But succumbing to what? Poison? Was this the dreadful plan? Wipe out the entire wedding party and a great many other important people for good measure? Hand pressed to her spasming middle, Melissande looked past Leopold Gertz to Hartwig. He was sweating profusely, and hiccupping, his eyes stretched wide in disbelief. Beside him, Ludwig was heaving like a drunken sailor. So were Princess Ratafia and her mother, the Dowager Queen. The Marquise of Harenstein was flapping her hands and squealing, revolted and hiccupping, as the marquis tried to pull her away from the mess. The musicians had stopped playing, appalled, and the servants were staring, abandoning the idea of serving the next course. And the Lanruvians… the Lanruvians…
Had extricated themselves from the carnage and were watching from a safe distance, unmoved.
Teeth clenched tight, Melissande battled the inevitable for as long as she could. But her offended insides were adamant. What had gone down just had to come up.
“Bugger it,” she said, helpless… and started to retch.
Not surprisingly, Ibblie had succumbed to Gladys Slack’s charms and was now partnering her in an energetic Splotze folk dance that involved a great deal of hand-clapping, heel-clicking, head-tossing and sultry meeting of eyes. The empty square within the border of tables was crammed full of palace lackeys and quite a few of the visiting minions who’d been unable to resist the lure of harmless entertainment.
Standing on the sidelines, Gerald fought to keep the scowl from his face. Bloody Ibblie was enjoying himself entirely too much. He was taking advantage. Taking liberties. He was clutching Bibbie’s waist!
And for all I know, the man’s a bloody villain!
He still couldn’t say one way or the other. If he could think of a reason to send Bibbie out of the hall, he’d be able to corner Hartwig’s secretary and learn the truth. But until then he was stuck with trying to read the man from behind his damned etheretic shield. As arranged, Bibbie had danced Ibblie past him five times, and each time he’d risked bursting a blood vessel trying to examine the man for thaumaturgical taint. He’d not felt any, but that didn’t mean anything. He’d not felt that entrapment hex, either, until it was too late, and that was with his shield down.
Bibbie danced past yet again, and this time he managed to catch her eye in a warning. As the folk dance ended, and the couples broke apart, he nipped in smartish and gave Ibblie an almost friendly nod.
“Mind if I steal Miss Slack away from you, sir? Thank you!”
The band launched into a stately Ottish parade. Giggling, Bibbie set her hand primly on his shoulder and slow-marched beside him the length of the dance floor.
“Well?” she said in an undertone, mindful of the other dancers. “Anything?”
“No. You?”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s been meddling with things Uncle Frederick wouldn’t like,” she said, neatly dipping at the corner without losing her balance. “And I didn’t catch a whiff of what I felt earlier.”
He’d never danced with her before. She was as graceful as a swan. “Good.”
“No, it’s bad,” she said, as they dipped and turned again. “I’ll just have to keep trying.”
Oh, wonderful. “Did you ask him about Ferdie Goosen?”
“He didn’t bat an eyelash. And when I wondered if everyone was pleased about the wedding, he said yes.”
He gave her a look. “That was taking a risk.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she retorted. “Don’t be tedious, Algernon.”
Tedious? He was terrified. Bibbie might be a powerful witch but she was no match for whoever had set that entrapment hex, or let loose the blood magic.
What if I can’t protect her? What if she stumbles across this evil bastard by accident and I’m not there to save her? What if -
The sedate Ottish dance ended, and the musicians started up a new jig.
“I’m thirsty,” said Bibbie. “Let’s sit this one out.”
So they retreated to the drinks table, accepted a glass each of fruit punch with bits of melon floating in it, and retreated to a safely empty stretch of wall.
Bibbie twizzled her wooden stirrer idly round her glass. “Nobody’s watching. You should see if you can feel that nasty ripple in the ether.”
Gerald sipped more punch. It was far too sweet. “I can’t. I’d have to lower my shield.”
“Then lower it,” said Bibbie, shrugging. “I’ll obfuscate for you. If there is a wizard here, he’ll never know he’s not alone.”
“Miss Slack-”
She slid him a sharp, sideways look. “Why are we arguing, Algernon? You have to. You might not get another chance.”
Damn. “Look, stop bossing me,” he snapped. “He’s my Uncle Frederick, not yours, which means I’ll be the judge of what I do and when I-”
“Oh, Algernon,” said Bibbie and, turning towards him, rested her hand on his arm. Her changed eyes were warm now, with sympathy. “Don’t be a tosser. Are you afraid I’ll be upset by the changes in your potentia? I won’t. D’you think I care about… you know. Grimoire magic.” She said the words silently, trusting he’d read her lips. “I swear, I couldn’t care less. You’re a good man, Mister Rowbotham. Nothing in the world has the power to change that.”
She was wrong. He’d already changed it. In Abel Bestwick’s dismal little home he’d rewritten the rules. And without meaning to, she’d already told him it might have been his worst mistake.
Something — or someone — dangerous is in this hall right now.
He took a half-step back from her. “Bibbie-”
A commotion at the entrance to the Servants’ Hall turned them both, and then one of the upstairs lackeys, splendidly silver-trimmed, flailed his way onto the dance floor shouting for Mister Ibblie.
Everyone stopped jigging as the music abruptly died.
“Lishboi?” Ibblie demanded, pushing forward. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Lishboi was sheet white. “It’s the Crown Prince, sir! And Prince Ludwig, and the princess! It’s all of them, just about. Somebody’s poisoned the State Dinner!”
Ibblie spat out a Splotzeish curse and plunged for the door. Ice-cold, Gerald plunged after him, knowing Bibbie was close behind. Following after them came the foreign dignitaries’ servants. In a herd, they thundered up the stairs to the State Dining Room, hard on Ibblie’s heels.
The magnificent chamber looked like a battlefield. It stank like one, too. Bodies were strewn everywhere, some of the wealthiest and most important people in the civilised world draped over tables and chairs or sprawled on the marble floor, heaving and groaning and spasmodically emptying their bellies.
“Oh, Saint Snodgrass!” Bibbie gasped, hand slapping over her mouth as they staggered to a halt not far into the stinking room. “Oh, Algernon!”
Ibblie was barrelling towards Crown Prince Hartwig and Prince Ludwig, who were seated on a dais at the far end of the chamber, wracked with pain. The servants from Borovnik and Harenstein barrelled after him, shouting at the sight of the Dowager Queen and Princess Ratafia and Harenstein’s Marquise in similar distress.
“Where’s Melissande?” Bibbie demanded. “I can’t see- no, wait, there she is!”
Gerald watched as she shoved and slid and leapt her way through the press of stricken dinner guests and their various appalled lackeys to where Melissande was slumped almost under the long table at the far end of the dining room’s dais. He felt his breath catch, and throttled the terror.
Melissande’s tough. She’ll be all right. I have a job to do. She’d want me to do it.
To hell with the risk. He was one of the most powerful thaumaturgists in the world. So what if he’d been tainted with grimoire magic?
I control my potentia. It doesn’t control me.
He let his shield drop. Wrapped his mind around his changed power, willing its new darkness to sleep, and with his safely rogue thaumaturgics went in search of villainy… and possible murder.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Food poisoning?” Sir Alec stared into the slight fogginess of his private crystal ball. Splotze’s etheretics were acting up yet again, making the connection jittery. “Mister Dunwoody, are you sure?”