believe Hartwig couldn’t have found me someone less dreadful to sit with!
She’d been placed at the far end of the Great Table, with Leopold Gertz ensconced damply at her right hand, and because they were all seated side by side in one long row, there wasn’t anyone to talk to across the table… even if she’d been prepared to commit such a breach of good manners.
Seated with them on the overly decorated dais, displayed like shop window dummies to the whole sumptuous State Dining Room, were Hartwig, Dowager Queen Erminium, Ratafia and Ludwig, of course, the Marquis of Harenstein and his child-bride Marquise, who looked any minute as though she were about to start sucking her thumb-or possibly fall asleep face-first in her soup-and all three Lanruvians. In typical Lanruvian fashion they managed somehow to sit apart, even when neatly sandwiched between Erminium and the marquis.
Curse it. If only Hartwig had sat me next to them. At the rate I’m going I won’t get to say so much as boo to the buggers.
Interestingly, the various dignitaries from Graff, Blonkken, Aframbigi, Ottosland, Fandawandi and Jandria had been relegated to the dining room’s second-best tables. From the look on the Ottish Foreign Minister’s face-what was his name, again? Boggis? Beaver? Something starting with B. Battleaxe, it should be, the glares he was giving Hartwig-it was clearly counted an insult to Ottosland that he wasn’t up there with them on display. And why wasn’t he? she wondered. Was Hartwig punishing the great nation for messing him about?
It wouldn’t surprise me. Hartwig can be a bit prickly, and Ottosland never seems to notice when it’s giving offence.
Remembering the Wycliffe affair, Melissande pretended to enjoy her own soup-lord, she loathed artichokes, she’d almost prefer the tadpole eyes on toothpicks-while surreptitiously observing the Jandrian Minister of Foreign Affairs and his wife. Were they behind the attack on Abel Bestwick and the planned disruption of the wedding? Oh, surely not. Surely they weren’t stupid enough to try more shenanigans after their still-recent close shave with international industrial espionage.
I mean, not even the Jandrians are that arrogant… are they?
She didn’t know. Bibbie, being a Markham, might have an idea. One of the Markhams must. Sir Ralph. Possibly Monk. It was something to remind Gerald about, anyway, so he could discuss it with Sir Alec. Though doubtless Sir Alec was already taking a closer look at their old foe.
The rest of the noise in the dining room belonged to the bevy of other invited guests, captains of Western Continent industry, social and cultural luminaries and the like, who laughed and gossiped and clattered cutlery, gold and silver and jewels glittering in the luminous chandelier light. And of course the musicians, who were soaking the rarefied air with a selection of classical Borovnik music.
Melissande looked down at her soup bowl. Not even half emptied, which could easily be taken as an ill- mannered insult to her hosts. Her stomach growled a warning complaint. She really did not like heart of artichoke. As her stomach complained again she gave up, and pushed the bowl to one side.
Beside her, his own bowl scraped clean, Leopold Gertz dabbed napkin to lips. “Very nice, I’m sure.” He glanced sideways. “You disagree, Your Highness?”
Oh, damn. “No, no, Mister Secretary. Unfortunately I- ah-I got a bit carried away at the reception. Too many crab puffs. Did you try one? They were delightful.”
Leopold Gertz sniffed, damply. “I don’t believe in crustaceans.”
“Ah! Then that must give you something in common with our friends from Lanruvia,” she said, seizing the chance before it slithered away. “I don’t think they ate any crab puffs, either. I must say…” The rest of the table wasn’t paying attention to either of them, so she shifted a little in her seat and tried her best to capture the man’s attention. “It’s lovely to see the Lanruvians getting about, taking part in things, isn’t it? They’re so reclusive as a rule. But I have to ask, why now? Why Splotze? Why do they care about this wedding?”
Leopold Gertz’s eyes were a nondescript brown, their irises floating despondent in a bloodshot corneal sea.
“Who knows why the Lanruvians do anything, Your Highness?” he said, with a dispirited shrug of his skinny shoulders. “I did hear they were interested in using our Canal to transport goods from Harenstein to the Gardeppe Isthmus. Since the upcoming joyous event will usher in a new era of stability for the region, perhaps that’s why.”
