Even if he watched the recording a hundred more times he’d glean no further information from it. The blood wouldn’t suddenly become any less red and Abel Bestwick’s pain and fear wouldn’t magically diminish.
“The wedding tour leaves Grande Splotze in three days,” said Sir Alec, very cool, as though the sight of his janitor bleeding like a stuck pig was neither here nor there. And who knew? Perhaps it wasn’t, to him. He’d been in the business a long time. “And it will wend its way around the capital’s home districts before returning to the capital to celebrate the nuptials. King Rupert has agreed to suffer an incapacitating stomach complaint, thus opening the door for Miss Cadwallader to represent New Ottosland at the festivities.”
Impressive. Sir Alec’s reach had no limit, apparently. “And I’ll be going with her?”
“As Her Royal Highness’s personal secretary,” said Sir Alec, his chilly grey eyes ever so faintly amused. “And general dogsbody.” The amusement faded. “Miss Cadwallader will also be accompanied by Miss Markham, who will act as her lady’s maid.”
Gerald blinked. Blimey. When Monk hears about this he’s going to go spare. He could easily go a bit spare himself. Bibbie, playing at janitor? His Bibbie? Well, all right, so she wasn’t precisely his. Most likely would never actually be his. But he cared about her. More than cared about her, if he could bear to let himself admit the truth.
His heart sat in his chest like a lump of ice. “Ah… sir… is that wise?”
“Wise?” Lips tightening, Sir Alec snapped his fingers over the small crystal ball, relegating Abel Bestwick’s fear and pain to memory. “Of course it’s not wise, Mister Dunwoody. It’s the most reckless thing I’ve done all year. And given what I’ve done recently
…”
Shackled together by secrets, they stared at each other across the severely neat desk.
“I understand why you’d want to handle it this way, sir,” Gerald said at last, still unhappy. “What with Melissande’s convenient connections. It’s not like we have a lot of time up our sleeve. And doing it this way keeps things all in the family, so to speak. Less complicated. Fewer explanations and cover ups if I have to… get clever.”
Sir Alec gave him a look. “Indeed.”
But he still didn’t like it. “I don’t suppose…” He shifted in his chair. “Look, is there any chance Bestwick’s… I don’t know. Misread the situation?”
“And then what?” Sir Alec said tartly. “In a fit of embarrassed remorse stabbed himself to make his story more plausible?”
No, probably not. “Sir, you must admit his claim is nebulous. Has there been any independent confirmation of trouble?”
“None,” said Sir Alec. “I’ve had Mister Dalby running down every last source he can think of, but so far no new information has come to light. As best as we can ascertain, both Splotze and Borovnik are in transports of delight at the prospect of this wedding.”
He thought about that. “Maybe,” he said eventually. “But Splotze and Borovnik have neighbours. Graff, for example. Not a month goes by that they aren’t kicking up some kind of dust with Borovnik. Up till now, Splotze has never bothered itself over those problems. The wedding might change that. New family loyalties, and so forth. Borovnik might assume that from now on Splotze will weigh in on their side of any future disputes. Graff won’t like that. And then there’s Blonkken, and its special relationship with Splotze. Whenever Splotze gets control of the Canal, Blonkken’s shipping tariffs go down. What if Borovnik sweet-talks Splotze into keeping the tariffs high? That’s hardly going to put a smile on Blonkken’s face. And while they might all be signatories to the UMN accords, that’s not to say they can’t, or won’t, get creative with their thaumaturgics if tempers really start to fray. Or worse, go all sly and secretive with them. Midnight assassinations, that kind of thing. And what about us? Ottosland can’t afford-”
Halting him with a raised hand, Sir Alec favoured him with a look that might almost be called approving. “At least you’re familiar with the current geopolitical landscape. That will save a certain amount of time. Now, touching upon the details of this assignment. There’s nothing you can tell Miss Cadwallader about the protocols and particulars of travelling as a royal. I expect you to be guided by her in that regard. Obviously you’ll conduct yourself with all due restraint. Under no circumstances can you betray the fact that you are acquainted with Miss Cadwallader and Miss Markham in any personal sense.”
“No, sir, of course not.” And then a thought occurred. “Sir, it’s highly unlikely anyone in the wedding party will know me. They probably won’t even look at me. That sort never notice dogsbodies. But Bibbie? Miss Markham, I mean? Leaving aside her-ah-” He cleared his throat. “Well, to be blunt, sir, her beauty… with the number of international personages who’ve been entertained at the Markham mansion over the years-”
“Miss Markham will need to be suitably obfuscated,” said Sir Alec, betraying irritation. “Although not by Mister Scrimplesham. The fewer people who know of this, the better. I’m sure that you and Miss Markham can arrange matters so that even her parents wouldn’t recognise her.”
Yes, that should work provided Bibbie went along with it. And he rather thought she would. Remarkably, there wasn’t a vain bone in her body. And he had the sinking feeling she’d do a lot worse than give herself a few warts if it meant the chance of playing at janitors.
Oh, lord. This is such a bad idea.
“Ah-speaking of her parents, sir. They’re content that you’re involving her in this?”
The question came out far more accusing than he’d intended. But really, what Sir Alec proposed was madness. For all her precocious brilliance, Bibbie was an innocent. She hadn’t been forged in the kinds of fires he’d faced, and Monk had faced, and Melissande too. The thought of Bibbie being scorched by such flames hurt him.
An odd look crept into Sir Alec’s eyes. “Miss Markham has already obtained her parents’ permission for the trip to Splotze. And I have no doubt she’ll play her part satisfactorily.”
He might not, but I do. He’s never seen Bibbie when she gets carried away.
“Does that mean they know Bibbie’s mixing herself up in Department business?”
Sir Alec’s lips thinned. “What Miss Markham’s parents are aware of is not your concern.”
In other words, probably not. And probably they weren’t going to find out, either, because Sir Alec would do or say whatever he had to in order to ensure that Bibbie played her useful part in the quest to find Abel Bestwick and unmask the villains wanting to destroy the marital union between Splotze and Borovnik.
He really is the most appallingly ruthless bastard.
“Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec, very sharply. “Were you in Abel Bestwick’s shoes right now, hurt, possibly hunted, would you not wish me to do everything in my power to see you brought safely home, and the assignment for which you spilled precious blood followed through to a successful conclusion?”
Yes. He would.
So does that make me an appallingly ruthless bastard, too?
Discomfited, Gerald cleared his throat. “Then you think Bestwick’s still alive, sir?”
Sir Alec slid out from behind his desk and crossed to the window. The drab, inconsequential little suburb of Nettleworth spread its bleak streets beyond the dirty glass. It was barely past midday, but the sun looked tired already.
“Until I am provided with evidence to the contrary, Mister Dunwoody, I always assume that my agents are still alive.”
He was touched by unexpected shame. “Of course.”
“Tell me,” said Sir Alec, with his back almost turned. “How are you, after Mister Jennings’s procedure?”
Coming out of the blue, the question surprised him. Immediately wary, he resisted the urge to fold his arms.
“It didn’t kill me.”
Sir Alec flicked him a look. “Obviously. Mister Dunwoody-”
“Well, what d’you want me to say, sir? I mean, you’re sending me on this assignment. You must think I’m fit for duty. Surely that’s all that matters.”
Gerald waited for a reprimand. Taking that kind of tone with Sir Alec was more dangerous than juggling sharp knives with his one good eye closed. But instead of snapping out a reprimand, Sir Alec breathed a soft sigh.
“I gave Mister Jennings instructions not to discuss with you the results of the hex extraction.”
He frowned. “I know. He said.”
