Frowning, Ibblie approached. “Sent by whom? You’re a kitchen lackey, from the look of you. What-”
An ominous iron groan, as a stable door was pushed open. Almost frozen with horror, Abel slid his gaze over his shoulder. One of the Steinish plotters was staring at him, blue eyes cold and calculating, one broad, blunt hand resting on the worn knife-sheath belted at his hip. Beyond him the neighbouring stable door opened, and the second plotter stepped out. Thinner in the face than his friend, a violently suggestive pale scar slashing the width of his right cheekbone.
Abel turned back to Ibblie, his skin crawling as though he wore a shirt made of ants. “Sorry, sir. I think I’ve muddled myself. You’re right, I shouldn’t be here at all. The message is for the gatekeep.” He bobbed his head. “Excuse me. I’ll get on.”
“Yes, you do that!” snapped Ibblie. “And be sure I’ll mention your incompetence to the head cook!”
Prickling with alarm, Abel managed, barely, to hold himself back to a swift walk. They wouldn’t follow him, surely, those murderous plotters from Harenstein. Not with the palace secretary standing there, an inconvenient witness.
As he reached the hedge with the gate in it, which opened into the palace’s extensive kitchen gardens, he dared a look behind him… and choked. Those bastards. They were following.
Throwing caution to the proverbial winds, Abel ran.
Mid-afternoon in sunny Central Ott.
Pretending leisurely indifference, Sir Alec sauntered along pedestrian-thronged Haliwell Street, which bustled with brisk trade. There was no better place in Ottosland’s capital for the training of junior agents in the art of clandestine operations without benefit of thaumaturgics. Today, having won a short and bracingly sharp argument with Frank Dalby, whose purview this fell under, he was training two hopeful would-be janitors.
On the other side of the wide, busy street, in between passing carriages and automobiles, he caught sight of Mister Pennyweather, who was oblivious to the fact that doggedly persistent Frank Dalby had been following him for the last quarter hour. Were this real life, and not a training exercise, and were they not in Central Ott but instead some far-flung thaumaturgical hotspot, Bocius Pennyweather would by now be an unfortunate statistic.
The blithering fool.
On the other hand, he still held out cautious hope for Chester Baldrin, currently five shops to the rear on his side of the street. Mister Baldrin had neatly evaded Grady Thomquist, the Department’s other regular field trainer, and continued to remain almost inconspicuous. Sir Alec was vaguely aware of relief. Provided he could keep finding more Chester Baldrins, the Department’s future would remain secure.
In the short term, at least.
Because the two young men were supposed to believe that this chance to follow their superior was entirely haphazard, he ducked into a haberdashery and purchased a half dozen unnecessary handkerchiefs. Then, to test his trainees more rigorously, he took a seat next to the railing in the outdoor area of a popular tea room and waited.
But not for long.
Just as his unsweetened lemon tea was placed before him by a waiter, disastrous Mister Pennyweather caused a commotion by darting across the street under the nose of a startled carriage horse. Making a bad situation worse, he then walked right past the tea room’s outdoor seating area and made eye contact.
Lips thinned, Sir Alec raised an eyebrow.
The young fool’s stride faltered and his face turned beet red. As he dithered, blocking the sidewalk, inviting irritated glances and a flurry of complaints from inconvenienced pedestrians, Frank Dalby slid up to him like a shadow, pressed a finger into the small of his back, and snarled.
“Mister Pennyweather, you blockhead, you are dead.”
Across the street, Chester Baldrin kept walking without so much as a glance in their direction. When Grady Thomquist appeared on the edge of the pedestrian-knot in front of the tea room, Sir Alec idly snapped his fingers. Training exercise over. Thomquist nodded, and took himself off after Mister Baldrin.
Bocius Pennyweather was staring at his feet. “Sorry, Sir Alec. Sorry, Mister Dalby.”
“Idiot.” Frank grabbed him by the coat sleeve and hauled him close. “No names. Get back to the office. We’ll have words on this later.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Mister Baldrin whispered, and fled.
Sir Alec signalled to the waiter. “Another tea, please. Plain, with milk and five sugars. And some cream cakes.”
“I knew Pennyweather was a crock the moment I clapped eyes on him,” said Frank, sliding into the second chair as the waiter obediently retreated. “Do us all a favour, would you, and send him packing back to Customs.”
“I’ll agree Mister Pennyweather’s not fit for field work,” he said mildly, once he was sure no-one was paying them attention. “But his analytical skills are impressive.”
Frank grunted. “If you say so.”
“I do,” he said, and decided to indulge himself further, with a cigarette.
A short, round matron wearing a shockingly green-and-purple checked day dress and far too many ostrich plumes in her puce turban stopped in front of them to peruse the tea room. She was accompanied by a parcel-laden maid, wilting in black and white, who tried not to look longingly at the shade and food. Noticing, the beplumed matron swatted her on the shoulder then launched into a tirade about slatternly servants who didn’t know when they were best off.
Sir Alec listened to the harangue for a few moments, then inhaled deeply on his cigarette and exhaled, strategically.
“ Well!” said the turbaned matron, wheezing, and moved off. Shooting him a grateful glance, the maid scuttled in her wake.
As Frank rolled his eyes, the waiter returned. Marvelling, Sir Alec watched as his former partner fell on the horribly sweet tea and cream-filled cakes like a man starved for weeks in the wilds of Apineena. How he remained skinny as a rake, eating like that, was a mystery.
He set the cigarette aside and sipped from his own cup. “So. Mister Pennyweather is out. And Mister Baldrin?”
Frank smacked his lips. “He’s got a bit of promise, but I’ll want to see him handle some tricky thaumaturgics before I start turning cartwheels.”
Sir Alec hid a smile. There were times when Frank made him look like a giddy enthusiast.
“Right, then,” said Frank, and let out a gentle belch. “That’s them sorted. Now, about our other problem child.”
It was funny, really. Inside the building at Nettleworth, Frank was taciturn and self-contained. Never anything less than dutifully deferential. But get him back into the field, away from Department hierarchies and protocols, and the years fell away until they were simply janitors again, standing shoulder to shoulder and back to back against the swiftly multiplying evils of the world.
He hated to admit it, but there were times when he missed that uncomplicated camaraderie, quite keenly.
“You’re referring to Mister Dunwoody, I take it? Well, what about him?”
The glint in Frank’s eyes was derisive. “You bloody know what.”
As much as he trusted Frank, he’d not told him the entire truth of Gerald Dunwoody’s most recent escapade. No need to burden him. No need to run the risk. How much Frank had guessed for himself, he didn’t ask. Quite a lot of it, he suspected. Especially since Frank had been the one to dispose of that other, deceased Monk Markham. But his former partner wouldn’t push to know more and he’d not bear a grudge over a prudently-held silence, either.
“Mister Dunwoody will be fine,” he said, and sipped again from his cup. “He just needs a little more time to adjust.”
Frank wiped his fingers clean of cake cream. “You really think he can hold the line against grimoire magic?”