“That it was all Leopold’s idea. Making up our cherry harvest shortfall by bringing in the Lanruvians. Using my wedding to cover up any questions about their presence. Hartwig’s livid, but by the time he found out it was too late to uninvite them. So we’ve got to put a brave face on things until the wedding treaty’s signed. There are all kinds of concessions and loopholes and what-have-yous to do with the Canal in the cherry arrangement, y’see. Punitary fines. Reversions of rights. Transfers of titles. If the Lanruvians start rocking the barge now, well, the whole bloody Splotze-Borovnik partnership could capsize. Disaster.”
“I’m sorry, Ludwig,” she said at last, after trying to think it through. “I don’t quite see it. If it’s that important, how could Secretary Gertz do something so silly?”
“He panicked,” Ludwig sighed. “Everyone knows we float through the world on our cherry liqueur. He was afraid two bad harvests might turn into twenty.”
“Which would put something of a dent in Splotze’s reputation and revenue.”
“And change the balance of power between us and Borovnik.” Ludwig heaved another sigh. “Which explains the urgent desire to prop up our cherry supply. Bloody Leopold. Always doing the wrong thing for the right reason.”
Melissande inspected a loose thread in her sleeve. Lord, what a tangle, with the Lanruvians slap bang in the middle of it. The question was, did this make them the villains? Or were they simply the happy beneficiaries of someone else’s villainy?
And if that’s the case, then whose?
“Ah… Melissande?”
Looking up, she saw that Ludwig’s demeanour had shifted from woeful to anxious. “Yes?”
“Need to ask you not to repeat any of this,” he said. “Shouldn’t have told you, really. But it’s on my mind and, well, you’re a good listener.”
And now she was going to lie to him with a reassuring smile on her lips. I hate this. I really do. “Oh, Ludwig, of course. I’ll not breathe a word.”
“Much appreciated,” said Ludwig, expansive with relief. He clambered down from his rock, took up her hand and kissed it. “Hartwig always said you were a right one, and he wasn’t wrong.”
“And of course when he said that,” Melissande concluded, “I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gerald. “I know this is uncomfortable for you.”
“But it’s life or death,” she said. “Yes, yes. I understand.”
Understanding, however, didn’t necessarily mean acceptance, or approval. One of the things he loved most about Melissande was her unflinching dedication to honesty.
Whereas janitors are dedicated to uncovering the truth… and sometimes the only way to get at the truth is by lying until you’re blue in the face.
Something that would never sit well with Rupert’s sister.
As the coachmen watered their horses from special barrels attached to the carriages, and inspected them for harness galls and stones in their hooves, the wedding guests had spread out along the side of the road to eat their picnic lunches and chat. Taking advantage of the lull, he and Melissande had removed to a discreet but socially acceptable distance, pretending to consult on her next article for the New Ottosland Times.
“You don’t have to go on, y’know, Mel,” he said gently. “Being involved. If you’d rather step back. I’ll not think any less of you. How could I? You’ve been marvellous. You’ve done far more than Sir Alec expected you would. Or could. Truth be told, if you did step back now I’ve no doubt he’d be relieved.”
Melissande managed a wobbly little smile. “Him and Rupes. But Ger-sorry, Algernon, how can I? The job’s not finished. You need me to be your camouflage, so you can keep on janitoring without raising suspicions.”
“The Times, you mean?” He shook his head. “No. We can get around that. I’ve been thinking. All you need do is fall victim to a vague indisposition. You tell Hartwig you’re terribly sorry, but you don’t think you can go on. He makes an embarrassing fuss over you then reluctantly agrees and orders the carriage to take you and Bibbie back to Grande Splotze, leaving me behind as your proxy for the Times. Under those circumstances, no-one will object to me asking them all kinds of questions.”
“Oh,” said Melissande. “Yes. That does sound like it would work.”
It certainly did. In fact, the more he thought about it, the harder he could kick himself for not having come up with the plan much sooner. Like before he’d ever let Bibbie set foot on Hartwig’s barge. If he’d done that, he might’ve saved himself an awful lot of aggravation.
Only, of course, if I had left her behind in Grande Splotze, probably as soon as my back was turned she’d have picked up the hunt for Bestwick where I left off.
Hell’s bells. Abel Bestwick. So much had happened, the missing janitor had slipped his mind. Or maybe it was more that he didn’t want to think of him. Too much guilt there. For all his superior potentia, he’d failed to find the poor bastard. Save him.
But if Bibbie went back to the palace, she’d make a point of visiting that kitchen maid. He knew it. And if the girl started weeping for her lost Ferdie again, and begged Bibbie for help…
Of course she’d laugh at the danger and go hunting for Bestwick. Bibbie’s a Markham. That’s what they do.
He looked over at her, at the moment doing her best to charm a smile out of Norbert of Harenstein’s man, Dermit. Norbert’s man was still resisting.
Blimey. He must be carved out of stone.
“Actually?” said Melissande, who was giving Bibbie the same frowning, considering look. “I think it’ll be safer all round if Bibbie and I stay. Saint Snodgrass alone knows what she’d get up to that far out of your sight.” A little sigh. “Don’t worry about me, Algernon. I’m just being overly nice in my scruples.”
“Are you sure?” he said, and wished he could hug her.
Her chin tilted, in that particular way that made her quintessentially, uniquely Melissande. “Quite sure. Now, what are we going to do about the Lanruvians?”
“ We aren’t going to do anything,” he said firmly. “Whether they’re behind the plot or simply taking advantage of it, they’re still bloody dangerous. You stay away from those buggers, Mel. They’re my problem, and I’ll deal with them.”
Behind her spectacles, her eyes narrowed. “And there you go being frightening again.”
“In which case, my work is done,” he retorted. “For the moment. So why don’t you go and rescue Dermit? He might be a dour stick, but as far as I can tell he’s done nothing to deserve Bibbie’s undivided attention.”
“Yes, Mister Rowbotham,” Melissande murmured. “Whatever you say, Mister Rowbotham.”
But the rescue wasn’t needed, because a moment later Hartwig was chivvying his motley assortment of guests back to their carriages. One by one they clambered into their seats, the coachmen roused the horses, and the cavalcade rolled on.
Gerald, seeing Bibbie’s eyelids droop, couldn’t resist. “Oh dear. Is all that flirting wearing you out, Miss Slack?”
She glowered at him, sleepily. “Drop dead, Mister Rowbotham.”
And on that cordial note, their journey to Lake Yablitz continued.
For the next two hours, nearly, while Bibbie and Melissande dozed, Gerald hid behind his own closed eyelids and used as much of his potentia as he dared to search the surrounding ether for signs of danger. But beyond the discomfort of Splotze’s cantankerous etheretics, and the Lanruvians’ hot, bright potentias, he found nothing and no-one to give him pause.
Which was both a relief, and profoundly disturbing. It didn’t make sense. If the Lanruvians couldn’t hide their power from him, really, could anyone else? Somewhere, somehow, he must’ve taken a wrong turn. Something Melissande had said, earlier. Something about scruples…
From the start I’ve been assuming there’s a wizard at work here. But what if there’s not? What if there’s simply an ordinary, every day villain armed with a rotten wizard’s filthy thaumaturgics? Grimoire magics created for mischief, and sold without scruple to the man with the most coin.
Damn. It made sense-and he should’ve considered the possibility from the beginning. Instead, he’d let the Lanruvians’ presence blind him. Idiot. He had to get hold of Sir Alec. See if his superior had been able to trace the provenance of that blood magic hex. If they could work out who’d created it they’d be several steps closer to finding out who’d bought it, and once they knew who’d bought it…
