Wizard Undercover

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Melissande!” cried Hartwig, practically shoving past her into the stateroom’s parlour. “My dear gel, are you all right?”

Rolling her eyes, Melissande tactfully closed her stateroom’s door. “Yes, Hartwig, of course. I didn’t fall into the Canal. That was Miss Slack.”

“Indeed it was, the clumsy creature,” said Hartwig. He pulled a large red silk handkerchief from his blue velvet coat pocket and dabbed the anxious sweat from his brow. “And I hope you’ve scolded her severely for giving you such a terrible fright.”

“Actually, I’ve been a bit more concerned with making sure she hasn’t contracted pneumonia, but-”

“And as for all those fools who jumped in the Canal after her!” Hartwig flapped his handkerchief to emphasise his distress. “Nine of them. Nine! Including my idiot of a brother. What the devil were they thinking?”

“Ah… that it would rather put a damper on the wedding celebrations if Miss Slack were to drown?”

“Yes, but she didn’t drown, did she?” said Hartwig, sounding almost aggrieved. “Wretched gel swims like a frog from what I saw. Didn’t need one man diving in after her, let alone nine.”

“And how is Prince Ludwig? I hope he’s not caught a chill as a reward for his heroics?”

“He’s fine,” said Hartwig, scowling. “They’re all fine. I’m the one who’s not fine. Because now we’re going to be late for the luncheon at Little Grande Splotze! I’ll never hear the end of it from that old hag Erminium. She’s complained at me for a whole hour without stopping to take a breath! And Brunelda just sits there, with gout, being no help at all!”

Oh, dear. “I am sorry, Hartwig. You’re right. Miss Slack deserves a good scolding.” And she’d been getting one, from Gerald, but that was another story entirely. “As for Little Grande Splotze, perhaps it’s not such a disaster. We can celebrate over dinner just as easily as lunch, can’t we?”

“That’s the new plan, yes,” Hartwig grumbled. “A message has been sent ahead to arrange it. But that’s not the point, my dear. The point is that this little kerfuffle gives the Dowager Queen of Borovnik an excuse to find fault with Splotze. Just like the crab puff disaster gave her an excuse. I tell you, Melly, the way that bloody woman’s carrying on you’d think she was having second thoughts about her daughter marrying Ludwig!”

Oh, for pity’s sake. Not another sabotage suspect, surely! Hiding her dismay, Melissande offered Hartwig a sympathetic smile. “Poor Twiggy. It sounds like you’ve had a terribly trying time. I’m mortified to be the cause of it.”

“No, no, no!” cried Hartwig, turning towards her with his arms outstretched. “My dear Melissande, no! Believe me when I say that you are my sole refuge in the storm!”

Short of running away, there was nothing she could do to avoid his embrace.

“Oh, well, Hartwig, I’m sure that’s not entirely true,” she said, wriggling to avoid the worst of his wandering hands. “I’m sure dear Brunelda is with you in spirit, even if her sad affliction means she can’t throw Erminium overboard as a gesture of support.”

Hartwig chuckled. “Minx. You shouldn’t say things like that. You’ll give me ideas.”

He already had ideas, drat him. Pushing his hand off her behind, she stepped back. “Honestly, Twiggy, why don’t you tell the Dowager Queen to direct her concerns to your Secretary of State? Let Leopold Gertz deal with her. I mean, you didn’t just bring him along for decoration, did you?”

“Oh, Leopold,” said Hartwig, in deep tones of despair. “That’s the worst thing about nepotism, Melly. It means you have to employ family.”

“He’s family?” she said, discreetly retreating to a safe distance. “I didn’t know.”

“My third cousin’s second husband. There was a gambling debt. And some monkeys. And an ostrich. All very sordid. I’d rather not talk of it, if you don’t mind.”

“No, no, of course not,” she said quickly. “In fact, Twiggy, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really should get back to Miss Slack.”

“Oh,” said Hartwig, disappointed. “Well. If you must, you must.”

“But it was lovely of you to come and make sure I was all right,” Melissande said, holding the cabin door open for him. “And please thank Prince Ludwig for me. He was very gallant.”

