There has to be better way. When I’m home again, I’ll find it. That bloody grimoire magic must be good for something more than demolishing entrapments and giving me nightmares.
On the other side of the noisy room, Bibbie was giggling at something a handsome minion from Borovnik was saying. Gerald scowled. Feeling his regard, she turned a little and carelessly caught his eye. Her lashes fluttered in a swift, almost imperceptible wink, and then she was turning away again. His stomach swooped.
I can’t stand this. She’s the love of my life. How can I risk her? My life’s too unpredictable. Too dangerous. I’m too dangerous. Especially now. We can’t possibly have a future.
Perhaps he should ask Sir Alec if he could do an Abel Bestwick. There had to be a thaumaturgical hotspot somewhere that could use the attention of a grimoire-enhanced rogue wizard. Because although the thought of exile was bad, the thought of watching Bibbie meet someone else, fall in love with someone else, make a life with someone else, was infinitely worse.
But he really couldn’t afford to think about that here.
Get a grip, Dunnywood! If Reg was around she’d boot you up the arse so hard…
A trio of Splotze servants bearing trays of food and wine approached the clustered gaggle of Borovnik retainers. They accepted the personal service without any sign of embarrassment. So, what? They thought it was their due to be waited on by Crown Prince Hartwig’s people? Why? Because their princess was marrying Splotze’s junior prince? And did this bowing and scraping mean Splotze thought Borovnik was doing them a favour, handing over Princess Ratafia to Hartwig’s brother?
If so, what did that say about the Canal Treaty? Would Borovnik end up with the lion’s share of any concessions and tariffs? And if that were the case, how would the people of Splotze react when they found out? How would Splotze’s various trading partners and regional allies react? Appalled, chicken drumstick forgotten, Gerald considered the geopolitical ramifications.
Blimey. This could get a bit bloody messy.
With a last teasing finger-wag, Bibbie abandoned the superior Borovniks and joined a little knot of Splotze girls, various flavours of maid from the way they were dressed, aprons and caps and skirt hems modestly brushing their ankles. The maids welcomed her with shy smiles and eager questions. Relieved, Gerald shifted his attention to Harenstein’s people. There were seven of them, clotted in the hall’s far corner. A lone Splotze servant plied them with food and drink. But why only the one? Why wouldn’t they be treated with the same deference as the Borovniks, when it was Harenstein who’d brokered the wedding? Was there a conflict brewing between them and Splotze? Or was Harenstein more safely offended than Borovnik? Or could it be that Borovnik wished to see Harenstein taken down a peg, and had the leverage now to make sure it was done?
Gerald frowned, uncertain. So many eddies and undercurrents. If only he knew what they meant.
With any luck, Melissande’s getting some answers upstairs. I hope she is. And I hope the waters settle on the wedding tour so I can see the rocks ahead before we crash into them.
Raised voices at the nearby food-laden tables distracted him from dire forebodings and doubts. The senior palace official in charge was leaning backwards, straining to keep his nose out of the reach of a large, sauce- splattered man waving both fists in his face.
“-insult you? Me, insult you? Mister Secretary Ibblie, I am the man insulted here. You are the insult! You are the man who seeks to ruin my life with your stupid accusations!”
“Cook, this is most irregular,” Ibblie retorted in a furious undertone. “Get back to the kitchen. If you stayed there, where you belong, perhaps your underlings wouldn’t be indulging in undesirable secret trysts in stables then irresponsibly wandering off, leaving you short-handed! And then perhaps you’d not be serving raw potatoes!”
Those close enough to have noticed the argument were openly staring at the two angry men. Staring himself, Gerald wondered how many-aside from the other palace staff- understood them, since they were shouting in their native tongue. Thanks to a few clever Department hexes, it wasn’t just Splotzin he could now speak like a local. He was fluent in every major language and a few obscure ones, too. But since it might come in useful if other people thought he knew nothing but Ottish, he made sure to keep his expression uncomprehending. Beneath the blank mask, his thoughts tumbled.
