The accusing undertone in Melissande’s voice had him folding his arms. “It’s not my fault Sir Alec and the rest can’t see past the fact she’s a gel! I’m following orders, Melissande. What else can I do?”
She smiled at him, gently. “You can at least try to see her as an equal, Mister Rowbotham. And stop protecting her. If Ottosland is in danger, then she has as much right as any man to defend it.”
Melissande was right. Of course she was right. Except…
“If you truly do love her,” said Melissande, eyebrows lifted, her gaze challenging, “there’s no better way for you to show it.”
Bloody woman. She saw too much. He sought distraction in checking his pocket watch.
“It’s nearly past luncheon,” he said, tucking the timepiece back into his vest. “I should go downstairs. It’ll be easier to check on the remaining guests if they’re gathered in one place. After that, I’ll visit whoever wasn’t feeling up to stirring out of his or her chamber.” He glanced at the closed bathroom door. “Make sure she stays here, Melissande. Please. There really will be hell to pay if anything happens.”
Melissande sighed. “I know. Don’t worry, I’ll keep her distracted. Now go on-and good luck.”
Dear Melissande. She was worth twice her weight in tiaras. Relieved, Gerald withdrew.
Whatever else he might be, Crown Prince Hartwig was a generous host. The grand dining hall, scrubbed and perfumed and redecorated after the state dinner debacle, now boasted sideboard after sideboard of aromatic dishes designed to tempt the most cautious of palates. Freshly cut flowers abounded, and a quintet of fine tenors and baritones serenaded every guest who ventured across the silk-draped threshold.
Sidling his unobtrusive way in, Gerald retreated to an empty corner of the chamber and took a moment to consider the Splotze-Borovnik wedding’s potential enemies. There was Ottosland’s bumptious Foreign Minister, Lord Babcock. His pallor a trifle waxen, he was exchanging pleasantries with the Zumana of Fandawandi while helping himself to some crumbed lamb cutlets. Over there, already seated, Jandria’s Minister of Foreign Affairs and his wife were eating roast squab with gusto. Clearly the tainted crab puffs had made no lasting impression on them. The guests from Graff and Blonkken entered the dining room, amiably chatting. Behind them came Aframbigi’s Foreign Minister and his Second Wife. A sideways swipe, that was, leaving the First Wife at home. A petty revenge for a small, unforgotten slight, most likely. Politics. So bloody tedious.
As a handful of impeccably liveried servants carried in more silver platters of food, Gerald half-closed his eyes and focused on his etheretic shield. Its outright lowering was still unwise but perhaps, with his grimoire-enhanced abilities, he could thin it a little. Shade it from opaque to translucent, leaving him just enough obfuscation to remain hidden… but not blind.
As his potentia stirred and he felt its power warm him, like shafts of sunlight through damp cloud. Felt it ripple through his shielding, those shafts of sunlight dispersing mist.
On the other side of the dining room the Jandrian minister’s head lifted, sharply, laden fork arrested halfway to his mouth. Damn. Holding his breath, Gerald yanked his potentia back inside. The Jandrian minister shook his head, then relaxed.
So. It was going to be a case of trial and error until he had the knack of controlling his new powers. Well, at least he was in no immediate danger of being bored.
Heart thudding, he tried again.
A softer stirring. No more than a hint, a whisper, of power. The Jandrian minister noticed nothing. The rest of the room was undisturbed. Imagining himself a searchlight, Gerald swept the dining room with his shrouded potentia, seeking something, anything, that didn’t feel right. The quintet sang on, joyfully, their music decorating the air.
How odd. I think — yes, I can taste the ether. It’s sour and thin here, like beer that’s aged well past its prime. Gone threadbare. No wonder this region’s thaumaturgics are so unreliable.
Nasty. A pain throbbed meanly behind his eyes. He tried to blink it away, marvelling anew at the glory of unblinded sight. When the sharp pulse didn’t ease, he did his best to ignore it. Risked eking out a sliver more of his potentia. Still the Jandrian minister remained oblivious. Excellent. Even better, he couldn’t sense anything immediately untoward in the dining room.