Hartwig cleared his throat. “Gallant. Yes. Well, of course y’know, Melly, I’d’ve dived in to save Miss Slack for you myself, only by the time I got there, well, nine men in the drink already, and I’ve got this old hunting injury, and-”

“Yes, yes,” she soothed. “I know, Hartwig. I know. Please, don’t give it another thought. I’ll see you for dinner. Lovely. Thank you!”

Heaving a sigh of relief she shut the cabin door behind him. Then, with a certain amount of dread, she returned to her bedchamber where Bibbie, bathed clean of Canal water and changed into dry clothes, sat wrapped in a blanket. Gerald, fuming, stood in a corner.

“-are making me very cross, Algernon!” Bibbie was saying, her cheeks pink with vexation. “Because I could tell you the story a hundred more times and nothing would change! I don’t remember what happened after I felt that tainted convulsion in the ether, and rushed off the promenade deck to find where it came from. It’s all gone.”

Gerald raised both hands in frustration. “Yes, Gladys, because there’s a good chance you’ve been hexed. So now we have to get the memory back.”

“Get it back?” Bibbie tugged her blanket more closely round her shoulders. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean I might know a way of jogging things along.”

Silence, as Bibbie stared at him. Then she shook her head. “No.”

He took a step towards her. “Bibbie-I mean Gladys-”

“No,” she said. “And don’t ask me why, Algernon. You know perfectly well why.”

“But I don’t,” said Melissande. “Would someone care to explain?”

Still looking at Bibbie, Gerald smiled, painfully. “She doesn’t trust me.”

Didn’t trust — oh. Of course. His grimoire magic. Damn.

“Don’t be stupid, Algernon,” Bibbie said. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s not about trust, it’s about being prudent. You shouldn’t take it personally.”

He shrugged. “It’s a bit hard not to, Gladys.”

“Actually, Algernon, she’s got a point,” Melissande said, going to stand with Bibbie. “What if you tried something dubiously thaumaturgical on her and things went pear-shaped? She’d have to go home, which means I’d have to go home, which means you’d have to go home, and what would Sir Alec say then?”

She was right, and he knew it. A muscle leapt along his jaw. “Fine,” he said, turning. “So what do you suggest?”

He was asking her? Well. He must be feeling dire. “Obviously,” she said, “in my capacity as guest reporter for the New Ottosland Times, I interview the nine men who threw themselves into the Canal after Bibbie. There was so much hysteria and confusion at the time that there’s at least a score of wildly differing bystander accounts. We need to get the facts straight. And if those nine men were close enough to try and rescue Gladys, chances are that at least one of them was close enough to see what really happened just before she went over the hand rail.”

“Exactly,” Bibbie agreed. “But there’s something else to consider. What if one of those nine men is the man with the tainted thaumaturgics?”

“And he dived overboard after you to do what?” said Gerald. “Make sure you couldn’t tell anyone what you’d found out? And failed purely by chance? Wonderful.” He sat in the bedchamber’s other chair. “I knew bringing you two along was a mistake.”

Melissande felt a stab of fright. “Wait. Are you saying this means our villain knows he’s in danger of discovery? Does it mean your life is at risk now, Bibbie?”

Bibbie frowned. “Gladys. And I suppose it could be, only…”

“Only what?” she said, goaded. “What are you talking about? And how can you be so calm about this?”

“Why are you cross with me?” Bibbie demanded. “You’re the one who always says panic doesn’t solve anything!”

“Both of you settle down,” Gerald snapped. “And then you can tell us, Gladys, what you meant by only.”

“Well, at the risk of sounding self-serving,” said Bibbie, “if our villain does think I’ve unmasked him, that means I must’ve done something rather stupid to betray myself. And I don’t think I did. I may want to slap you silly now and then Algernon, but I’d never do anything to harm you or this mission.”

“Right then,” Melissande said, very briskly, because there was far too much emotion sloshing about her stateroom’s bedchamber. “So we’re all agreed it’s unlikely Miss Slack is in danger or that the mission’s been compromised.”

“Yes,” said Gerald, slowly. He was still looking at Bibbie, who was looking at him. “But we should be especially vigilant anyway. Just in case.”

Yes. Because the mission had to come first, so there could be no prudent running away. Melissande stared at the floor.

Only a madman would choose this life, surely.

