“That’s what I think.”
Monk blinked. His brother’s indifferent dislike hurt, far more than he expected. Or wanted. “And yet you came to tell me about Lanruvia.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
Hitching his hip against the back of the old sofa, Aylesbury gestured vaguely. “You asked. Besides, I like those Lanruvian bastards even less than I like you.”
He put down his empty brandy glass. “You still haven’t told me what kind of murky waters they’re splashing about in.”
“That’s because I don’t know,” said Aylesbury. “Not exactly. Nobody likes to talk about Lanruvia, Monk. The folk who have regular dealings with them know what happens to gossips.”
“But you’ve heard something, you must have,” he insisted. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I’ve heard two things,” Aylesbury admitted, after a teasing pause. “The first is that we had an enquiry about locating and shipping a thaumicle extractor to Maneez.”
“Well…” Monk frowned. “Extractors are restricted, sure, but Maneez is on the approved list of purchasers.”
“Maneez is, but Lanruvia isn’t. And at the Trade Fair in Budolph week before last, I saw with my own eyes the Maneezi and Lanruvian delegates being very friendly.”
“And that’s unusual, is it?”
Aylesbury snorted. “No, Monk, I’m mentioning it because them hobnobbing in corners happens every bloody day of the week.”
“Right. Sorry.” He chewed at his lip. “And what was the other thing?”
“They got an invite to the Splotze-Borovnik wedding.”
Distracted by the unsettling notion of the Lanruvians mucking about with thaumicle extractions, he nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
“You know?” Lips tightening, Aylesbury stared into his unfinished brandy. Then he finished it and slapped the emptied glass onto the nearest table. “I see. Doubtless Uncle Ralph, or one of his government cronies, mentioned it to you in passing. As they do. All the time. Must be nice, not to mention warm, hugging all those terribly important secrets to your skinny chest.”
Damn. Monk took a step towards him. “Aylesbury, I’m sorry. I’d tell you what’s going on if I could, but-”
Up came his brother’s hands, in mock-entreaty. “No, no, that’s quite all right. Wouldn’t want Ottosland compromised, would we? Wouldn’t want you compromised. Not you, the great and mysterious Monk Markham. No- don’t bother. I can see myself out.”
Stranded in the parlour, Monk flinched as the front door slammed shut. Then a flapping of wings, and Reg was gliding into the room. She landed on the back of the sofa and looked pointedly at the two empty brandy glasses.
“He’s a bit of a plonker, your brother, isn’t he?”
“You were eavesdropping?”
Reg’s dark eyes gleamed. “I was holding myself in readiness in case fisticuffs broke out.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“You’re welcome. Well? Was him dropping by worth letting your dinner get cold?”
Groaning, Monk collapsed into the nearest armchair. “I’ve no idea. But I’ll pass on what he said. Perhaps Sir Alec can make sense of it.”
“And speaking of that Department stooge,” said Reg, her feathers fluffing with disdain, “he’s left a message for you in your crystal ball. The one in the kitchen. Didn’t sound particularly urgent but then you never can tell with that cagey bugger, can you?”
To hell with dignity. He ran out of the room, Reg flapping behind him.
The message was short and sweet. “Contact me via this vibration.” Because dealing with Sir Alec required razor sharp reflexes, and there was too much brandy sloshing about in his belly, he ate what remained of his cold bacon-it looked like Reg had helped herself while his back was turned, drat her-then activated his crystal ball.
“Ah. Mister Markham,” Sir Alec greeted him, looking washed out and weary but no more worried than usual, which was a relief. “Good. You’re free to talk?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, is everything all right?”
“Not really,” said Sir Alec, very dry. “Mister Dunwoody reports that Abel Bestwick appears to have met with some thaumaturgical foul play. Which means, Mister Markham, I need you to brush up on blood magic hexes. I should shortly have a sample for you to unravel.”
Blood magic? Monk swallowed bile. Hell, what was Gerald mixed up in this time? And Bibbie… and Melissande…
And if Sir Alec can give me a heads up about blood hexes and not be looking more worried than usual, what does that say about a typical day in his Department?
Nothing he wanted to think about too closely.
“Yes, sir. I can do that. Only-” Deep breath, take the plunge. “Sir, blood magic hexes are pretty dicey. I’m not sure I like the idea of my sister-”
“Your sister is in no danger, Mister Markham.”
“Not yet.”
“You have my word she’ll be extracted should circumstances merit.”
Which was nice of him, but no guarantee. “Sir Alec-”
Sir Alec’s etheretically transmitted face tightened with temper. “Mister Markham, I refuse to argue this with you every time we have occasion to speak. Miss Markham is a gifted thaumaturgist who accompanied Mister Dunwoody of her own free will. I strongly suggest you stop thinking of her as a helpless gel made victim of my nefarious machinations.”
Perched on the back of a handy chair, Reg rattled her tail feathers. “He might be a Department stooge, sunshine, but he’s right. That giddy sister of yours is no fainting Fanny. So get a bloody grip.”
Sir Alec’s lips twitched. “Indeed.”
Feeling unfairly ambushed, Monk threw Reg a hurt look. “Yeah, well, gifted or not, Bibbie’s safety is still my responsibility!”
“No, Mister Markham,” said Sir Alec, very quiet. “Until the Splotze mission is concluded, the responsibility is mine.”
Oh. Monk closed his mouth. Even through the etheretics of crystal ball communication, he could see something daunting in Sir Alec’s grey eyes… and was surprised to feel his fears for Bibbie easing.
He nodded. “Yes, sir. Sir, there’s something else. I have news about Lanruvia.”
Gerald’s unsettling superior listened without interruption, then frowned. “You consider your brother’s sources reliable?”
“I don’t know who his sources are, Sir Alec. But I do know Aylesbury. He wouldn’t have told me if he didn’t think the whisper was true.”
“Even if he is a plonker,” Reg added. “And he bloody well is.”
Again, Sir Alec’s lips twitched. “Mister Markham, what progress have you made with the wedding guest list?”
Should he mention Dodsworth, and the butler’s efforts on his behalf? Probably not. What Sir Alec didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Monk Markham.
“None yet, sir. Soon, I hope.”
“As do I, Mister Markham.”
“Sir Alec, what does it mean if the Lanruvians really are trying to get their hands on a thaumicle extractor?”
“It means, Mister Markham, that we will be obliged to thwart their efforts.”
Yeah. Right. Just like that. “I see.”
“Do you? How encouraging. Good night, Mister Markham. ”
Reg chattered her beak. “Blimey, but he’s a sarky bugger! No wonder my Gerald ended up-”
“Ended up what?” said Monk, eyeing the remains of his cold fried egg with distaste.
