Gerald swallowed. He wished he could forbid it, but since he couldn’t risk lowering his shield she was their best chance of getting some answers. One melting look and Ibblie would surely be butter in her hands.
“All right,” he said, resigned. “You do that, and I’ll have a chat with some of the chaps from Borovnik. Only please, Miss Slack, be careful. This isn’t a game. If Ibblie’s our man that means he’s dangerous.”
“Double pishwash,” said Bibbie, loftily. “How many times do I have to tell you? Stop treating me like a gel!”
If he said what he wanted to say they’d get into a shouting match, so he restrained himself. The effort nearly gave him a hernia.
“Fine,” he said, teeth gritted. “Off you go, then. And make sure you dance him past me a few times. I got a good whiff of those dark thaumaturgics in you-know-who’s lodging, and if I go looking I might smell them on him.”
Bibbie flashed him a Gladys Slack smile that was almost as dazzling as her own. “Yes, Mister Rowbotham. Whatever you say, Mister Rowbotham.”
Hell’s bells, he groaned silently, as she headed for Ibblie. That girl will be the death of me yet.
Leopold Gertz was a damp little squib of a man. Which was odd, really, considering he was Splotze’s Secretary of State. Surely Hartwig could’ve found someone with more personality for the job?
Honestly, Melissande thought, trying not to listen as he slurped his cream of artichoke heart soup. I can’t believe Hartwig couldn’t have found me someone less dreadful to sit with!
She’d been placed at the far end of the Great Table, with Leopold Gertz ensconced damply at her right hand, and because they were all seated side by side in one long row, there wasn’t anyone to talk to across the table… even if she’d been prepared to commit such a breach of good manners.
Seated with them on the overly decorated dais, displayed like shop window dummies to the whole sumptuous State Dining Room, were Hartwig, Dowager Queen Erminium, Ratafia and Ludwig, of course, the Marquis of Harenstein and his child-bride Marquise, who looked any minute as though she were about to start sucking her thumb-or possibly fall asleep face-first in her soup-and all three Lanruvians. In typical Lanruvian fashion they managed somehow to sit apart, even when neatly sandwiched between Erminium and the marquis.
Curse it. If only Hartwig had sat me next to them. At the rate I’m going I won’t get to say so much as boo to the buggers.
Interestingly, the various dignitaries from Graff, Blonkken, Aframbigi, Ottosland, Fandawandi and Jandria had been relegated to the dining room’s second-best tables. From the look on the Ottish Foreign Minister’s face-what was his name, again? Boggis? Beaver? Something starting with B. Battleaxe, it should be, the glares he was giving Hartwig-it was clearly counted an insult to Ottosland that he wasn’t up there with them on display. And why wasn’t he? she wondered. Was Hartwig punishing the great nation for messing him about?
It wouldn’t surprise me. Hartwig can be a bit prickly, and Ottosland never seems to notice when it’s giving offence.
Remembering the Wycliffe affair, Melissande pretended to enjoy her own soup-lord, she loathed artichokes, she’d almost prefer the tadpole eyes on toothpicks-while surreptitiously observing the Jandrian Minister of Foreign Affairs and his wife. Were they behind the attack on Abel Bestwick and the planned disruption of the wedding? Oh, surely not. Surely they weren’t stupid enough to try more shenanigans after their still-recent close shave with international industrial espionage.
I mean, not even the Jandrians are that arrogant… are they?
She didn’t know. Bibbie, being a Markham, might have an idea. One of the Markhams must. Sir Ralph. Possibly Monk. It was something to remind Gerald about, anyway, so he could discuss it with Sir Alec. Though doubtless Sir Alec was already taking a closer look at their old foe.
The rest of the noise in the dining room belonged to the bevy of other invited guests, captains of Western Continent industry, social and cultural luminaries and the like, who laughed and gossiped and clattered cutlery, gold and silver and jewels glittering in the luminous chandelier light. And of course the musicians, who were soaking the rarefied air with a selection of classical Borovnik music.
Melissande looked down at her soup bowl. Not even half emptied, which could easily be taken as an ill-mannered insult to her hosts. Her stomach growled a warning complaint. She really did not like heart of artichoke. As her stomach complained again she gave up, and pushed the bowl to one side.
Beside her, his own bowl scraped clean, Leopold Gertz dabbed napkin to lips. “Very nice, I’m sure.” He glanced sideways. “You disagree, Your Highness?”
Oh, damn. “No, no, Mister Secretary. Unfortunately I- ah-I got a bit carried away at the reception. Too many crab puffs. Did you try one? They were delightful.”
Leopold Gertz sniffed, damply. “I don’t believe in crustaceans.”
“Ah! Then that must give you something in common with our friends from Lanruvia,” she said, seizing the chance before it slithered away. “I don’t think they ate any crab puffs, either. I must say…” The rest of the table wasn’t paying attention to either of them, so she shifted a little in her seat and tried her best to capture the man’s attention. “It’s lovely to see the Lanruvians getting about, taking part in things, isn’t it? They’re so reclusive as a rule. But I have to ask, why now? Why Splotze? Why do they care about this wedding?”
Leopold Gertz’s eyes were a nondescript brown, their irises floating despondent in a bloodshot corneal sea.
“Who knows why the Lanruvians do anything, Your Highness?” he said, with a dispirited shrug of his skinny shoulders. “I did hear they were interested in using our Canal to transport goods from Harenstein to the Gardeppe Isthmus. Since the upcoming joyous event will usher in a new era of stability for the region, perhaps that’s why.”
Servants had magically appeared to remove their soup bowls. Leaning out of the way, Melissande frowned. “But you’re not sure?”
“As I say, Your Highness.” Gertz attempted a smile, and mostly failed. “Who can fathom the Lanruvian mind?”
“Well, I’d certainly like to try,” she said, with a sickeningly coy little laugh. “They’re so terribly intriguing. Whose idea was it to ask them to the wedding, d’you know? Hartwig couldn’t recall.”
“I’m afraid I can’t either, Your Highness,” said Gertz, disapprovingly repressive. “And even if I could, it wouldn’t be proper for me to tell you.”
“No, no, of course not,” she said quickly. Her stomach growled again, this time so loudly that Leopold Gertz heard it. Startled, he blinked at her. She pretended it hadn’t happened. “Mister Secretary-”
But then she forgot what she meant to say, because her stomach growled yet again then turned itself over on a surging wave of sickness. Her skin rushed hot, then cold and clammy. Dark spots danced before her eyes.
“Your Highness?” Leopold Gertz said, damply concerned. “Are you all right?”
Further down the table, Hartwig’s brother Ludwig groaned. A moment later Princess Ratafia let out a pained little gasp.
“Mama-Mama-I don’t feel very well!”
Stomach writhing, the dancing black dots duelling with scarlet blotches now, Melissande squinted around the dining room. Quite a few of the guests seemed to be in intestinal distress. Without warning, Ottosland’s Foreign Minister bent double, half-slid from his chair, and began to heave up his artichoke soup… along with everything else he’d eaten so far.
Horrified cries. The scraping of chair legs on the polished marble floor. And then the ghastly, ominous sounds of more people succumbing.