She looked up. “Of course, and in the meantime I interview these nine men, you stand by taking notes, and with luck, if our villain is among them, you’ll know. All right?”

Gerald nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”

Well, praise the pigs for small mercies. “Then, Mister Rowbotham, I suggest we collect your writing case and start our interviews,” she said, still brisk. “I’m sure the New Ottosland Times’ subscribers will be thrilled to read all about the daring Canal rescue of Her Royal Highness Prince Melissande’s beautiful lady’s maid Gladys.” She pointed a finger at Bibbie. “Only this time, Miss Slack, you’re bloody well staying put. Show your face outside of this cabin before we get back and I swear by Saint Snodgrass, I’ll pitch you back into the Canal myself!”

They weren’t far from Little Grande Splotze by the time they’d finished interviewing all of Bibbie’s would-be rescuers.

“We might as well have saved our breaths,” said Melissande, as Bibbie helped her dress for dinner. “Because after nine hideously boastful accounts of today’s adventure, here’s what we can say happened for certain. While you were chatting with various minions on the promenade deck, you suddenly took ill and rushed back down to your cabin. Tragically, however, before you could reach it, you were overcome by your mystery ailment and knocked on someone’s door asking for help. Nine someones came dashing to your assistance, including Prince Ludwig but excluding-and I’m sure this will shock you-the Lanruvians, who it seems are allergic to heroics as well as crabs. But before our nine dashing heroes could clutch you to their stalwart, manly chests you’d had some kind of fit and tumbled into the Canal. Naturally, being men, they tumbled in after you, and were so busy fighting each other off for the chance of being the one to save you from a watery grave that they almost succeeded in drowning each other. So it was left up to me and Ratafia to haul you out of the drink. Which we did. The end.”

“Oh,” said Bibbie. “Well. That’s not much help. Whose door was I banging on? Because while I don’t remember, I’ll bet it’s important. I mean, I do know I wasn’t really sick. I was pretending. I’ll bet the man with the rotten thaumaturgics was behind that door and I was cunningly attempting to get a good look at him!”

Melissande fastened the clasp of her gold-and-sapphire bracelet. “That’s what Algernon thinks, too.” Except he didn’t say cunningly, he said stupidly. But you don’t need to know that. “Unfortunately, according to our sterling parade of witnesses, we have four doors to choose from, belonging to Peeder Glanzig, Hever Mistle, Grune Volker and Stani Hoffman.”

Bibbie stopped checking a silk stocking for pulled threads and stared. “Hever Mistle jumped into the Canal?”

“Yes.” She grinned. “Clearly he’s more athletic than he looks. Or more besotted.”

Putting down the first silk stocking, Bibbie took up the second and made a show of carefully unrolling it. “I can’t help noticing Algernon wasn’t one of the nine.”

Oh, Bibbie. “He wanted to dive in, but I wouldn’t let him. He needs to stay as inconspicuous as possible. You know that. Gladys…”

“Here you go,” said Bibbie, and handed over both stockings and their garters. “Do you want your gown next; or your shoes?”

“Gown,” she said, and began putting on her stockings. “Look. About Algernon. You do trust him, don’t you? I mean, you’re not afraid of him. Are you?”

Instead of answering, Bibbie made a fuss about slipping the dark green velvet evening gown from its hanger.

“Bibbie.”

“If Algernon hears you calling me that, Your Highness, he’ll go spare.”

“Bugger Algernon,” Melissande said, and caught hold of Bibbie’s hand. “Are you afraid of him?”

“No,” said Bibbie. “But I am worried for him, Melissande. He’s different.”

“Well, yes,” she said, puzzled, “and I agree, it is worrying. But we knew that before we came.”

Bibbie made a little sound of impatience. “No, I mean he’s more different. Don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t. I just know…” Sighing, she pulled free. “Oh, I don’t know what I know. I just know what I feel.”

“Worried,” said Melissande. Bugger. I do wish Reg was here. “Anyway, we asked those four if they recalled you banging on their cabin door for help but they all said no, or they’d not been in their cabin at the time.”

“One or more of them could be lying.”

“Well, yes, of course, but because everyone’s so excitable just now Algernon didn’t want to risk using thaumaturgics during the interviews,” she said. “He’s going to do what he can to get at the truth tonight, under cover of the festivities. I think he’s starting to fret, actually, because we leave the barge behind after breakfast tomorrow and he’ll never have a captive audience like this again.”

