little bouncing with you!”
“I don’t know, Ferdie,” she said, looking past him to the square of sky framed by the stables’ wide, open doorway. “Look where the sun is. We don’t have much time.”
He grinned, knowing he had her. “Then we’ll be quick.”
“Not too quick!”
“No, my little mittens,” he promised, and pulled her with him towards the ladder up to the hay loft, where the horses’ loose fodder and straw were stored. “Just quick enough.”
Bouncing with Mitzie to their happy destination wiped away the aggravation of his scurrying salt search for Cook. Later, moist with the aftermath of sweet exertion and stuck with stray bits of straw, they sprawled side by side, happily smiling.
“Just quick enough,” said Mitzie, and kissed the tip of his nose. Then, to his great regret, she started lacing her delightfully loosened blouse. “Only we’d best be back to the kitchens, Ferdie. We’ll be noticed, else, and trouble idn’t what I’m after. I’ll go first.”
“Wait!” he said, as she scrambled up to put the rest of her rumpled self aright. “I want to do this again. Don’t you?”
Knowing, nimble fingers fiddling with her reddish-blonde hair, she dimpled. “I might. You’ve got some bounce in you, for an old man.”
Old man? He wasn’t thirty till next year! But then to a lass not far past seventeen, perhaps that was old. Saint Snodgrass knew working for Sir Alec had aged him.
“And will you dance with me at the Servants’ Ball, Mitzie?”
Another saucy smile. “I might. Now, Ferdie, mind you stay behind so there’ll be no spying us together,” Mitzie said, pausing as she descended the hay loft ladder. “And no bragging on this when my back’s turned. If I do hear there’s bragging, Ferdie, it’s a mischief I’ll be doing you.”
He pushed onto his elbows. “And if you don’t hear it?”
“You keep mum?” She tossed her head, eyes bright with promise, her sweetly kissable lips pouting. “Then could be we’ll bounce again, by and by.”
Smothering a laugh, Abel settled himself to wait until she was safely away. After he’d counted nearly five minutes, with all the straw picked out of his hair and clothing, decently laced and buttoned like a well-behaved palace lackey, he laid a hand on the hay loft ladder-then pulled it back as though the old, splintered wood had burned him.
Curse it! Someone was returning to the royal stables.
Heart leaping in his chest, he flung himself face-down into the loose, dusty straw and listened to the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the herringbone brickwork. After a few more moments they stopped.
“Groom! Groom!”
And that was a Harenstein accent, roughly wrapping itself around the guttural Splotze tongue. Official go- betweens and negotiators of the unlikely upcoming nuptials, the Harenstein wedding party had been in Grande Splotze for several weeks. He’d managed a good look at them, since being a lackey meant he was able to scurry about the place with none of the hoity-toits paying him any more attention than if he were an umbrella. No alarm bells had rung. But then, why would they? Harenstein wasn’t a danger. Without its efforts there’d be no wedding.
“Damned vermin,” said another voice, speaking in Steinish this time. “Lazy shrulls.”
And that speaker sounded no more familiar than the first. Abel winced. From the sound of them they weren’t of the lackey class, so that meant there were at least two Steinish dignitaries he’d overlooked. Damn. Might be best not to mention that in his next report. Not unless he had to. Sir Alec would be far from amused.
“We’ll have to see to the nags, Dermit,” the disgruntled voice added. “The marquis isn’t to be kept waiting.”
More clip-clopping. Leather creaking. The squealing groan of a stable door that wanted oiling. Abel risked a look over the edge of the hay loft and saw the two men and their horses disappearing into their respective stables, only three boxes along from the hay loft ladder. Dare he risk leaving while they were still here, and so close by? He had to. He was already late. And since he’d taken Cook’s salt to him straight away, he couldn’t plead a delay in the town. Linger here any longer and by the time he did get back to the kitchens there’d be screaming and ranting and probable dismissal in disgrace.
Curse it.
Holding his breath against an inconvenient sneeze, Abel bellied his way backwards over the edge of the hay loft and made his stealthy way, rung by rung, down to the ground. The two Harenstein officials were still complaining about having to care for their own horses. Typical arrogant upper-class snobbery… which in fairness he shouldn’t criticise, since their whining was keeping them too preoccupied to notice him.
And then, as his feet touched the brickwork, he realised the men had stopped their complaints and instead- instead Oh, Saint Snodgrass save us!
“Yes, Volker, all is ready,” the first man said in answer to the second’s question. “Bribes paid, hexes in place. And we have the extra hexes, just in case. This abomination of a wedding will founder. How often must I reassure you?”
“Do not blame me for wanting reassurance, Dermit,” said Volker. “You know well the saying-there is many a slip ’twixt cup and lip. I am not yet convinced we have done enough.”
“We have done all that we dare,” said Dermit, sounding scornfully dismissive. “Would you risk our lives? Do not worry. Remember, we are not alone in this.”
The other man snorted. “Perhaps we should be. To trust there, Dermit, is dangerous. What if someone should suspect that we and-”
“Who would suspect such an alliance? It is unthinkable, which is why it will stay secret and we will remain safe.”
“I do not share your confidence. We are risking our lives. I think we should reconsider-”
“We reconsider nothing, Volker!” Dermit snapped. “What will happen on the way to LakeYablitz has been meticulously planned. I tell you there is no danger to us. Or are you now thinking to question my judgement?”
Chilled to his marrow, Abel scarcely heard Volker’s grudging reply. What the devil? This plotting made no sense. With Harenstein instrumental in brokering the match, why would they “Hey! You there! You’re not a stable lad. What d’you think you’re doing, loitering here?”
Abel spun round, nearly leaping out of his shoes in his fright. Damn. It was Mister Ibblie, a senior palace minion, the brass buttons on his dark blue tunic proclaiming his superiority. Of all the wretched bloody timing!
“Sorry, sir,” he said, sidling away from the hidden men of Harenstein. Pretending utter ignorance, because Ferdie Goosen had no business knowing the difference between important Ibblie and a tree stump. “I was sent with a message for the head groom, sir. But seems he’s not about, so-”
Frowning, Ibblie approached. “Sent by whom? You’re a kitchen lackey, from the look of you. What-”
An ominous iron groan, as a stable door was pushed open. Almost frozen with horror, Abel slid his gaze over his shoulder. One of the Steinish plotters was staring at him, blue eyes cold and calculating, one broad, blunt hand resting on the worn knife-sheath belted at his hip. Beyond him the neighbouring stable door opened, and the second plotter stepped out. Thinner in the face than his friend, a violently suggestive pale scar slashing the width of his right cheekbone.
Abel turned back to Ibblie, his skin crawling as though he wore a shirt made of ants. “Sorry, sir. I think I’ve muddled myself. You’re right, I shouldn’t be here at all. The message is for the gatekeep.” He bobbed his head. “Excuse me. I’ll get on.”
“Yes, you do that!” snapped Ibblie. “And be sure I’ll mention your incompetence to the head cook!”
Prickling with alarm, Abel managed, barely, to hold himself back to a swift walk. They wouldn’t follow him, surely, those murderous plotters from Harenstein. Not with the palace secretary standing there, an inconvenient witness.
As he reached the hedge with the gate in it, which opened into the palace’s extensive kitchen gardens, he dared a look behind him… and choked. Those bastards. They were following.
Throwing caution to the proverbial winds, Abel ran.
Mid-afternoon in sunny Central Ott.
Pretending leisurely indifference, Sir Alec sauntered along pedestrian-thronged Haliwell Street, which bustled
