What I did tonight was impossible. Damn that other Gerald. Only a madman would meld a rogue potentia with grimoire magics.
What a blessing he’d had Bibbie. Without her to hold on to, to come back to, he’d never have survived. The observation platform, the Hanging Bridge. She’d saved him both times.
And when Sir Alec finds out…
But that was another bridge that could wait till tomorrow.
Lord Babcock and the Jandrians entered the reception chamber together, playing nicely for once. Behind them a clutch of local dignitaries and their wives. He’d seen them before, at the doomed State Dinner. Still no soon-to-be happy couple though, or their families. No Melissande, either. But Secretary of State Leopold Gertz was here, doing his damp best to jolly things along as discreet palace servants brought in more finger food on silver platters. Though he was bone weary, and hurting, Gerald felt himself smile.
Tuck in quick, everyone, before the Marquis of Harenstein arrives.
Cautiously he unshielded his potentia. Touched it lightly here and there, but felt nothing untoward. And perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps whoever had failed first at the Hanging Bridge and then with the fireworks had belatedly come to his senses.
But I won’t hold my breath. This villain, whoever he is, has come too far to turn back now.
By now the reception chamber was so crowded and gabbleish that Hartwig’s ensemble was having to play twice as loudly to be heard. And blimey, what were they playing? It was awful. But as he winced at the tuneless collection of sharps and flats, something distracted him.
Shifting his gaze towards the chamber’s far end, he glimpsed a man dressed in severely fashionable black and white sidling his way through a large knot of guests who stood beside an enormous urn filled with Borovnik wildflowers.
Losing sight of him, Gerald cursed. Too many men dressed in black and white, too many parading silver platters and eager hands reaching for the food. Stirred instinct prickled an urgent warning. There’d been something… furtive… in the way the man moved.
Dammit. If only I’d seen his face.
And then a commotion erupted before the loudly playing ensemble, raised voices and a ragged expiration of music.
“-too bad, Goby, this is entirely too bad! You were told not to play that caterwauling rubbish! Are you an imbecile or a typical Borovnik, too arrogant to live?”
The commotion rippled outwards as guests retreated, snickering and muttering and even laughing out loud. Gerald saw Leopold Gertz, like a damp bantam cockerel, fists clenched and chest thrust forward, confronting a man who clutched a conductor’s baton and seemed dangerously inclined to use it.
Excellent. Perfect timing. Thank you, Secretary Gertz.
Under cover of the swiftly escalating dispute, Gerald wove his unobtrusive way through the goggling guests to the far end of the chamber. Pressing his back to the nearest empty bit of wall, he closed his eyes and let loose his potentia.
And this time he felt them, the slumbering grimoire thaumaturgics. After the fireworks they couldn’t hide from him any more. The man, the mysterious villain he was hunting, had attached four sickeningly powerful hexes to the back of that flower-filled urn.
A touch, a thought, and he’d killed them. No-one was dying here tonight. Grimly smiling, he looked across the crowded room… straight into the shocked eyes of Bern Dermit. Who like himself was a lackey, and shouldn’t have been allowed into the reception.
But I have my potentia. What’s his excuse?
From one breath to the next, Dermit’s shock twisted to incredulous fury. To understanding. To hate.
I’ll be damned, thought Gerald, blinking. It’s you.
Melissande and Bibbie had nearly reached the bottom of the palace’s sweeping staircase when they crossed paths with the wedding party and got swept up in Hartwig’s expansive enthusiasm.
“Of course, Melissande, of course you must make a grand entrance with us,” he protested. “Why, you’re as good as family. Isn’t she, Brunelda?”
Poor gouty Brunelda, reduced to hobbling with a stick, seemed about to remonstrate… until she caught sight of Erminium’s face.
“Absolutely she’s like family, Hartwig,” she said, sweetly smiling. “The daughter we never had, my dear.”
With Hartwig choking on that one, and Erminium at long last speechless with rage, Melissande risked an eloquent glance at Bibbie.
Stay close. I’ll find Gerald.
Bibbie nodded, bless her, and demurely retreated to bring up the rear.
Ratafia smiled, radiant, soppily entwined with her besotted Ludwig. “I’m glad you’re here too, Melissande. And that’s a very nice dress. Green suits you.”
“Thank you,” said Melissande. And when she heard Bibbie giggle, thought, Oh, shut up.
They arrived at the reception chamber to find Leopold Gertz and another man hurling spittled insults like hammers, much to the astonished amusement of Hartwig’s many guests. Melissande looked at the other man’s waving baton.
Good lord. Master Goby, I presume.
But then Leopold Gertz realised the wedding party had arrived, and the altercation collapsed in a mutual exchange of fulminating glares. Goby turned back to his musicians, and a moment later the chamber was blasted by a brass fanfare.
As Gertz retreated in embarrassed confusion, Melissande looked for Gerald. And there he was, standing beside a huge flowerpot, his expression oddly blank. She bounced a little bit and waved to attract his attention. No response. And then he saw her.
“Won’t be a moment,” she said to an oblivious Ratafia, and braved the crush of guests to join him. They collided almost halfway.
“It’s Harenstein!” they declared in simultaneous undertones.
“How did you know?” Gerald demanded, catching hold of her arm and tugging her towards the wall.
“Abel Bestwick told me. Have you seen him too?”
“Bestwick?” Gerald gaped, then shook his head. “No. I just caught Bern Dermit setting grimoire hexes. It’s all right, I killed them, but the bastard’s given me the slip. He could be anywhere in the palace setting some more. Where’s Bibbie? I need her to help me find him. And I want you to warn Hartwig, politics be damned.”
Her head was spinning. “Bibbie’s outside. Gerald, are you sure about telling Hartwig? Sir Alec-”
“Damn him, too,” he said, furiously intent. “If we don’t stop Dermit, Sir Alec will be the least of our worries.”
Very true.
But they’d not made it five paces before Leopold Gertz appeared in front of them, holding two glasses of richly red cherry liqueur.
“Your Highness!” he said, his face pallid and sweating. “Don’t go. Master Goby has played his last trick, I promise. Here.” He held out a glass to her. “We’ll drink to it, shall we? Here you are, sir.” He gave the other glass to Gerald, then snatched a flute of sparkling wine for himself from a passing servant. “To Splotze and her music! May she reign forever sovereign!”
It would take more time to protest and excuse themselves than make the toast. With a flicker of his eyelid- Come on, let’s drink and run — Gerald raised his glass.
“Indeed. To Splotze!”
Loathing cherry liqueur, Melissande pressed the lip of her glass deceptively against her teeth. Pretending to sip, she watched Splotze’s Secretary of State watch Gerald drain his glass dry. Lord, Gertz really did look dreadful. And his eyes… Hungrily avid. Almost manic.
Then, just for a moment, his alarming gaze shifted past Gerald towards something, or someone, standing behind them. Terror. Triumph. Shame. She saw them all in Gertz’s sweating face, and spun round.
Bern Dermit. Standing with him, Grune Volker. And in their faces she saw nothing but gloating hate.
Dropping her own glass she grabbed Gertz by the arm. “Leopold! What have you done?”
Gertz pulled free and backed away. “What I had to do. For Splotze. You wouldn’t understand.”
With a grunt, Gerald pressed a fist to his belly. Then he looked at her, astonished pain dawning.