“Well?” said Walthorpe, coming out to lean on the open side of his cubicle. His thin blond hair was waving wildly about his face, charged with ambient, random tetrathaumicles. He looked like a startled dandelion. “Who was that, then? A secret admirer?”
He pulled a face. “Idiot. No, it-ah-it was my tailor. I’ve some altered shirts to collect. I won’t be long.”
I hope.
“You’re going out?” said Walthorpe, comically crestfallen. “Oh. But I wanted you to-”
“Did I hear you aright?” said eavesdropping Dalrymple, popping up from his cubicle like an outraged jack-in-the-box. “You’re dashing off to fetch some bloody mending?”
Blimey, Norris Dalrymple could be hard work. From the day he’d set foot in R amp;D, nearly a year ago, in his perfectly pressed three-piece suit that always stayed pristine, with or without a lab coat, and his perfectly polished spectacles and his corrugated brown hair plastered with pomade and never imperfectly parted, he was the kind of bloke you wanted to trip up in passing, just for the pleasure of seeing him go splat.
“Actually, Dalrymple, no,” Monk snapped. “But since you don’t like it when I’m called away without explanation…”
Dalrymple’s face darkened. “I see. Well, then, Markham. Best you run along. God forbid the lowly likes of us keep you from your oh-so-important clandestine business.”
Torn between his own irritation and an inconvenient sympathy, he shrugged. “Sorry, old chap. It’s not like I can help who I was born related to.”
Dalrymple subsided, muttering. “Treats the place like a bloody cafeteria. There are proper procedures. Rules. Not to mention deadlines. Arrogant, insufferable…”
“Never mind him,” said Walthorpe. “He’s brewing an ulcer. Go, if you have to. Is everything all right?”
Lord, it better be. “Of course.”
But Walthorpe was no fool. “Yeah. Look, Markham, leave your cubicle. I’ll desaturate it for you while you’re gone. And if Bailey does call I’ll fob him off.”
“Thanks, Wally,” Monk said, touched. “I’ll try not to be all day. And when I get back I’ll take a gander at that third-level splice you’re working on. I’m not sure, but to artificially induce etheretic subsoms I suspect you’ll need to go deeper. Maybe a fifth-level splice. Have a think about it, anyway, while I’m gone.”
Mildly cheered by the memory of Walthorpe’s almost boyish excitement, he drove his jalopy white-knuckled to Nettleworth. There he let himself into the dismally nondescript Department building through its dingy back entrance, jumping at the tingling buzz of the thaumic detector as it read his potentia and let him pass.
When he tapped on Sir Alec’s open office door, Gerald’s superior didn’t look up, just waved him in and continued to read the report spread across the desk. Knowing better than to sit uninvited, Monk did his best to read the report for himself, upside down, while standing in front of the desk with his hands in his baggy pockets looking like he’d never dream of doing anything so impolite.
What he read threatened to send him shrieking from the room.
After a few moments, Sir Alec cleared his throat. “Mister Markham.”
He was too shaken to even attempt a denial. “But sir, I thought we’d smashed the dirit weed trade.”
“Did you?” Sir Alec shuffled the report’s pages together, slid them into a folder and set it to one side. “That was rather naive, wasn’t it?”
Monk fought the urge to wince. “I’m guessing you didn’t ask me here to talk about dirit weed.”
“Naive and yet, at the same time, peculiarly perspicacious,” said Sir Alec, his smile acidic enough to etch glass. “Sit.”
“Sir,” said Monk, and sat with a bump in the old wooden visitor’s chair.
“Regarding the mission to Splotze,” said Sir Alec, his grey gaze cool and watchful, as ever. “Miss Cadwallader informs me they are safely ensconced in the palace, with Mister Dunwoody and your sister’s false identities duly established. As we speak, Mister Dunwoody is attempting to ascertain the status of the agent whose whereabouts are currently unknown. I hope to hear from him shortly.”
Giddy with relief, he nodded. “That’s good to know, sir. Thank you. Ah-was that all, sir? Only I’m right in the middle of this bloody awful project and-”
Sir Alec folded his hands on the desk. “No, Mister Markham, that is not all. I have spoken with Sir Ralph, and he has agreed that, given your undesirable yet inevitable familiarity with the Splotze-Borovnik situation, and taking into account the fact that my Department finds itself temporarily over-stretched-” That watchful grey gaze flicked with cold contempt to the dirit weed report. “-I am within my purview to request your assistance.”
Despite his deadline agitation, Monk felt a warm glow of pleasure. Ha. So Bibbie’s not the only honorary janitor in the family. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Anything I can do. Just name it. Anything.”
Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “Thank you. Mister Markham, I need you to do a little discreet digging. I have asked Miss Cadwallader to provide me with the most recent wedding guest list, as well as the names and nationalities of all those guests’ retinues. As soon as I have it, I will pass it to you and you will educate yourself about these people so that you might, in turn, educate me. No detail about them should be considered too obscure-and it should be noted that I don’t much care how you go about discovering the information, provided you don’t get caught.” Another acidic smile. “If you do get caught, then you can expect to discover me afflicted with amnesia.”
Of course he bloody could. “But…” Monk shifted on the uncomfortable chair. “What you’re asking. That’s spying, or something very like it. I thought you were talking thaumaturgics. I can do thaumaturgics. But I’m not trained to-”
“Training has nothing to do with it,” said Sir Alec. “You’re a Markham. Intrigue is in your blood.”
“Yes, well, that’s very flattering, Sir Alec, only-”
“Mister Markham,” Sir Alec said, severe, “if you think the notion of once more dragging you into this Department’s business affords me any pleasure you’re entirely mistaken, but I don’t have a janitor to spare and you, as it happens, are uniquely qualified for this task.”
He blinked. “I am?”
“Yes. Thanks to your family, you know people who know people who will not talk to me but will talk to you, and who can very likely tell you what I need to know. So talk to them, Mister Markham. Help me to help your friend Mister Dunwoody. Again.”
Blimey. Was he imagining things, or did Sir Alec sound rattled? “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
And then, belatedly, an unwelcome thought occurred. His current project, hurtling towards deadline and nowhere near completion. Had Uncle Ralph bothered to consult with Bailey on lending him to Sir Alec? Bailey, who called three times a day demanding an update. Bailey, who’d taken to accosting him in the men’s room, wild-eyed and practically foaming at the mouth. Bailey, who Sir Alec sat back. “Do not concern yourself with Bailey, Mister Markham. He will not interfere.”
Dammit, how did the man do that? How did he always know? “Really, sir?” Monk said, not managing to hide his doubt. “Because Bailey, well, he’s-”
“Taken care of,” said Sir Alec.
“Oh. Right. Good. Only-” Monk cleared his throat. “The monitoring system I’m building for him? Actually, Sir Alec, it’s pretty crucial, really, and-”
“Trust me, not as crucial as this.”
His mouth dried. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” Sir Alec’s eyes were like chips of ice. “Mister Markham, should the Splotze-Borovnik wedding be disturbed by any violent activity then no new thaumaturgic monitor that you could devise will prevent a conflagration the likes of which has never been seen. Believe me, it will make the Jandrian conflict look like a nursery school spat.”
Because of that piddling Canal? But the Jandrian conflict had killed tens of thousands. Since when had the Splotze-Borovnik Canal been worth so many lost lives?
Feeling sick, Monk stared at Gerald’s difficult superior. “Sir, Gerald said that you said my sister wouldn’t be in danger. She’s just window dressing. That’s what he said you said. Sir.”