himself, just in case someone was watching, instead of causing a fuss when confronted by yet another pedestrian of the voluminously-attired female persuasion, he simply stepped into the gutter. Sadly, the city’s gutters weren’t empty. By the time he’d navigated the length of Palace Way and reached the junction with Bessleslitz Circus he was mired well over the instep with a variety of evil-smelling substances he didn’t dare investigate too closely.
Bugger, he thought, casting another look behind him at the cheerful crowd. If I am being followed, how will I know?
The thronged centre of Grande Splotze was gaily festive. Garlands swooped from lamp post to curlicued, wrought-iron lamp post, intricately entwined in royal blue, gold and crimson. In the middle of each swoop was a portrait of the prince and princess, and if a certain amount of artistic licence had been taken with Ludwig’s likeness, well, it was a wedding, after all, starring the prince as The Dashing Bridegroom.
And it wasn’t just the lamp post garlands that created the air of celebration. Every shop front was festooned with bunting, every window graced with a larger version of the happy couple’s official portrait. In the pastry shops’ displays he saw cakes baked in the royal likenesses, some of them terrifyingly life-like. One ambitious baker had produced a figured cake to actual size and standing upright, with Ludwig and Ratafia’s iced hands coyly clasped- which seemed on the whole to be a sad waste of flour, eggs and sugar. He couldn’t imagine anyone eating the thing. Surely they’d be tried for treason if they did.
With one last horrified look at the life-sized cake, acutely mindful of Sir Alec back in Nettleworth doubtless impatient for a report, Gerald hurried on, making sure that Algernon Rowbotham took a moment to stare admiringly at the famously mosaicked Town Hall, then ogle the surprisingly unclothed statues in the Groblemintz Gardens. Both times he risked lowering his shield again, but couldn’t detect any trace of untoward thaumaturgics.
Probably I’m not being followed. Probably I’m letting Bestwick’s message give me unnecessary collywobbles. But my motto from here on in is Better Safe Than Sorry…
The major landmark of interest in Grande Splotze was, of course, the Canal: source of so much prosperity and misery, and the ultimate cause of the upcoming nuptials. Thanks to a coin toss between the respective rulers of Splotze and Borovnik, back in the days when the Canal was still only a dream, it began in Grande Splotze.
Also thanks to his Department briefing notes, he knew that the actual nuts-and-bolts business of the Canal, the cargo barges, lived in a shipyard some safe fifteen miles down-water from the royal capital. It meant that this end was used mostly for sightseeing and celebratory business. Indeed, according to Melissande, there would be two spectacular fireworks displays launched from barges tethered in the Canal itself, one to see them off on the wedding tour and one to welcome them back. At least that was something to look forward to.
Assuming, of course, that he foiled the pending plot.
Reaching the Canal promenade, Gerald spied the lofty observation tower that, for a modest fee, visitors were invited to climb in order to enjoy a spectacular view of the city. Shading his eyes against the cheerful sunlight, he tipped his head back. Blimey, it was high. That meant a lot of stairs. But he had to climb it. Sir Alec had warned him that Abel Bestwick’s choice of lodgings had everything to do with strategy, and nothing at all with comfort. It might be a bit of harmless gawking for Algernon Rowbotham, but for Gerald Dunwoody, bereft of Reg and her useful bird’s eye view, Grande Splotze’s famous tower presented the perfect opportunity for him to get a look at his fellow agent’s neck of the woods before wandering off the well-trodden tourist path.
He paid his fee and started up the stairs. Four hundred and twenty-three treads later, jelly-legged and gasping, he staggered onto the viewing platform.
The first thing he felt was the wind whipping through the blond hair that startled him every time he looked in a mirror. Close on its heels came a punch of strong thaumaturgics from the safety barrier erected around the platform’s edge. Recovered enough to properly observe his surroundings, he shuffled out of the way of those folk who’d survived the climb in better shape than he had, then waited for a gap to appear in the three-deep crowd of tourists already ooohing and aaahing over the sights.
After waiting several minutes, he created a gap of his own. And while, yes, absolutely, it was the kind of thaumaturgical behaviour that often got frowned upon, he didn’t care. He wasn’t a sightseer, he was a janitor on a mission, and he didn’t have all day.
