Only one of Harenstein’s lackeys had joined them for breakfast. Dermit, the man without the scar. “Miss Slack,” he said, his Ottish guttural with gravelly Harenstein inflection, “there is little known about the Lanruvians.”
“Surely the Crown Prince knows?” said Bibbie, her dark, incanted eyes round with kittenish surprise. She aimed her limpid gaze at the minion sitting opposite. “Mister Glanzig, can’t you shed some light on Splotze’s mysterious guests?”
Peeder Glanzig, Prince Ludwig’s junior secretary and official wedding dogsbody, was a plain-faced young man afflicted with a sparse beard that did nothing to disguise his woeful lack of chin. He swallowed, flushing under Gladys Slack’s melting scrutiny.
“I wish I could, Miss Slack. But as you say the Lanruvians are a puzzle.”
Bibbie’s bafflement only made her more adorable. “I’m very silly,” she sighed. “I thought since they were invited to the wedding you’d know why, and by whom. I mean, they were invited, weren’t they? They didn’t just turn up hoping to join in?”
“Of course they were invited,” Glanzig said hurriedly. “But it’s not my place to question who is on the guest list, Miss Slack. And these Lanruvians, well, they keep themselves to themselves.”
“That’s true, Miss Slack,” chimed in Lal Bandabeedi, the Aframbigin ambassador’s attendant. “We call them the ghost men. Don’t you see them drifting about like shades of the dead?”
Bibbie gave a delicious little shudder. “Oh, my dear sir, you describe them completely. Especially since, well, they don’t even seem to be enjoying themselves.” Then she furrowed her brow in another irresistible display of feminine confusion. “But I’m still all at sea. What is it to Lanruvia who dear Prince Ludwig marries? I do wish someone could help me understand.”
As servants returned to refresh cups of tea and coffee, clear away the remains of toast and jam, bacon, sausages and scrambled eggs, and deliver some palate-cleansing sliced melon, Bibbie’s admirers attempted to impress her with their superior knowledge. Bibbie, bless her, hung on every blustering word, nodding and exclaiming and praising the acumen of her would-be educators.
Taking advantage of the useful diversion, Gerald thinned his etheretic shield. Immediately he felt the nearby Lanruvians’ simmering thaumic power, like dragon’s breath in his face. But no immediate danger this time, only its sleeping promise. He could also feel the Potentia — dampening hex he’d cobbled together for Bibbie just that morning, having been struck by the belated thought that she, too, could benefit from a little judicious obfuscation. She’d not been pleased, but she’d taken it. And now he found himself touched that she was wearing it, knowing she trusted him enough to do as he asked, at least this once.
Praise Saint Snodgrass for small miracles.
On and on the men babbled, Bibbie artlessly encouraging them. Keeping a wary eye on the Lanruvians, Gerald dabbled through his fellow lackeys’ pallid potentias… and found nothing. There wasn’t a man or woman among them with more thaumaturgical aptitude than a mop. Disconcerted, he let his etheretic shield return to full strength.
Bugger it.
So did this mean the villain, or villains, had been left behind in Grand Splotze? It was possible. Not all the wedding guests’ lackeys had come on the tour. If the pre-wedding fireworks were indeed meant to deal the nuptials their fatal blow, then there wasn’t any reason for the person responsible to be on the barge. In fact, it made more sense for him or her to stay behind. In which case, should he invent a reason to go back?
No. It’s too risky. I could be entirely wrong.
Bloody hell. The uncertainty was going to give him an ulcer.
With the babble dying down Bibbie, still playing her part to the hilt, favoured her eager admirers with another devastating smile.
“Thank you all so much, gentlemen,” she cooed. “Truly, I’d be lost without your kindness. But there was one thing…” She looked to the end of the table, where Lord Babcock’s priggish private under-secretary sipped tea with his little finger punctiliously crooked. “Mister Mistle? I might’ve been hearing things, but I’ll swear you mentioned something about the Lanruvians and cherries.”
Hever Mistle favoured Bibbie with a restrained nod. “I did, Miss Slack.”
“Then could you enlighten me? I’d be ever so grateful. But, y’know, only if you’d not be speaking out of turn. I wouldn’t like you to run afoul of Lord Babcock on my account.”
“It’s unlikely. I am not employed by his lordship to safekeep Lanruvian secrets.” Mistle returned his cup to its saucer with a precise little clink. “I mentioned cherries, Miss Slack, only because I’ve heard it whispered that our pale, reclusive and above all insular friends are thinking to look beyond their jealously guarded borders. It seems the Lanruvians grow a variety of cherry to make a liqueur fancier weep with joy.”
Gerald hid a frown in his own cup of tea. Really? Heard it whispered where, exactly? “I say, sir,” he said, as Bibbie’s admirers exchanged looks. “D’you mean Lanruvia’s thinking of asking Splotze to make its world famous liqueur with their cherries?”
Hever Mistle shrugged, his expression bland as milk. “I think Splotze’s last two cherry harvests have been… unfortunate. And an unreliable harvest leads to unease, wouldn’t you agree?” Mistle flicked a sprinkling of salt from his sleeve. “Of course, I don’t claim to be an expert. I merely pass along what I’ve heard.”
Yes, and why hadn’t the same information been passed along to Sir Alec? If someone had fallen down on the job, heads would surely roll.
“I’d think the cherry-growers of Splotze would have something to say about that,” he said to Mistle, who shrugged. “They’re awfully proud of their cherries.”
He turned to Peeder Glanzig. “Could you even call it Splotze Cherry Liqueur if the cherries were being brought in from Lanruvia?”
Glanzig shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t believe these are proper matters for discussion, Mister Rowbotham,” he said, disapproving. Then he laughed, unconvincingly. “I mean to say, all this sombre talk of business, sir. We shall be boring the ladies. Perhaps, Miss Slack, you could entertain us with tales of life in New Ottosland? Such a quaint little kingdom, tucked away in the middle of the vast and mysterious Kallarapi desert. I’m sure we’d all be thrilled to hear more about it.”
Chilled with forboding, Gerald lightly kicked Bibbie’s ankle under the table. Say no! Say you’ve signed an Order of Discretion! But Bibbie giggled, ignoring him.
“Oh, Mister Glanzig, I’d be delighted,” she gushed. “For you know, I think New Ottosland is an undiscovered jewel!”
But it seemed to Gerald that Bibbie was the undiscovered jewel. Eating his slices of melon, listening to her spin a sparkling cobweb of a story out of what he knew were Melissande’s infrequent mentions of her New Ottosland past, he found himself regretting the rigid rules of society that meant Monk’s brilliant sister could never be a janitor in her own right.
Because, let’s face it, she’d make even Frank Dalby sit up.
Carefully, casually, he let his gaze roam until it rested once more on the Lanruvians. Could the explanation for their presence really be that simple? That innocent? Cherry liqueur?
I suppose it could… but since when have I ever been that lucky?
Dowager Queen Erminium of Borovnik was a difficult woman.
“This sauce is too thin!” she announced, poking at her third course of sliced roast beef. “Where is the cook? Can someone send for the cook? I must instruct him in the proper way to prepare a green peppercorn sauce!”
“Please, Mama,” Princess Ratafia murmured, seated at her mother’s side. “I think the sauce is quite-”
“No, Ratafia, the sauce is not quite anything,” her mother contradicted. “Save for too thin.”