to him, on account of we’re never sure from one hour to the next whether Borovnik and Splotze are at daggers drawn or not. And what with Mama so difficult about Crown Princess Brunelda, and Luddie being a man and me needing to be careful, you know what that’s like, there seemed little point in pursuing further conversation. Not until Uncle Norbert stuck his oar in, so to speak.”

And thus was the world rearranged. Neatly. On a whim.

“And how will your alliance work, in the long run?” said Melissande. “I mean, Prince Ludwig is Hartwig’s heir. The sad truth is that at some point, let’s hope it’s years from now, he’s going to succeed his brother as the Crown Prince of Splotze, which will make you Crown Princess. And one day your mother-” Oh dear. Best not. “Well, she might decide she’s tired of being the Dowager Queen. What will happen to Borovnik then?”

“I’ll be Queen of Borovnik in my own right,” said Ratafia, and flicked her fingernail against the barge’s brass bell. It chimed the air, sweetly. “That’s one of the marriage conditions. Uncle Norbert was very firm about it.”

A skein of grey geese flew low overhead, pinions creaking. Melissande watched them, thoughts awhirl. A moment later an angry shout, as goose-shit splattered a stretch of newly-polished hand rail. She rolled her eyes.

Oh, look. My life in a nutshell.

Glancing at Ratafia, she moved on from the bell. “I hadn’t realised the marquis was involved in the legalities of your union with Ludwig.”

“No?” Ratafia smiled, and fell into step beside her. “Well, he was, and he’s been tremendous. He’s helped Mama negotiate the marriage treaty every step of the way. Such a blessing, since more often than not we were dealing with Secretary of State Gertz and Mother can’t abide him. She says he’s so damp that after an hour in his company, she’s caught a cold. But thankfully Uncle Norbert knows just how to handle him.”

Melissande felt her stirred instincts stir even harder. Really? Well, well, well. Uncle Norbert had been busy, hadn’t he?

The question is, what is he expecting to get in return for all his hard work? And who on this barge would rather he were disappointed?

Another line of investigation that should be pursued. At this rate they’d have to ask Sir Alec for reinforcements. If ever there was a time to be missing Reg…

“It sounds rather complicated,” she said, cautiously. “How do your people feel about the arrangement? Won’t they mind having their queen living in another country?”

Ratafia sighed. “I did rather wonder about that myself. Only Uncle Norbert says that whatever pleases me will please the people of Borovnik. He says a ruler’s subjects are like children, they must be kindly guided and firmly led and that under no circumstances can their crotchets be allowed to sway matters of state.”

So, Norbert of Harenstein was a glutton and a pompous prat. Good to know.

“And Queen Erminium agrees with him?”

“Mama says Uncle Norbert is the answer to her prayers.”

Heart sinking, Melissande looked at Ratafia’s serenely beautiful face. “And what do you think?”

A pause, then Ratafia’s lips firmed. “I think Uncle Norbert is Marquis of Harenstein, and one day I’ll be Queen of Borovnik and Crown Princess of Splotze.”

In other words, look out, Uncle Norbert. There’s a new tiara in town. “Good for you, Ratafia.”

“Ludwig and I care a great deal for our peoples.”

Yes, but did their peoples care for Ratafia and Ludwig, as a matched set? Pompous prattery aside, the stark truth was that royalty nearly always married without first consulting Mistress Needle the seamstress and the butcher, Master Ham. So what if the plain folk of Splotze weren’t all that thrilled with the notion of inheriting the princess next door? What if Borovnik’s commonplace sons and daughters didn’t care to see Ludwig’s face smirking up at them from every coin? What if they resented the Splotzeish imposition of a mostly absent, part-time queen?

“Melissande?” said Ratafia. “You’re looking peculiar again.”

They’d reached the barge’s bow with its cushioned chairs and a scattering of wooden planters riotous with colourful blossoms. The Canal stretched out before them in a long, straight line, the celebrations at Little Grande Splotze coming closer with every copse and cow and cottage they majestically glided by.

Overwhelmed, Melissande stared at Ratafia. The weight of her terrible secret felt suddenly unbearable. This was the poor girl’s wedding tour. Soon it would be her wedding. And if she wasn’t the one plotting to see it brought crashing to ruin, then didn’t she have the right to know that her future was in peril? That Ludwig, or his people, or her people, or the Lanruvians, someone, was scheming to make ashes of her dreams?

Of course she does. But I can’t tell her. Lord, I hate this. I want to go home.