Through the closed cabin porthole drifted the sound of the barge’s bell, sweetly booming.

“He’s right,” said Bibbie, tightly. “The clock is running down. We’ll have to cross our fingers and toes that my memory comes back.”

Melissande bit her lip. “Gladys, are you absolutely sure you don’t dare let Algernon-”

“Yes,” said Bibbie. “Now come along, Your Highness. If we don’t get you into that gown we’re going to delay everyone for dinner, and Dowager Queen Erminium will complain Crown Prince Hartwig into a fit.”

The royal barge reached Little Grande Splotze just on sunset, and the wedding party was greeted in the town square by an enthusiastic throng of town officials and excited townsfolk, complete with streamers, rattles, whistles, a brief but charming display of fireworks, long wooden trestle tables bearing roast meats and baked potatoes and cherry pies and apple strudels and cinnamon cream, and a band that was very nearly playing in tune. Hartwig and Ludwig and their guests were offered fine wine and cherry liqueur to drink. The minions were shown to several barrels of cider.

Gerald resisted the urge to dive headfirst into the nearest one.

Sitting a little apart from the rest of the lackeys, picking at his rustic food and watching Gladys Slack flirt with her many male admirers and charm even the Borovnik handmaidens to smiles, he struggled to keep his mind on the job.

I can’t believe Bibbie risked herself like that. After everything I said. The bloody girl could’ve drowned. She could’ve been murdered, right under my nose. What would I have told Sir Alec? How could I have faced Monk?

How could he go on, if something happened to Bibbie?

I don’t know how much longer I can keep on being Algernon. I’m treading so cautiously that I’m playing right into the enemy’s hands. If I don’t learn something definite in the next day then to hell with being circumspect. I’ll start shaking branches to see who falls out of the thaumaturgical tree.

And too bloody bad if Sir Alec didn’t like it.

After the fireworks and food came the dancing. For a little while Gerald amused himself watching Melissande adroitly avoiding the worst of Hartwig’s over-enthusiasms. Then, though it seemed nigh impossible that either of the Borovnik lady’s maids were involved in the wedding plot, he partnered each woman in a revelly so he could be certain of their innocence. Within a few minutes he learned they were neither plotters nor dancers.

Smiling bravely, he hobbled on bruised feet back to his bench, took refuge in a fresh tankard of cider and, under cover of the laughing and music and general frivolity, risked lowering his shield completely to hunt for untoward thaumaturgics.

And felt nothing, again, save the tortured writhings of Splotze’s distorted etheretics.

Bloody bloody buggering hell.

So that was that. He had no choice. No more walking on egg-shells. Time to start throwing a few thaumaturgical punches, starting with those damned Lanruvians, who’d already left the party and returned to the barge.

Because nobody is that elusive and innocent. Nobody is so secretive about bloody cherries. Somehow, I swear, I’ll see them stripped of their disguise.

But he had to be careful not to fixate on the Lanruvians. Because despite the fact he knew they were rotten, it turned out they’d not been anywhere near Bibbie when she fell-or was pushed-into the Canal. He had to remember there were other suspects. Dear lord, a lot of other suspects. In fact he was starting to wonder if he’d ever sort through them in time. He was even starting to wonder if Sir Alec hadn’t made a mistake.

I know he wants to keep our presence here secret, but if I can’t unmask the villain before we get back to Grande Splotze, that might not be possible. I mean, we can’t let people die just so Hartwig never finds out we put a spy in his palace.

Could they?

A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. Bibbie, showing no outward sign of harm from her plunge into the Canal. Bright eyed and rose-petal cheeked, she gave him a dimpled smile.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to dance, Mister Rowbotham?”

He put down his tankard. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to, Miss Slack.”

Her dimples vanished. “Don’t be silly.”

She’d as good as said she didn’t trust him. Was afraid of him. How was he meant to feel about that?

“Algernon…” Bibbie held out her hand. “Dance with me.”

He needed her to trust him. He needed her not afraid. His life would be dust and ashes if she feared him. He took her slender hand in his, and they danced.

The next day got off to an unfortunate start.

