Any Other Name (16 page)

Will considered saying something, but was too captivated by the way Catherine held his eyes. Then, as Freddy’s hand moved too far to the left, she raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Speak now or never,” and then jabbed the prongs into Freddy’s flesh.

He roared and his hand flew upwards, overturning his plate. Will kept his attention on Catherine, who was putting the fork back calmly with a satisfied smile.

“Frederick, really!” Georgiana shrieked. “Whatever is the matter?”

Freddy looked at Catherine, who turned to look at him, the smile not leaving her lips. “Is something wrong?”

 

“Did you manage to get any sleep?” Petra asked from the doorway as Max discarded the blanket.

“I did, what time is it?”

“Three in the morning. We had to put the gargoyle in the scullery for a few hours, it was wearing the carpet out.” She passed him his walking stick. “I think it was excited. Mr Ekstrand is just fitting it with some new bracers now.”

Max stood, ready for the familiar twinge whenever he moved his leg after a period of rest. “What for? Is something wrong with the old ones?”

“No, I’ll let him explain. He’s waiting for you in his study.”

“Which one?”

“The one he lets people into.”

Max followed her down the hallway, past the assortment of decorated doors and the monitoring room, to one near the end. It was made of plain wood with “Private, no apprentices, no owls” engraved upon it. Max wasn’t aware there’d been any problems with owls. Nothing had filtered through to the Chapter anyway.

Petra knocked. “I have Maximilian with me, Mr Ekstrand,” she called through the wood.

“Bring him in!”

Max followed her, finding the Sorcerer lacing the left bracer of a new set on the gargoyle’s wrist. “Just wait till you see this,” it said with a grin.

“Keep still.” Ekstrand tied the last knot in the leather. “Good. Walk over there.”

He pointed at the far side of the room. On first glance it looked like an average study with its large desk, shelves of books and comfortable chair, but Max’s trained eye spotted the tiny lines of formulae inscribed on the bookshelves and the slight discrepancies in wear indicating there was something concealed beneath the silk rug. The gargoyle walked across the room to the far bookcase. Silently. Over rug, over wooden floorboard, the usual clunking of heavy stone was gone.

Ekstrand beamed and looked at Petra, who rewarded him with a delicate round of applause. The gargoyle appeared to be equally delighted.

“Very useful,” said Max, nodding.

“Well, it is Thursday after all, technically speaking,” Ekstrand said, looking very pleased with himself.

“Now you can take me with you,” the gargoyle said. “When you check out the Agency.”

“I was planning on going alone,” Max said, but Ekstrand shook his head.

“I read your report on what the puppet told us about this Agency. I don’t like it, not one bit. We’re not going to visit these people in the usual way.”

The usual way, the one that Max had been trained in and that had been used by the Chapter for over a thousand years, involved walking up to the residence in question, in either Mundanus or the Nether, and knocking three times slowly whilst wearing the knuckle-duster he always carried in his pocket. Everyone in the Great Families knew what it meant, the rules associated with it and the penalties of refusing access.

“Can I ask why, sir?”

“Something one should never do, when dealing with something completely unknown, is make assumptions,” Ekstrand said. “I too planned to send you there to demand entry and see what in the Worlds they get up to, but when I saw the Tracker’s resting location, and put it together with the facts in the report, I concluded that we cannot assume these people respect the rules.”

“They’re of Society, and therefore not innocents, so they’re still bound by those rules,” Max said. In the Split Worlds there was no such thing as exemption; the Treaty bound Society, the Fae and, in their own way, the Sorcerers.

“But that’s another assumption. Why do we not know about them? Have they deliberately hidden themselves from scrutiny? If so, why? What are they hiding?”

“You want me to go in covertly?”

“Yes.”

“With a walking gargoyle?”

“Yes. It’s much quieter now, aren’t you?”

The gargoyle nodded earnestly. “And I can hit hard too. Not that we’ll need to hit anyone. Hopefully.”

“And what if we’re discovered?”

“Well, then it’s time to hit them with the full force of the rules and remind them of your status.”

Max nodded, understanding perfectly. Apply the rules when most convenient to him. Not usual, but hardly unheard of. And with no innocents involved, he wasn’t going to argue.

“You said something about the location making you worried. Where will I be going?”

“Three quarters of a mile from the northernmost border of the Heptarchy, near Stirling.”

“It’s an area under dispute, a no-man’s-land,” Petra added. “The Sorcerer of Northumbria still has occasional skirmishes with the King of Caledonia. There’s an uneasy truce that hasn’t been broken for the last century, but neither seems willing to back down over a stretch of land between them.”

“Which just happens to be where the Tracker ended up?” Max asked and both Petra and Ekstrand nodded. “I can see why you’re being cautious, sir. You suspect this Agency might be exploiting the conflict and preventing either side’s claim to win out?”

“Exactly,” Ekstrand said.

“It would be a way to have a location outside any formal jurisdiction,” Petra added. “It would also explain why this Agency has escaped attention for so long.”

“They have enough resources if the puppet is to be believed,” Max added.

“Cathy hasn’t lied to us at any point,” the gargoyle said, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Ekstrand.

“There’s just one issue with this, sir.” Max wanted to keep everything focused on the task ahead rather than on any inappropriate attachments being formed by the gargoyle. “If the Agency is located in a place outside anyone’s jurisdiction, won’t that make it difficult to fall back on the rules if we’re discovered?”

Ekstrand rubbed his chin. “Good point. Better not be detected then, not until we know more about them. They may be utterly harmless, nothing more than a supplier of staff and furniture.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” the gargoyle asked.