She smiled. “No, no, I’m fine, Ratafia. I’m just happy for you, that’s all.”

“Thank you, Melissande,” said Ratafia, and impulsively embraced her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

With an effort, Melissande managed to keep smiling. See if you still think that when your wedding goes up in smoke. But no, she couldn’t afford to be pessimistic. Things would work out. Gerald was going to save the day… with a little help from his friends.

Provided his friends don’t lose their marbles in the meantime.

With a sigh, Ratafia gazed at the pretty countryside surrounding them. “I have a confession, Melissande. I appreciate this barge is probably the most wonderful ever built, but I shan’t be sorry to leave it behind and continue the wedding tour in the carriages. I’m looking forward to being cheered along Splotze’s roads and through its townships.”

“I’m not,” Melissande said, still distracted. “I always feel like an exotic exhibit on day release from the zoo.” And speaking of exotic exhibits… “Ratafia, just out of curiosity, why did you invite the Lanruvians to the wedding?”

“The Lanruvians?” Ratafia perched on the edge of the nearest chair. “Oh, I think Hartwig invited them. As to why, you’d have to ask him.”

“I already did. He’s not sure what they’re doing here.”

“Really?” Ratafia shrugged. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Every time I turn around there’s someone to smile at whom I don’t know from a knot in a tree. That’s what happens with this kind of wedding. It’s never-” And then her face lit up in a dazzling smile, and she pointed at the wrought-iron spiral staircase a little way along the promenade. “Oh, look, there’s Luddie, come to make sure I’ve not fallen overboard. Isn’t he sweet?” She stood. “Shall I ask him to stroll with us?”

Turning, Melissande considered Ratafia’s beloved. Sweet? Not the word she’d have chosen, but he certainly had good timing. Propriety forbade her from pigeonholing Prince Ludwig by herself, but what could be more unexceptionable than a gentle wander and some gossip with Hartwig’s brother and his soon-to-be wife?

And while we’re wandering ourselves dizzy going round and round this deck, with any luck I’ll be able to prise more information out of him than I’ve managed to prise from his betrothed.

“What a good idea, Ratafia,” she said. “By all means, run and ask.”

“And the prince couldn’t tell you anything useful?” Gerald frowned. “That’s disappointing.”

“I know,” Melissande said glumly, reclining on her stateroom’s striped and tasselled daybed. “All Ludwig wanted to talk about was the honeymoon. He’s taking Ratafia to some private island or other off the Fandawandi coast. I can’t believe they’re both so dim. Apparently there’s a scad of palace bureaucrats on both sides of the Canal handling all the ‘boring, pettifogging details’, like who the devil asked the Lanruvians to the party, but since neither Ratafia nor Ludwig is interested in being bored they’ve not bothered to keep track. I swear, Gerald, if someone had invited a herd of elephants to the wedding, those two wouldn’t think to wonder why!”

“You should ask Leopold Gertz,” said Bibbie, slouched in a chair by a gauze-covered porthole. “Uncle Ralph says secretaries of state always know everything about everyone.”

Melissande gave her a pointed look. “I did ask him, at the State Dinner. He wouldn’t say. I told you that, Bibbie. Why don’t you ever listen?”

“Anyway,” Gerald said quickly, before the girls could start bickering, “perhaps it’s an idea to ask him again. You should interview Gertz especially for the Times, Melissande. I need to know if he knows about this Lanruvian cherry business, for a start.” He glanced at the clock on the cabin’s fireplace mantel. “There should be just enough time before luncheon.”

Groaning, Melissande draped her forearm over her face. “Luncheon? Today? But I won’t be finished digesting breakfast until the middle of next week.”

“Never mind about that,” he said, and pushed off the stool belonging to the superfluous, velvet-covered piano. “Make yourself presentable, and let’s go chat with Secretary Gertz. And after him, if there’s time, you can wangle me near Ludwig and I’ll see if I feel anything untoward.”

“Oh dear,” said Bibbie, being waspish. “I think Her Highness is having second thoughts about suspecting Hartwig’s brother. It’s the billing and cooing. Our pragmatic princess has come over all romantical.”

Crossly blushing, making her scattered freckles stand out, Melissande tossed the hand mirror onto the daybed. “I am not getting romantical! I simply think he’s genuinely fond of Ratafia.”

“He might well be,” Gerald said, hating to burst her optimistic bubble. “Or, as you said, he could just be a very good actor. Or he could love her, but not enough to put her before Splotze.”