“I swear,” Melissande muttered through gritted teeth, “that before this wedding tour is over, Algernon, you’re going to be arresting me for murder and international sabotage.”

If they’d been safely alone, Gerald would have given her a kiss on the cheek for comfort. But since they were seated with Bibbie in an open horse-drawn touring carriage, third from the front in a long line of elaborately old-fashioned equipages that were supposed to have left the royal barge behind on the Canal nearly two hours ago, he could only offer her a brief, understanding smile.

“I’m sure we’ll be on our way soon, Your Highness,” he said, politely diplomatic.

“And y’know, things could always be worse,” Bibbie added, her brilliant eyes wickedly amused. “I mean, Dowager Queen Erminium could be your mother.”

Seated opposite the girls, facing backwards, Gerald narrowed his eyes. Clearly, in Bibbie’s world, polite diplomacy was committed by other people. What a good thing their coachman was standing at the fractious horses’ heads… and that everyone else was too busy with their own complaining to overhear her remark.

Drifting on the late morning breeze, the sound of Queen Erminium’s querulous dissatisfaction as she questioned every twist and turn of the day’s proposed itinerary. Hartwig and Ludwig, decanted from their respective carriages, fruitlessly tried to satisfy her endless demands.

“For pity’s sake,” said Melissande. “It’s bad enough we had to wait for poor Brunelda to be carted back onto the barge with another attack of gout. Bloody Erminium’s had months to approve this tour. I wonder how much Borovnik had to pay Ludwig to propose to Ratafia, knowing it was a marry-the-princess-and-get-a-dowager-queen-for-free deal!”

Gerald winced. Apparently Bibbie’s rampant allergy to the diplomatic niceties was contagious.

All along the line of carriages stretching behind theirs, the horses stamped their feet and tossed their heads, tails swishing. Every so often he saw somebody lean over the side of his or her carriage, eyes shaded by one hand, and stare towards the front of the line where there was absolutely no movement.

“Oh dear,” said Melissande, as the Dowager Queen’s strident voice shifted up another octave. “I wonder if I shouldn’t-”

Gerald half-raised a warning finger. “Actually, Your Highness, it looks as though the Marquis of Harenstein is coming to the rescue.”

“Well, thank goodness someone is, because-”

Hearing the marquis’s heels thudding on the Canal towpath’s tangled grass, Melissande hushed. A moment later Norbert of Harenstein reached them, his impressive bulk swathed in primrose-yellow velvet and silk.

“Marigold,” he grunted, nodding at Melissande as he slowed almost to a halt. “Don’t despair. I’ll soon have this unfortunate fiddle-faddle smoothed over.”

Melissande favoured the marquis with an uncharacteristic simper. “Really, Norbert? Oh, it would be marvellous if you could. Harenstein to the rescue again!”

The marquis pressed a pudgy hand to his heart. “Fret not, Your Highness. Our wedding tour is as good as underway.”

“Marigold?” said Bibbie, once the marquis was safely out of earshot. “Don’t tell me I’ve been mispronouncing your name all this time.”

“He’s just got a little trouble with his memory,” said Melissande, sighing. “The poor man.”

“So he’s a poor man now? And you’re calling him Norbert? Melissande, is there some news you’d care to share?”

Melissande frowned. “Don’t be vulgar. I’ve changed my opinion about him, that’s all.”

“Since when?”

“Since he very kindly rescued me from Hartwig last night,” said Melissande. “Twice. And if you hadn’t been so busy flirting with all and sundry you’d know that, Miss Slack.”

Unrepentant, Bibbie grinned. “Slack by name but not by nature. Besides, Your Highness, I was only following orders. And very successfully, I might add. Give me another day or two and I’ll have completed my conquest of every male in the wedding party.”

“So nine men-including a prince-diving into the Canal on your behalf wasn’t enough?”

“Your Highness, nine men was but the beginning!”

Gerald blinked. Saint Snodgrass defend us. I’ve created a monster. “Your help is appreciated, Gladys, but for all our sakes, please don’t get carried away. Your Highness, I don’t suppose Norbert said anything useful while he was rescuing you?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Melissande. “Every time I asked him about his involvement in the wedding he launched into another story about his childhood. I did try to divert him, but once he gets going, well, stopping him is a bit like stopping Hartwig’s barge.”

