K. Mills - Wizard Undercover

Which, for Ravelard Gaylord’s sake, was fortunate. Repressing a shiver of distaste, Sir Alec sipped more brandy. Let his head rest against the armchair’s high back and enjoyed the smothering glow of fine, fermented peach.

“You look a bit washed up yourself,” said Ralph, shifting from the desk to the office’s other armchair. “How did it go?”

Because he couldn’t make use of Jennings without Ralph being told, and because telling the truth was out of the question, he’d concocted a story about a training mishap that had left Gerald Dunwoody tainted with the wrong kind of magic. Trusting him, Ralph hadn’t questioned the tale.

Now, instead of answering, he dropped his gaze to the amber depths of his brandy. As a man of many and varied experiences, he prided himself on his carefully cultivated self-control. Unexpectedly, though, that discipline was shaken by what Gerald Dunwoody had stubbornly endured at Jennings’s hands.

“Not much point lambasting yourself, Alec,” Ralph said gruffly. “Accidents happen.” He cleared his throat. “Are you going to tell him?”

Sir Alec looked up. “That the extraction wasn’t entirely successful? Unnecessary. I’ve no doubt Mister Dunwoody’s already worked it out for himself.”

“I meant,” Ralph said carefully, “are you going to tell him the extraction failed on purpose.”

On purpose. That had an ugly ring to it. And why wouldn’t it? What he’d done was ugly. But then that was what Sir Alec Oldman excelled at. The dark, dirty, ugly little tasks, performed in secret, shrouded in half-truths and outright lies. He did the things that needed to be done, for the people of Ottosland who wanted them done but didn’t want to know the unpleasant details… and who’d bay for his blood if they ever found out.

“In time,” he said at last. “When I can trust he’ll not take my actions amiss.”

“And you’re sure that time will come, are you?”

“Dunwoody’s not a fool, Ralph. Once the heat of the moment has passed, he’ll understand.”

Ralph shook his head. “You hope. Have to tell you, Alec, if it were me, I’m not sure I would.”

“That’s hardly surprising, Ralph,” he said, indulging in a little malice. “You’re not a janitor.”

The sly dig earned him a look. Then Ralph drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “It’s a big risk you’ve taken. Grimoire hexes are bad enough. I mean, they’re restricted for a reason. But matched with Dunwoody’s rogue potentia? Who knows what mischief that might brew?”

Sir Alec set aside his unfinished brandy. “Nobody. Which was always the point, wasn’t it? To find out. And I seem to recall you thought it was the thing to do, when I raised the matter.”

Which he’d done most reluctantly. But with Ralph’s already deep involvement in Gerald’s case, not to mention the need for his support, he’d had no choice. In this, as in so much else, he and Ralph were wary allies.

“Yes,” said Ralph, frowning. “And despite my reservations I still do. An accident like this-you’d be mad not to take advantage. It’s not like we can go around deliberately feeding that kind of grimoire muck to our people.”

“But?” Sir Alec prompted, knowing there was more.

“But I wish it had been anyone other than Dunwoody. That unnatural young wizard is already too dangerous.”

Sometimes it seemed he spent half his life defending Gerald Dunwoody. “We’re all of us dangerous, Ralph, in our own little ways. Don’t fret. I keep that young man on a suitably short leash.”

“I know, Alec,” said Ralph, levering himself out of his armchair. “But you’d do well to remember that leashes can snap. Now, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me. I’m due for an early dinner with Wolfgang and the rest of the family. But look-before I go, is there anything I should know?”

“D’you mean has your nephew done anything appalling of late?” Standing, Sir Alec shook his head. “No. Not to my knowledge.”

“Wonderful,” Ralph groaned. “That can only mean we’re overdue for a disaster.” He collected his coat, hat and brief case. “I tell you, I do wonder what I did to deserve Monk. Him and his sister. There ought to be a law.”

Sir Alec patted his shoulder in passing. “Well, Ralph, why don’t you devise one? Since there’s no plan in place to apprehend your black market wizard, it seems to me you must have plenty of time.”

And on that satisfying note, he took his leave.

“Oy!” Aylesbury slapped his hand on the round dining table’s antique lace tablecloth. “Monk! Stop acting deaf, you grubby little stoat! I said pass me the gravy before you and Emmerabiblia guzzle the bloody lot.”

Seated opposite his irascible brother, Monk turned to their sister. “You know, Bibs, I think I need to visit the doctor.”

“Why, Monk?” said Bibbie, her eyes alight with mischief. “What’s wrong?”

“Something very peculiar. Whenever anyone forgets to say please, I’m stricken with an odd kind of paralysis.”

“Really?” Bibbie fanned herself in mock distress. “Monk, that sounds awful. If I were you, I’d-”

“Now, now, you two, stop teasing Aylesbury,” their mother said, calmly passing her eldest offspring the gravy boat. “This is the small dining room, not the nursery.”

Slopping more horseradish onto his plate, Uncle Ralph snorted. “Could’ve fooled me, Sofilia.”

Their mother smiled sweetly. “Speaking as a Thackeray, Ralph, I’m sure that’s true. With one or two notable exceptions-” She patted her daydreaming husband’s arm. “I’m afraid the Markhams are rather easily befuddled.”

“Eh?” Uncle Ralph sat back in his chair. “Wolfgang! Are you going to let your wife insult the Markham name with impunity?”

As their father continued to dream thaumaturgics and eat his dinner, unheeding, and their mother and Uncle Ralph fell to familiar, good-natured bickering, Monk rolled his eyes at Bibbie, who giggled, then settled his gaze on Aylesbury. Feeling the scrutiny, Aylesbury paused in fastidiously cutting away the fat from his roast beef and looked up.

“What?”

Monk shrugged. “Nothing. Only I think you might’ve missed your true calling. I’d bet the Central Ott morgue is crying out for a man with your knife skills.”

Eyeing him coldly, Aylesbury set down his cutlery and reached for the gravy boat. “If you volunteered yourself for me to practice on I’d consider offering my services.”

Hmm. Was his brother joking? Most likely not. Where he was concerned, Aylesbury’s sense of humour was conspicuously lacking.

“Anyway, Ralph,” said their mother, waving an airy hand. “It’s neither here nor there, is it, because though I was born a Thackeray I’m now a Markham by marriage. And everyone knows it’s perfectly acceptable to insult your own. Emmerabiblia, stop eating. Who’s going to marry you if you’re the size of a cart horse?”

A pinched line appeared between Bibbie’s perfectly arched eyebrows. “Another cart horse?” she suggested, and looked over her shoulder at the family’s stoically silent senior footman. “Cheevers? The roast potatoes, please.”

“Really, Emmerabiblia,” their mother sighed, as Cheevers fetched the dish of potatoes from the serving board. “You are tiresome. Next you’ll be saying you don’t want to get married!”

Bibbie helped herself to a crisply golden potato, then dismissed Cheevers with a smile. “And so I don’t. Not yet, anyway. I’m far too busy.”

She sounded cheerful enough, but Monk felt his insides twist. Bibbie’s trouble was that she did want to get married. To Gerald.

And that’s the last thing I want for her.