“But why would he go to all this trouble?” Melissande demanded. “Why not just tell the Marquis of Harenstein to mind his own business and then find himself some other princess to marry?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s what I’m hoping to find out. Now, are you ready?”

“Wait a minute,” said Bibbie. “What am I going to do while you two are off playing journalist? And don’t you dare say stay here. I won’t be cooped up in this cabin like a canary.”

“Ha!” Melissande snapped. “More like a moulting parakeet, if you ask me.”

It was precisely the kind of thing Reg would say, and had the same bracing effect.

Since speaking up would be as helpful as pouring oil on a fire, Gerald fetched his suitably travel-worn secretarial writing case, made sure he had sufficient paper, fountain pens and ink to hand, jotted down the questions he needed Melissande to ask Leopold Gertz, then borrowed her mirror to slick down his hair, straighten his tie and be certain there were no wobbles in his obfuscation hex.

Only when he was satisfied he still looked like Algernon Rowbotham did he raise his voice. “You two do realise, I suppose, that I’m required to tell Sir Alec everything that happens on this mission? Do you really want him reading about moulting parrots and arthritic hens?”

The hurling of hissed, inventive invective ceased, abruptly.

“You might be required to tell him, but I’ll bet Monk’s jalopy’s weight in marshmallows that you don’t,” said Bibbie, truculent. “I’ve grown up in government circles, remember? Nobody writes down everything in their reports.”

He smiled, not very nicely. “For you, Miss Slack, I will make an exception. And that goes for you too, Your Highness. I know you’re feeling nervy. I know you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. On our heads. I don’t care. If you’re not helping me, you’re in my way. And trust me, girls, you don’t want to be in my way.”

Bibbie looked at Melissande, and Melissande looked back. Then they both turned identically accusing stares on him.

“Mister Rowbotham,” said Melissande, with chilly dignity, “I rather think that was uncalled for.”

“Definitely uncalled for,” said Bibbie. “I’m not impressed.”

He gave them a curt nod. “There. You see? I knew if you tried hard enough you’d find something to agree on. Melissande? Let’s go. And Gladys, why don’t you find someone new to flirt with? I expect you’re positively pining for some male attention. Bat your eyelashes hard enough and perhaps your unsuspecting swain will so far forget himself as to spill a few informative beans.”

Ignoring Bibbie’s offended gasp, he collected his writing case then ostentatiously opened the cabin door for Melissande.

“Algernon?” she said, subdued, as they made their way along a narrow, gaslit corridor. “Just then. What you said. Was that you being frightening by accident… or on purpose?”

Ah. “You think I was frightening?”

She caught at his sleeve, tugging him to a halt. The tinted light from the wall-lamp shaded her spectacled eyes and outlined the firm set of her jaw.

“Don’t. Please. You know perfectly well you were.”

He glanced up and down the corridor, but they remained alone. “I’d apologise for startling you, except I’m not sorry. I meant to.”

“Oh.” Troubled, she smoothed the sleeve her clutching fingers had wrinkled. “Well. Maybe Gladys and I were being a bit overwrought, but even so…” She bit her lip. “It’s not like you.”

He couldn’t meet her concerned stare. “Perhaps it is, though. This isn’t Ottosland, Melissande. I’m not your Algernon here. I’m Sir Alec’s Algernon. There is a difference.”

She snorted. “Believe me, Mister Rowbotham, I’ve noticed. But I think it’s more than that. And I think you know it’s more than that.”

Of course he knew. The point was how did she know? Poor Melissande was as thaumaturgically moppish as the lackeys he’d had breakfast with. It was one thing for Bibbie to notice he was different, but Melissande?

Perhaps it’s a good thing we left Reg behind, else I’d have all three of them noticing things, and prodding.

“Algernon…” Voice soft now, Melissande stroked his arm. “I can’t begin to understand what you’ve been through, these past weeks. The other Ottosland and-and-everything. But for your sake-for all our sakes- talk to someone about it. Monk, or Sir Alec, or an impersonal Department boffin if that would be easier. Reg, even. But someone. This awful grimoire magic. It isn’t a burden you should carry alone.”

Her heartfelt compassion stung him to silence. The corridor wavered and her plain, freckled face blurred and he had to blink hard to see clearly again.

“You shouldn’t worry about me, Mel,” he said at last, his voice rough. “I’m fine.”

She sighed. “Fibber.”

