So he took Frank’s mug and swallowed, welcoming the warmth and even the sugar. “You were saying?”
“Aylesbury Markham was right,” said Frank, dropping into the visitor’s chair. “The Lanruvians have been getting cosy with the Maneezi.”
The unwelcome news woke his lightly sleeping megrim. “It’s confirmed?”
“Pribble got a message to us through Bisphor in Tarikstan. Had to use word of mouth with a courier.”
How disturbing. “He couldn’t risk regular channels?”
“There’s been an uptick in etheretic monitoring,” Frank said, moodily fingering the half-hearted crease in his trousers. “The Maneezi are bloody nervous, he says.”
“They must be, if they’re risking eavesdropping on our embassy.”
“And he’s seen Lanruvians coming out of their big Research facility,” Frank added. “Which is another bloody worry we don’t need right now.”
Perplexed, Sir Alec sat back in his chair. “It makes no sense. The Maneezi aren’t stupid. Why would they risk everything by getting into bed with the Lanruvians?”
Frank shrugged. “Could be they’re more scared of those pale skinny bastards than they are of sanctions.” His face twisted with derision. “And not without cause. When the political winds blow left to right, the powers that be are toothless and three-quarters blind to boot.”
“Or those pale skinny bastards have something the Maneezi want, so they’re willing to chance giving them a thaumicle extractor in return.” More sharp pain stabbed through his head at the thought of the Lanruvians with access to that kind of equipment. “All right, Mister Dalby. Here’s what we’ll do. First-”
“It’s taken care of,” said Frank, with a swift half-smile. “Field agents on alert, Customs on standby, wizards known for particle thaumaturgics flagged, ditto all PT equipment.”
The pain in his head eased. “Good, Frank. Keep me apprised.”
“Will do. Mind you, Ace, the Maneezi are bound to notice this little flurry of activity. Which means the Lanruvians’ll notice.”
“In which case they might reconsider their ill-considered plans.”
“We can only bloody hope.” Frank rubbed the side of his nose. “Heard anything more from Dunwoody?”
Sir Alec put down the half-emptied mug of tea. “No. Communications with Splotze continue problematical. Sir Ralph’s boffins are calling it ‘the etheretic storm of the century’.”
Frank grunted. “Not having second thoughts about sending him in, are you? Like, maybe it was too soon after that other mucky business?”
“No.”
Frank crossed an ankle over his knee, comfortable as a cat on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair. “If you are, you should bring him home.”
“I’m not,” he said tightly. “I have every confidence that Mister Dunwoody can resolve this Splotze-Borovnik business efficiently and discreetly.”
“If you say so, Ace.” With another grunt, Frank stood. “Any road. Nice chatting with you. Don’t bother getting up, I’ll show m’self out.”
But before Frank’s fingers touched the door’s handle, it flew open. In the doorway, Ralph’s nephew, looking rather the worse for wear.
Sir Alec nodded. “Thank you, Mister Dalby. I’ll take it from here. Come in, Mister Markham.”
As Frank closed the door behind him, Monk pulled a familiar, bloodstained square of blue carpet from under his coat and tossed it on the desk.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t do it. And I wrecked the damn thing trying.”
Sir Alec folded his hands neatly on top of the West Uphantica file and considered the thaumaturgically inert carpet in silence. Then he sighed.
“These things happen. Sit down, Mister Markham. Before you fall down.”
Grey-faced and hollow-eyed, Monk folded onto the chair Frank had just abandoned. “I really am sorry, sir. It was an accident. I got carried away.”
“As I said,” he replied, in the tone that until now only Frank Dalby had heard-and, even then, very seldom. “What we do is not an exact science.”
Monk dragged shaking fingers through his hair. “Blood magic,” he said, with deep loathing. “I used every decoding hex I could think of. I even invented a new one.” He pulled a face. “I think that might be what killed it. I was going to try putting it back together again, only Reg threatened to poke out my eyeballs so I stopped. Because, y’know, for once I think she really meant it.”
Good for the bird. “Go home, Mister Markham. Get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”
Ralph’s nephew stood. Swaying a little on his feet, he stared at the wrapped square of carpet soaked in blood, and ruined blood magic. “Heard from Gerald?”
“No.”
“Me neither. So let’s hope no news is good news.” Another frown. A jerk of his head at the desk. “Anyway. I’m sorry.”
Alone again, Sir Alec dropped the useless piece of carpet into his office rubbish bin. Thought of Abel Bestwick… and in a single explosive sweep of his arm sent the West Uphantica file flying.
“Damn!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Monk reached his jalopy, parked on the street outside the Nettleworth building, he found Reg perched on the bonnet like an oversized hood ornament.
“Well?” the bird said. “How did he take it?”
“Better than I thought he would. What are you doing here, Reg?”
She flapped onto his shoulder. “Making sure that government stooge didn’t turn your guts into his garters. Blimey, sunshine. You look like a walking corpse. Anyone ever tell you natural light is not your friend?”
Buzzing with exhaustion, Monk unwarded the car door, opened it, and slid behind the wheel. “Look, Reg,” he said, as the bird hopped onto the back of the passenger seat. “I don’t need a nursemaid. I’m going straight home and then I’m crawling into bed.”
Reg rattled her tail. “Well, you’re going straight home. But your bed’ll have to stay empty a while longer, sunshine.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“Dodsworth’s waiting for you at Chatterly Crescent, all gee’d up about something and raring to go.”
Dodsworth? “Gee’d up about what? Did he say?”
“Oh, yes,” Reg said, looking down her beak at him. “Once I’d let him in through the locked and warded front door, your butler and me had ourselves a lovely chinwag over tea and toast. And he wasn’t the least bit discombobulated to find out I say a bloody sight more than Polly wants a bloody cracker and make sure it’s got no sesame seeds. I’m only holding back the particulars because I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
Right. With a sigh, Monk fired up the jalopy and pulled away from the kerb. “Sorry. I’m a bit tired.”
“Yes. Well,” the bird muttered. Then she slapped him with her wing. “Oy. Don’t suppose you thought to ask that manky Sir Alec of yours if he’s heard from our Gerald?”
“I did, and he hasn’t.”
“Bugger,” said Reg. “What’s our boy up to? Didn’t his mother teach him it’s polite to call home?”
Monk winced. A steady drumbeat of pain was booming in his skull. He pulled down his driver’s side window for some fresh air, then nosed the jalopy into the heavy flow of traffic along Kastelan Street.
“I expect he’s a bit busy, Reg. Please. Don’t go on.”
She considered him closely, head tipped to one side. “On second thoughts, maybe I should’ve poked Dodsworth in his unmentionables until he went away. If you go wandering about the place looking like that, Mister Markham, you’ll frighten the horses into hysterics.”
Dodsworth wouldn’t have come to see him if it wasn’t important. “Bugger the horses, Reg. They can take care of themselves.”