Disappearing underlings. Does Ibblie mean Abel Bestwick? Bestwick worked here as a pantry-man, so it’s a safe bet he does. I need to know what he knows. And the cook. The cook must know something too.
Goaded beyond endurance, Ibblie snatched up a fork, stabbed it into a serving bowl full of potatoes and brandished his proof in the fat cook’s sweating face.
“Instead of complaining about how much work you have, you incompetent spoonsucker, bite this and then tell me it’s not raw!”
The pair looked so comical, people started to laugh whether they understood the shouting or not. Startled, Ibblie stared at their amused, eavesdropping audience. His eyes widened and his cheeks darkened with angry embarrassment.
“Here,” he said, shoving the impaled potato at the cook. Then he handed the man the serving dish. “Get back to the kitchens. We’ll finish this later.”
The cook retreated, burdened with tubers and muttering imprecations under his breath. Disgusted, Ibblie gestured the small band of musicians to louder, busier playing.
“I say,” Gerald said, neatly stepping in front of the man as he made to leave. “Fabulous spread, sir. Very generous of the Crown Prince. I’ll be sure to tell Princess Melissande so, when I see her.”
“Thank you,” said Ibblie in his impeccable Ottish, and plastered a hasty smile over his irritation. “Mister Rowbotham, isn’t it?”
Gerald beamed. “Oh, call me Algernon.”
“Wonderful,” said Ibblie, and slid a little off to the side, suggestively. “So very pleased you’re enjoying the evening. Algernon. But if you’ll excuse me, I need to-”
“Though I must say,” he added, blocking Ibblie again, “I don’t envy you the organisation of this little shindig. Always something going wrong at the last minute, isn’t there?”
“Wrong?” said Ibblie. To his credit, his voice didn’t change. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Nothing’s wrong. Now I really should-”
“Nothing?” Prompted by some unfamiliar instinct stirring inside him, a sudden certainty that he could get this man to talk, Gerald clapped a friendly hand to Ibblie’s arm. “Then what was all that business with the cook about, eh?”
Eyes glazing, Ibblie stilled. Into his face crept a blank softness. “The cook? The cook is an imbecile,” he said, his voice sounding oddly distant. Mechanical. “He will not keep his place. He cannot control his underlings. He served raw potatoes. He is a disgrace.”
What the devil? Letting his hand drop, Gerald glanced around the hall, but no-one appeared to be paying them any attention. The crowd of servants and minions was too busy laughing and eating to care about Ibblie. Where was Bibbie? He couldn’t see her. Never mind. Best she be kept well out of the way, for now.
Woken instinct stirred again. No. Not instinct. Grimoire magic. He could feel it, a dragon’s sigh. I was right. I can compel a man to speak against his will. Quashing a surge of astonished excitementbloody hell, this could be useful — he looked back at Ibblie.
“Tell me more about the missing underling, Secretary Ibblie.”
Ibblie blinked. “I-that is a matter for-palace business should not-”
He frowned as the man sputtered into silence. Clearly Hartwig’s secretary needed a sharper prod to spill all the cook’s beans. I shouldn’t, not here, it’s taking too much of a chance. Besides, it’s not right. But this opportunity might not come again, so before he could second-guess himself, or let misgivings stay his hand, he let his etheretic shield drop and stared into Ibblie’s unfocused eyes.
“Tell me about the missing underling.”
“Ferdie Goosen!” gasped Ibblie. “I caught him dallying in the stables. Roasted him for it, and Goosen deserted his position.”
In other words, Abel Bestwick. At last he was getting somewhere. “Who was this Goosen dallying with? Who else did you see there?”
“Mister Rowbotham! Mister Rowbotham!”
Biting back a curse, Gerald snapped up his etheretic shield and turned, scowling. “Can’t this wait, Miss Slack? I’m rather-”
“Wait?” Behind her window-dressing glasses, Bibbie’s changed eyes were wide with concern. “No, Mister