The most remarkable thing about standing so high above Grande Splotze was the chance to see, in person, just how close it was to Borovnik. He’d seen its proximity on a Department map of the region, of course. Had seen how the Canal, which long ago had been a treacherous, inconsistent and unreliable river, now neatly and predictably divided the two countries. But maps were maps and never felt quite real. Even at ground level, it wasn’t much better. Trees got in the way, and buildings, and in the sprawling city a man could easily feel like an ant.
But up here, he was an eagle. At least, all right, maybe not an eagle. But some kind of bird. Probably Reg would call him a moth-eaten sparrow, but the principle remained the same. Up here, wind-whipped and still panting a little from that leg-breaking climb, he could see for miles… and note, a little nervously, that Borovnik’s well-trained military didn’t have far to march at all before they’d reach the Canal and soon after that, Splotze.
On the whole, he thought it was a good thing that not only had Splotze and Borovnik signed treaties preventing the use of any thaumaturgics in their tedious Canal disputes, but that they’d actually honoured them. Because if they hadn’t…
Right now I’d most likely be standing in a smoking thaumaturgical crater, instead of on top of this tower admiring the not-quite-distant-enough spires of Borovnik’s capital, Gajnik.
And if he didn’t succeed in averting a crisis over the Splotze-Borovnik wedding, that could still happen.
But never mind, Dunnywood. No need to feel pressed.
With a last appreciative look at the surrounding countryside-blindingly green fields, home to sheep and cows, and dots of woodland and cherry orchards and higgledy-piggledy hedgerows, all very picturesque-he turned his attention to the tidy sprawl of Grande Splotze. And yes, there was the palace, golden and glittering. The main street, with its shops, the town hall and the Gardens. Crossing to the western side of the platform, he saw there was a smaller canal running at a sharp angle off the main Canal. Interesting. It hadn’t been on the city map he’d studied. With a small, cynical smile he saw that it bifurcated the city’s western residential district into the haves and the have-nots. On the tower side of the small canal, the houses were large and manicured. But on its far side… they weren’t. There, the houses were slovenly and mean-sized, fit only for servants and the poor. Somewhere down there, in that huddle of shoddy dwellings and tightly tangled, narrow alleys and laneways, was Abel Bestwick’s modest lodging.
And if I don’t get a look at it soon, and report home, Sir Alec is going to have my guts for garters.
Climbing down the tower’s stairs was only a little less trying than climbing up, what with all the squishing and holding his breath so upward-bound sightseers could squeeze past. At last, safely back on the ground, Gerald looked around the busy promenade and plaza. Bloody hell, so many people. Before he went any further he needed to make sure he was still alone.
So he lingered on the haves’ side of the small canal, ensuring his anonymity and feeling briefly sorry that Melissande and Bibbie were stuck back in the palace. Because really, this was delightful. Not far from the tower was a brightly painted gazebo on a large square of lush green grass, from which an enthusiastic band of musicians serenaded the crowd. Keeping the music company were tame Jandrian monkeys turning tricks, dancing dogs in silly skirts, gaudily dressed clowns on stilts handing out fresh flowers to the ladies, a trio of daring fire-eaters, a sword swallower, a snake-charmer, several jugglers and a giant walking to and fro with a dwarf on his head-both of them inviting Grande Splotze’s visitors to call down blessings on the upcoming royal wedding. So innocent. It was worlds away from plots and danger and terrified janitors staring at their own blood.
But I can’t afford to think about that.
As sure as he could be that he remained unnoticed, he slowly edged away from the eddying crowds until he reached the fantastically constructed and painted iron bridge hooping over the small canal that would lead him into the heart of have-nots territory… and from there to missing Abel Bestwick’s lodging.
Nearly an hour later, muffled by the shadow of a steeply overhanging eave across the way, Gerald frowned at the shuttered front window and dilapidated front door of 45b Voblinz Lane, where Abel Bestwick had crawled into bed every night for the past four years. Like all the dwellings in this have-not part of the city, 45b was in desperate need of some tender loving care.
It was actually half a house. Some enterprising landlord in the past had taken 45 Voblinz Lane and sliced it in two with a single dividing wall. From the look of things 45a was unoccupied, and had been for some time, which doubtless suited both Abel Bestwick and Sir Alec. Neighbours could be nosy, and a great deal depended upon Bestwick remaining largely unremarked.