Yes. He was. A fibber and possibly much worse. But there was no-one he could talk to about the changes still unfolding within him. Not yet. Not until he’d finished changing. How long that would take, he had no idea.

And by then there might not be any point in talking. By then…

He didn’t care to finish the thought.

“Come along then, Algernon,” said Melissande, with another resigned sigh. “Let’s get this journalistic charade on the road, shall we?”

But to his immense frustration, Leopold Getz wasn’t free to speak to them.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” said Peeder Glanzig. “The Secretary’s not free to speak with the New Ottosland Times. He’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.”

“Oh,” Melissande said blankly. “How unfortunate. Who with?”

Clearing his throat, Glanzig furtively looked around the barge’s Small Salon, which had been set aside for state matters not pertaining to the wedding. They were alone, but it seemed Ludwig’s lackey was unwilling to trust even the cushions.

“The Lanruvians,” he whispered. “But I didn’t tell you that. And I never said a single word about cherries.”

“Ah!” Melissande said brightly. “The Lanruvians! I’m so looking forward to meeting them, Mister Glanzig. When d’you think they’ll be free for a chat?”

Peeder Glanzig’s finger explored the miserly space between his collar and neck. “I can’t say, Your Highness.”

Melissande’s eyes narrowed. “And does that mean you can’t say? Or you can’t say?”

Helpless, Glanzig sought the nearest masculine support. “I don’t think the Lanruvians are the kind of gentlemen who give interviews to a newspaper, Your Highness. Not even when it’s wearing a tiara. But I shall be sure to convey your interest to Secretary Gertz as soon as he’s free.”

“Right then,” said Melissande, once they were outside on the barge’s middle deck walkway. “Ludwig it is. Although really, y’know, I think you should speak to him and Ratafia together. Two birds with one stone. Because as farfetched as it might sound, there’s always the chance they’re in cahoots.”

Yes. There was. The dire truth was that until further notice, everyone on the barge was still a suspect. Though surely some had to be more suspicious than others.

The elusive bloody Lanruvians, for a start.

Above them, from the promenade deck, they heard Bibbie’s unmistakable laugh, the girlish trill she used when she was plying her formidable feminine wiles.

“Come on, Algernon,” said Melissande. “You can’t complain. She’s only doing as she was told.” A snort. “For once.”

He lifted a hand. “I know, I know. Only-”

The sickness came in a thick wave, a roiling churn of nausea riding a dark thaumaturgical cloud. He felt the writing case slip from his numb fingers, heard it crash onto the deck, heard Melissande say something loudly, alarmed. His restored vision was flashing around the edges, drilling an augur of pain through his skull.

Then Bibbie cried out, a dreadful sound of fear and pain.

“Algernon, what is it? What’s wrong?”

As deep male voices babbled consternation, and hurried footsteps thudded on the barge’s various levels and stretches of deck and on its wrought-iron spiral staircases, Gerald fumbled himself free of Melissande’s alarmed grasp.

“Thaumaturgics,” he muttered. “The bad kind. Our villain’s close. Stay here.”

Before she could start arguing, he blundered away. The unreliable, rippled ether surrounded him like sludge, thick and oily and unreadable. More running feet. Slamming doors at the far end of the middle deck, where the important guest cabins were located. Slamming doors and raised voices below him, on the barge’s lowest deck. His matchbox-sized minion cabin was down there. So was Bibbie’s. Another poisonous ripple through the ether. Stumbling, he fell against a stretch of hand railing. Felt his knees buckle, and had to hold on to stay upright. This was ridiculous. He was a rogue wizard. Better. What the devil was wrong with him?

Fresh shouting below him, strident with alarm. Bleary eyed, smeary eyed, he struggled towards the nearest staircase. He could feel his grimly enhanced potentia writhing in his blood and thought, muzzily, that he knew what was happening. The rotten thaumaturgics were somehow warping Splotze’s unreliable ether, and his potentia was warping with it. He might as well try to run through cold glue. Bile rose in his throat. He wanted desperately to be sick.

Another familiar feminine cry, not pain this time but outraged surprise. Bibbie. She was beneath him now, she’d managed to find her way down to the lowest deck. Was that the source of the filthy thaumaturgics? He thought so, but with his senses so whirligig he was finding it hard to tell. Wait, Bibbie. I’m coming. Don’t do anything -

Loud protests. Someone bellowed.

“Good God, no! Look out!”

A startled scream… and then a splash.

“Gel overboard!” the someone shouted. “Gel overboard! Help! Quick! Miss Slack’s gone in the drink!”