“Never mind,” he said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck next time.”

“Maybe we both will,” said Bibbie, wrinkling her nose. “Because I’m afraid Norbert’s minions weren’t any more helpful than their master. Horribly rude, the pair of them. I tried to thank Grune Volker for diving into the Canal on my behalf and he had the nerve to lecture me about unladylike romping! And his friend, Dermit? All he can do is grunt.”

“Really?” Melissande fought not to smile. “So not every male in the wedding party can be counted your conquest.”

Bibbie squinted at her, unimpressed. “I feel bound to point out, Your Highness, that gloating is a most unattractive-”

“Excellent! Then I think we can be on our way at last!”

Crown Prince Hartwig’s shout reached almost to the last carriage. Wilting wedding tour guests immediately perked up. The horses perked up too, responding to the stir.

Giving up her promising squabble with Melissande, Bibbie slumped in her seat. “Saint Snodgrass be praised. Although why your Norbert waited so long to take charge is beyond me.”

“Good manners?” Melissande suggested. “You must have heard of them. And he’s not my Norbert.”

On his way back to his own carriage, Harenstein’s marquis slowed and favoured Melissande with a broad wink. “All settled now, Madrigal.”

“Yes, and I’m ever so grateful, Norbert,” she said. “However did you manage it?”

Flattered, he stopped. “Dear Ermingard,” he murmured. “She’s getting quite emotional at the prospect of handing her only daughter over to Splotze. Though it’s to be expected, I suppose. A mother’s love.”

“Heartbreaking, I’m sure. But can we leave now?”

“Yes, yes,” said Norbert of Harenstein. “Although sadly, since we’ve lost so much time, we’ll have to forgo the pleasures of this region’s best scenery, and instead play catch up travelling by way of Putzi Gorge.”

“Oh?” said Melissande. “You mean we shan’t be visiting Tirinz? Princess Ratafia will be so disappointed.”

“Can’t be helped, I’m afraid,” said the marquis. “What with gels falling willynilly off perfectly safe barges and so forth.”

Melissande cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. These things happen, Norbert. Ah-did you say Putzi Gorge? That sounds rather alarming.”

“Alarming?” The marquis laughed indulgently. “Not at all, Marybelle. If I’ve traversed the gorge once I’ve traversed it a hundred times. It’s a bit dramatic, of course, but safe as Central Ott’s High Street, I promise.”

“Well, Norbert, if you say so.”

“And the good news is,” the marquis added, oblivious to the fact that now he was the one holding up the proceedings, with the Dowager Queen and Crown Prince Hartwig and Prince Ludwig returned to their respective carriages, “that even though we’re being denied Tirinz, and must settle for second-best scenery, we’ll still be spending the night at Lake Yablitz. And that means crossing its famous Hanging Bridge. So cheer up, Matilda! All is not lost.”

“Hmm,” said Bibbie, once Norbert of Harenstein was safely out of earshot. “Putzi Gorge. Is it me, or does that sound like a suspiciously convenient place for an accident?”

“What?” said Melissande, her eyes widening. “You think our mystery villain might try something in the gorge?”

“I think I didn’t lose us that much time yesterday, falling into the Canal,” Bibbie said darkly. “And we made most of it up last night. But now, thanks to Erminium…”

“You think Erminium would-”

“Erminium, or someone taking advantage of her ghastly tantrums.”

“What d’you think, Algernon?” said Melissande. “Are you worried something awful could happen in Putzi Gorge?”

Gerald felt his muscles tighten. What he wouldn’t give to say no. But they’d know if he lied, and they’d never forgive him. “Anything’s possible, Melissande. But don’t worry. I’ll be watching.”

“No, we’ll be watching,” said Bibbie, and patted Melissande’s knee. “It’s all right, Your Highness. Algernon and I won’t let anything happen.”

Ah, yes. That was his Bibbie. Fearless and beautiful. An unstoppable force of nature.

And then there was no time for more discussion, because their coachman climbed back onto his seat. What a mercy the carriage design had him perched right out the front, a good distance from his passengers. So long as they kept their voices low they’d be able to speak freely. Whips cracked, hooves stamped, and the cavalcade of carriages finally took to the road.