Melissande shrugged. “Oh, I spend rather a lot of my time in Ott, these days, on Rupert’s behalf, and what with one thing and another I’ve come to know its government denizens quite well.”
“My dear,” said the Crown Prince, pressing Melissande’s hand. “You have all my sympathy.”
As the staircase continued to unwind above them, they left the frescoes behind and entered a world of old, cracked paintings and more moth-eaten stuffed animal heads. Keeping a blank face with some difficulty, Gerald couldn’t help remembering his arrival at Lional’s palace, and a similarly endless tramp to his apartments with Melissande as his guide.
Bloody hell. This mission better not turn out to be New Ottosland all over again.
If for no other reason than this time he didn’t have Reg around to save his hide.
Wheezing as they tackled the next flight of stairs, Splotze’s Crown Prince spared Melissande a curious look. “So you’re swanning about Ott at old Rupert’s behest, eh? Funny. I could’ve sworn Brunelda showed me a newspaper photo a while ago, of you with some young jackanapes, talking about you starting up a witching agency or something. Not even calling yourself by your proper title. Extraordinary. Brunelda read that and needed her smelling salts brought.”
“Oh,” said Melissande, after the merest hesitation. “Really? Well, can you ever believe what you read in the newspaper? I mean, really?”
“So it’s poppycock? Oh, good. Brunelda will be pleased.”
“Not exactly poppycock,” Melissande said, cautious. “It is true I’m dabbling in a little thaumaturgic venture, but that’s for Rupert too. He has plans for New Ottosland, you see, and it’s easier for me to look into certain opportunities than it is for him, being the king. You know what that’s like.”
The Crown Prince laughed, wheezily, then guided them off the staircase and onto a landing which led to a long narrow corridor. “I certainly do. If only the common man knew what we suffered, bearing the burden of a crown.”
As Bibbie gurgled a little in her throat, Gerald managed, but only just, not to swallow his tongue.
“So, Twiggy,” said Melissande, apparently unmoved by the Crown Prince’s ludicrous lament. “Is anyone else joining us on the wedding tour?”
“Oh, did I forget to mention them?” said the Crown Prince, sounding gloomy. “There is one more guest, yes. Lanruvia.”
“Really?” said Melissande, surprised. “Lanruvia?”
She wasn’t the only one who’d not expected that. Gerald felt his pulse race. Lanruvia? Sir Alec was going to go spare.
“But why Lanruvia?” Melissande persisted. “Splotze doesn’t have much to do with them, does it?”
The Crown Prince shuddered. “No. Of course not. But someone-don’t recall who-insisted on an invitation for them. A last minute thing. Can’t say I’m thrilled about it, but no one’s interested in my opinion. I’m here to foot the bill and keep out of the way.”
“Oh, Twiggy,” said Melissande, and sounded genuinely sorry. “It can’t be that bad.”
Crown Prince Hartwig halted in front of a wide set of double doors. “You wait. You’ll see. Now, here we are, my dear. Your secretary’s at the end of the corridor, the green door, and you’re in here. Don’t fret about your things, they’ll be brought up in a trice.” He cleared his throat. “These were my mother’s rooms, y’know. Wouldn’t give them to anyone else.”
“Oh, Twiggy,” said Melissande. “Don’t you dare make me cry. Just be about your important business and leave me to settle in.”
“Well!” said Bibbie, as soon as the Crown Prince was safely on his way back down the staircase. “What a ghastly old man. I hate to admit it, but Mother’s right. Aside from your brother, Melissande, I can’t think what the rest of the world sees in royalty!”
Melissande sighed. “No, well, I expect you need to have been brought up with it. Now d’you mind if we don’t stand in the corridor gossiping? There’ll be a maid along any moment and it’s bound to look odd.”
Gerald cleared his throat. “Actually, you two can settle in without me. I need to get cracking. Sir Alec’s anxious that I nose about Bestwick’s lodgings, just in case he’s still there, or left something behind if he’s not.”
“Still there?” said Bibbie. “But if he’s still there after all this time, won’t that mean-” She wrinkled her nose. “Oh. That’s disgusting.”
“No, Miss Slack, it’s my job,” he said, repressive. “So if you’ll excuse me? And don’t worry if I’m gone a while. These things tend to take time.”
“Wait,” said Melissande, as he turned away. “You can’t go alone. If there is a plot afoot, you could be in danger. Bibbie and I should-”
“No, you shouldn’t!” he snapped. “Are you mad? There might well be all kinds of classified material where I’m going and if there is and I let you see it, Sir Alec will pillage me. You two are here as Rupert’s royal sister and a meek little lady’s maid. You’re going to stay here and be them. Understood?”
Not waiting for an answer, he left the girls standing in the corridor and headed down the stairs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the Gerald Dunwoody list of Things To Do, visit Splotze had always ranked high. It was a country of great natural beauty, with deep lakes and richly forested mountains, rippling green meadows and picture-perfect milch cows and goats. The headily potent cherry liqueur his parents had brought back from their trip-of-a-lifetime, Splotze’s most famous and lucrative export, was a pretty decent incentive too. If he had time, he’d have to buy himself a bottle or several while he was here.
And who knows? he considered, tromping down yet another flight of opulent stairs. It could be that with this marriage between Splotze and Borovnik, always assuming I can prevent it falling apart at the last minute, there’ll be lots of trade benefits and liqueur prices might actually come down.
In which case somebody, somewhere, would surely owe him a medal. Or possibly a lifetime’s supply of Splotze cherry liqueur. After all, a man could dream…
Nobody in Crown Prince Hartwig’s anthill-busy palace paid attention to him as he descended to its imposing ground floor Grand Entrance hall. In keeping with the country’s martial past-indeed, its martial present, thanks to all those tedious bloody Canal skirmishes-the hall was crowded with an amazing array of armour for man, horse and dog. Though fashioned for violence, the pieces were also works of art. Chased with intricate etching, loops and whirls and filigrees of infinite variety, inlaid with gold and copper and semi-precious stones, they stood testament to the irrepressible human urge to create beauty even out of barbarity.
Carefully, Gerald lowered his etheretic shield a little and examined the impressive collection through the lens of his potentia. To his surprise, he felt nothing. Not so much as one visor, greave, gauntlet or spiked dog collar had been fashioned with the use of thaumaturgics. Only good old fashioned love, blood and sweat had gone into their creation. That the pieces had been crafted long before ratification of the United Magical Nations’ accords prohibiting the manufacture of thaumaturgical weapons made it even more astonishing.
Just as impressive was the fact that he couldn’t detect any trace of thaumaturgical residue on the exterior of the armour, either. Which meant that the battles fought by the armour’s inhabitants had also been fought the old- fashioned way.
He wasn’t sure whether he should feel admiring, or appalled.
Sliding his shield back into place, he headed for the palace’s grand and guarded entrance. Still no-one challenged him. Interesting. Once someone was inside the palace it seemed nobody cared who they were or what they were doing. The assumption was, apparently, that anyone who was inside the palace belonged because they were inside. A definite lapse in security, there.
On the other hand, unless visitors were portalling directly to Hartwig’s little personal indulgence, the only public way into the palace was through its grand front doors. And that meant enduring the stern scrutiny of six tall guardsmen ranged across the foyer, a few paces from the doors. They wore suggestively militant uniforms of dark blue and gold, unsheathed daggers belted at their trim, muscular waists, and carried very tall, very sharp double- pronged pikes. It was a safe bet neither weapon was for decoration.
