K. Mills - Wizard Undercover

So, perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken against Jennings’s extraction procedure after all.

Pushing aside the sharply painful memories, Monk returned his attention to the family dinner. Cheevers and his underling were leaving the dining room, having served up the final course of raspberry fool, and Aylesbury was banging on about the importance of the wedding with regards to the stability of international trade.

“-exactly my point, Uncle Ralph. It might not be an ideal solution, but something has to be done. The Splotze-Borovnik Canal is a vital shipping thoroughfare. I hate to think how much money’s been lost thanks to all those wasted years of bickering.”

Stirred again from dreams of fantastic thaumaturgics, their father slapped the table. “It’s the greatest mistake in history, that bloody Canal,” he declared, his deep-set eyes glittering. “All it’s done is give Splotze and Borovnik even more excuses to fight. And how stupid were they, eh, to sign treaties that prevent the use of thaumaturgical measures to keep the peace? Superstition and ignorance instead of enlightenment, and for no better reason than their etheretics are unreliable. I tell you, it’s been one misstep after another, ever since the day they opened their muddy ditch for business.”

Aylesbury stared, aghast. “But, sir-you can’t mean that!”

“I bloody well can,” their father retorted. “And if you’d stop wearing those stupid neck ruffs that make you look like a lachrymose poet, you’d get a decent flow of blood to your brain and realise I’m right.”

“But Father, you’re not right,” Aylesbury insisted, his colour dangerously high. Very fond of his neck ruffs, was Aylesbury. A stalwart aficionado of the romantical fashions. “Perhaps if you spent less time footling about with useless theoretical thaumaturgics, and more time out in the real world dealing with actual issues of economics and trade and politics, you’d-”

“Oh, blimey,” Bibbie murmured. “Here we go. Do something, Monk.”

“Why me?” he said, raspberry-and-cream laden spoon halfway to his mouth. But it was only a token protest. They’d never listen to Bibbie and there was no-one else. His mother and Uncle Ralph had long since given up when it came to keeping the peace between Wolfgang Markham and his eldest son.

But I’m the idiot who can’t help throwing himself into the fray.

As Aylesbury and their father paused to take a heated breath, Monk cleared his throat. “I say. I’ve been thinking. It’s pretty sad about Lady Barstow, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is,” their mother agreed, with an approving flicker of one eyelid. “Not my favourite person, it’s true, but she’ll be missed. Very good on a committee, was Persephone Barstow. You could always rely on her to provide edible biscuits.” She turned. “What has Gaylord to say about her death, Ralph?”

Uncle Ralph choked on a mouthful of dessert. “Sofilia, please, this is hardly the time or place to discuss-besides, I can’t-” Peevish, he dabbed pinkish cream off his chin with his damask napkin. “Dammit, I was hoping to leave work in the office for one evening, at least.”

Monk had to smile. “A forlorn hope, sir. Y’know-” He sat back, comfortably full of roast beef and raspberries. “Looking at the matter purely academically, I can’t help but be a bit impressed by the incant that did for Lady Barstow. Bloody ingenious, hexing her teapot like that. Your average punter won’t think past natural causes. How d’you suppose-”

“Ingenious?” Aylesbury shoved his own raspberry fool to one side, untouched. “Monk, you make me sick. The wizard responsible for this has to be stopped, not admired. Lady Barstow might’ve been a vacuous blot but she didn’t deserve to die like that.” He leaned forward. “Infantile adoration from thoughtless idiots like you is one of the reasons this thaumaturgical madman hasn’t been caught.” His lips curled in a sneer. “Perhaps instead of witlessly fawning over the man and his growing list of misdeeds, you could spare a little of your vaunted genius for catching him.”

Stunned to silence, the whole family gaped. One supercilious eyebrow raised, Aylesbury smiled, sardonic.

“Oh, come on, Uncle Ralph. Surely you didn’t think you could keep this nefarious wizard’s exploits under wraps forever? I might not be in the government’s employ, but I am still a Markham. And while I don’t pretend to be Monk, neither am I a cabbage.”

“Now then, Aylesbury, I don’t recall anyone ever calling you a cabbage,” said Uncle Ralph, shockingly subdued. “Your aptitude scores are nothing to wink at.”

Aylesbury sneered. “So I am right? When it comes to these odd deaths and thaumaturgical mishaps, the authorities know they’re not random? Someone is standing behind the curtain, pulling the strings?”

“Hmmph.” Uncle Ralph ran a finger round the inside around the edge of his collar. “Well. Since I know I can speak freely beneath a Markham roof… yes. But as for this damned black marketeer and his filthy hexes, while I can’t go into details, for obvious reasons, I will assure you the Department is doing all in its power to bring the man down.”

“We know you’ll catch him,” said Monk, as his parents exchanged looks and held hands under the table. Funny how they always thought nobody would notice. “Word around the Department is that Gaylord’s got his best agents on the hunt.”

“What?” Uncle Ralph’s eyes bulged alarmingly. “D’you mean to tell me, Monk, that you and the rest of Research and Development’s ramshackle collection of reprobates spend the day gossiping about highly sensitive government matters that are none of your bloody business?”

“No-no, of course we don’t,” he said, leaning away from his irate uncle. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to-that’s to say, I wasn’t- look, forget I mentioned it. My lips are sealed. I don’t know a thing.”

“Actually, Uncle Ralph,” said Bibbie, heroically rushing to the rescue, “I think it’s a bit insulting, the way you keep on referring to Ottosland’s mystery criminal as he. For all you know, your evil mastermind is a witch. I mean, when it comes to committing heinous thaumaturgical acts, you must agree that a witch is perfectly capable of being every bit as dreadful as a wizard.”

Their mother turned. “Wolfgang, darling, I don’t understand. Where did we go wrong?”

“Steady on, Mama,” said Monk, as Bibbie’s eyes widened with hurt outrage. “That’s not fair, y’know. Bibs-”

Ignoring him, their mother added, “I’ll tell you one thing, Wolfgang. Emmerabiblia’s zaniness does not come from my side of the family! She’s a Markham throwback, which means you’ll have to deal with her!”

“Thanks ever so, Mother, but I don’t feel like being dealt with,” Bibbie snapped. “I feel like going home. Monk, I’m off to warm up the jalopy. If you’re not sitting in the passenger seat by the time it’s toasty, you can walk back to Chatterly Crescent.”

And in the highest of dudgeons, she flounced out of the small dining room.

“Lord,” said Aylesbury, laughing. “I do love our family dinners. They save me from buying a ticket to the theatre.” He stood. “But even the best of entertainments must come to an end. I’ve a conference in Aframbigi tomorrow and a mountain of papers to read through before I leave. Good night, Mama.” He kissed their mother’s powdered cheek. “Good night, Father.” A perfunctory hand-shake. “Good night, Uncle Ralph.” A reserved nod of his head.

Their mother sighed. “Aylesbury dear…”

Aylesbury dear grimaced. “Monk.”

Monk waggled his fingers. “Aylesbury.”

“Really, Monk, you should try harder to get along with him,” his mother scolded, once his brother was gone. “Poor Aylesbury. He might not be a cabbage, but I’m afraid there’s no escaping the fact that next to you he is a trifle leafy.”