Time to start spreading Princess Melissande’s heartfelt good wishes.
After camouflaging himself behind a plate of pickled herring, he descended gormishly upon Lord Babcock, conveniently seated by himself. Despite his pallor, the minister was eagerly tucking into his cutlets and chutney.
“I say, sir,” Gerald said, awkwardly bowing. “What a relief to see you up and about after all that recent unpleasantness. Her Royal Highness, Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, particularly asked me to convey her best wishes to you for a speedy recovery. But it seems you’re already well on the mend. Her Highness will be thrilled to hear it.”
Lord Babcock lowered his cutlery and squinted up at him. “Really? That’s most thoughtful. My compliments to Her Highness.”
Leaning closer, Gerald captured his lordship’s gaze. Impressed his will upon the man, feeling again that thrilling surge of power. “I’ll pass them along. Tell me, my lord, have you any reason to wish ill upon the wedding?”
“What?” Babcock’s squint relaxed into a wide-eyed docility “No. Of course not.”
It was the truth. “What about Ferdie Goosen? Does that name ring a bell?”
“Goosen?” Dreamily, Babcock shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
And that was true too. Relieved, because the thought of corruption and treachery so close to home was a nightmare, Gerald released his grimoire hold on Babcock and stepped back.
“Thank you so much for your time, Your Lordship. I’ll be sure to tell Her Highness that you-”
A wave of etheretic unrest swamped him, strangling the rest of his platitude. Half-discarding, half-dropping his plate of herring on Babcock’s table, he slewed around to face the dining room’s grand entrance.
And there were the Lanruvians, spreading silence like warm blood dropped into water. Side by side with their Spirit Speaker walked a jovial Marquis of Harenstein, he of the vast paunch and lead-lined stomach. His child-bride wasn’t with him. Instead he’d been accompanied by two of his retainers. Both were unfamiliar. They’d not attended the Servants’ Ball. Older than the Harenstein minions who’d danced there, they were smiling, coldly polite. The taller one wore a ragged scar on his face.
Instinct had Gerald pouring power back into his shield before that unsettling Spirit Speaker could feel anything amiss. But in the split second before he was hidden completely, a random and terrible premonition stopped the air in his throat.
The fireworks. The fireworks. Something’s dreadfully wrong.
As Hartwig’s quintet rediscovered its harmonious voice, and conversations stuttered back to life, Gerald fumbled his way to the nearest food-laden sideboard where he could stand with his back to the newcomers and catch his rasping breath. His bones were still shaking with the force of his proofless conviction.
But I’m right. I know I’m right. Only… how do I know it?
More grimoire magic? Perhaps. Probably. But did it matter? No. All that mattered was the smothering sense of impending danger. After a moment, he risked a sneaking glance over his shoulder.
The Lanruvians, praise the pigs, hadn’t noticed him. Neither had the marquis or his minions. The old fool! Surely he knew Lanruvia’s reputation? After so much goodwill garnered by Harenstein’s brokering of the wedding, why would he sully his own by cultivating such men?
I’ve no idea. That’s a question for Sir Alec and Monk’s uncle. My job now is to see those fireworks safe.
Abandoning, for the moment, his plan to question Hartwig’s other luncheon guests, he ghosted his way out of the dining room and headed back upstairs to Melissande’s suite.
Bibbie only let him in after he’d spent several minutes grovelling through the front door in a whispered undertone.
“Where’s Melissande?” he demanded, following the wretched girl into the bedchamber, where she was packing ahead of their departure that evening on Hartwig’s sumptuous royal barge. “I hope she’s not off doing something inadvisable.”
“She’s visiting Crown Princess Brunelda,” said Bibbie, keeping her back firmly turned. “Who’s feeling very poorly with her gout. If that’s any of your business, Mister Rowbotham.”
“Actually, it is,” he said, frustrated. “There’s something I need her to do.”
Bibbie sniffed. “I won’t bother asking if I can be of assistance.”