Servants had magically appeared to remove their soup bowls. Leaning out of the way, Melissande frowned. “But you’re not sure?”
“As I say, Your Highness.” Gertz attempted a smile, and mostly failed. “Who can fathom the Lanruvian mind?”
“Well, I’d certainly like to try,” she said, with a sickeningly coy little laugh. “They’re so terribly intriguing. Whose idea was it to ask them to the wedding, d’you know? Hartwig couldn’t recall.”
“I’m afraid I can’t either, Your Highness,” said Gertz, disapprovingly repressive. “And even if I could, it wouldn’t be proper for me to tell you.”
“No, no, of course not,” she said quickly. Her stomach growled again, this time so loudly that Leopold Gertz heard it. Startled, he blinked at her. She pretended it hadn’t happened. “Mister Secretary-”
But then she forgot what she meant to say, because her stomach growled yet again then turned itself over on a surging wave of sickness. Her skin rushed hot, then cold and clammy. Dark spots danced before her eyes.
“Your Highness?” Leopold Gertz said, damply concerned. “Are you all right?”
Further down the table, Hartwig’s brother Ludwig groaned. A moment later Princess Ratafia let out a pained little gasp.
“Mama-Mama-I don’t feel very well!”
Stomach writhing, the dancing black dots duelling with scarlet blotches now, Melissande squinted around the dining room. Quite a few of the guests seemed to be in intestinal distress. Without warning, Ottosland’s Foreign Minister bent double, half-slid from his chair, and began to heave up his artichoke soup… along with everything else he’d eaten so far.
Horrified cries. The scraping of chair legs on the polished marble floor. And then the ghastly, ominous sounds of more people succumbing.
But succumbing to what? Poison? Was this the dreadful plan? Wipe out the entire wedding party and a great many other important people for good measure? Hand pressed to her spasming middle, Melissande looked past Leopold Gertz to Hartwig. He was sweating profusely, and hiccupping, his eyes stretched wide in disbelief. Beside him, Ludwig was heaving like a drunken sailor. So were Princess Ratafia and her mother, the Dowager Queen. The Marquise of Harenstein was flapping her hands and squealing, revolted and hiccupping, as the marquis tried to pull her away from the mess. The musicians had stopped playing, appalled, and the servants were staring, abandoning the idea of serving the next course. And the Lanruvians… the Lanruvians…
Had extricated themselves from the carnage and were watching from a safe distance, unmoved.
Teeth clenched tight, Melissande battled the inevitable for as long as she could. But her offended insides were adamant. What had gone down just had to come up.
“Bugger it,” she said, helpless… and started to retch.
Not surprisingly, Ibblie had succumbed to Gladys Slack’s charms and was now partnering her in an energetic Splotze folk dance that involved a great deal of hand-clapping, heel-clicking, head-tossing and sultry meeting of eyes. The empty square within the border of tables was crammed full of palace lackeys and quite a few of the visiting minions who’d been unable to resist the lure of harmless entertainment.
Standing on the sidelines, Gerald fought to keep the scowl from his face. Bloody Ibblie was enjoying himself entirely too much. He was taking advantage. Taking liberties. He was clutching Bibbie’s waist!
And for all I know, the man’s a bloody villain!
He still couldn’t say one way or the other. If he could think of a reason to send Bibbie out of the hall, he’d be able to corner Hartwig’s secretary and learn the truth. But until then he was stuck with trying to read the man from behind his damned etheretic shield. As arranged, Bibbie had danced Ibblie past him five times, and each time he’d risked bursting a blood vessel trying to examine the man for thaumaturgical taint. He’d not felt any, but that didn’t mean anything. He’d not felt that entrapment hex, either, until it was too late, and that was with his shield down.
Bibbie danced past yet again, and this time he managed to catch her eye in a warning. As the folk dance ended, and the couples broke apart, he nipped in smartish and gave Ibblie an almost friendly nod.
“Mind if I steal Miss Slack away from you, sir? Thank you!”