 

13

 

Once the roving hand was back in its rightful place, Cathy enjoyed the rest of the meal much more. Bartholomew was every bit the perfect host and she had the feeling he was actually enjoying their conversation. Freddy had laughed outrageously and clapped her on the back as if she were a fellow member of a gentlemen’s club. He didn’t try to touch her again.

William seemed to approve of her solution to Freddy’s behaviour and yet again she found herself noticing how handsome he looked in his smart frock coat and cravat. She endeavoured to focus on Bartholomew for the rest of the evening and, whenever she caught herself glancing through the candlelight to check on William, she reminded herself that falling for her husband would not help her plans to graduate and carve out a career in Mundanus.

Once the dessert dishes were cleared, the last moment Cathy had been dreading arrived: the retirement to the drawing room whilst the men smoked cigars and drank port. With only two other ladies, both of whom knew each other well, Cathy knew there would be a horrible amount of attention focused upon her. She didn’t want to make a mess of it, but if she truly didn’t care, why be worried?

The lavishly decorated drawing room had chairs that were comfortable enough.

“Now, tell us truthfully,” Georgiana said, sitting next to her. “Are you settling in well? Is there anything we can do to help?”

Cathy didn’t believe the offer for a moment. She’d fallen for the same trick played by her sister too many times; Elizabeth would pretend to offer help in order to discover a weakness and then exploit it at the first opportunity.

“That’s very kind,” Cathy replied. “But nothing has proved insurmountable yet.”

“Well, the Agency make it all so easy, don’t they?” Margritte said, sitting opposite them. “As long as one has good taste and a good judge of character, they take care of the rest.”

“They definitely make it easy – easy to be conned,” Cathy said.

“Whatever do you mean?” Georgiana narrowed her eyes and Cathy wondered if she was about to make her first catastrophic mistake of the evening.

 

Will declined the offer of a cigar, not wanting to reek of smoke in the carriage and give Catherine another excuse to keep him away. He accepted the port with thanks as Freddy stumbled over to a cupboard in the corner of the room. He opened it, and the front of his trousers, and began peeing into the pot within. Freddy couldn’t even do that without grunting like a warthog.

“May I compliment you on your wife, William,” Bartholomew said, port glass in one hand and cigar in the other. He was leaning back in his chair, relaxed and able to speak as if Freddy wasn’t there.

“Thank you.”

“She’s very intelligent. And not afraid to debate. Most refreshing.”

“And good to get a plain one,” Freddy said as he slammed the cupboard shut. He sat down again and tipped his glass back as far as he could to get every drop of the port.

“What do you mean?” Will asked.

“Good of the family to pair you off with a plain wife. Always better in bed, the plain ones, always so grateful.”

Will set his glass down and was on his feet but Freddy didn’t notice with his head still tipped back, looking up at the chandelier as he waved his empty glass around.

“Better than being saddled with a beauty,” he drawled. “They’re so demanding.”

“I say, sir.” Will, not getting a response from Freddy, turned to the host. “I must protest.”

“Must you? What? Why?” Freddy tipped himself upright again. Some drool was shining in his muttonchops and his eyes were unfocused. “Barty, what’s he all worked up about?”

“My apologies, William,” Bartholomew said, raising a hand slightly to assure him it was under control. “Frederick, it’s time for you to go home.”

“Really? Haven’t started playing cards yet though.”

“It’s time,” Bartholomew said firmly.

“Oh.” Freddy looked remorseful. “Have I caused offence, old chap?”

“You have indeed, sir. I demand an apology,” Will replied.

“You have it, old boy! I lose my tongue sometimes and I mean no harm, no harm at all. And your wife is a delightfully spirited filly, I’ll wager she–”

“Frederick.” Bartholomew cut him off with an imperious bark. “Get his cloak and gloves,” he said to the butler and then to Will, “Please accept my apologies too.”

Will gave a curt nod and sat back down as Freddy struggled to his feet.

“Where’s m’wife?” he slurred.

Will watched him with disgust, realising that it wasn’t just form that had elicited his protest. He’d felt genuinely affronted.

 

“And by questioning his calculations I saved the household over one hundred thousand of the Queen’s pounds per year.”

The ticking of the clock seemed very loud. Both Margritte and Georgiana were speechless, making that awful nervous giggle build in Cathy’s throat as the two women looked at each other. Cathy wondered if there was a social equivalent of chicken being played out silently in front of her. Who would react first? And which way should it go?

“They’re exploiting the fact we would never talk openly about this kind of thing,” she went on, trying to tip the tension over into something in her favour. “And whilst I may have committed a faux pas in being so truthful about it, I hope you see that it’s in our best interests to do so. They have a monopoly so they feel they can bully us into doing things the way they want, but it shouldn’t be that way.”

“Monopoly?” Georgiana asked.

“They’re the only service provider. They know there’s no other agency for us to go to, so we feel we have to keep them happy. It all happens subliminally in the social setting, and then, when the meeting’s over, everything’s geared up to make it difficult, and embarrassing to ask questions or make complaints, do you see?”

“I do!” Margritte said, and slapped her closed fan against her palm. “Georgiana, don’t pull that face, she’s right! We shouldn’t let pride interfere with common sense.”

“The thing about common sense,” Georgiana began in a tone that reminded Cathy of a character in an Oscar Wilde play, “is that–”

The door opened and the butler appeared. “Begging your pardon, milady, but Mr Viola has asked for his wife. I understand he’s about to leave.”

“Oh, he’s drunk and belligerent again.” Georgiana sighed as she stood up. “Really, the man is insufferable.”

She spoke only to Margritte, as if she’d forgotten Cathy was there. The hostess didn’t look surprised and gave Georgiana a sympathetic smile. Hasty goodbyes were made and she left, the sounds of her husband’s bellowing echoing down the hallway.

“Does that often happen?” Cathy asked and Margritte nodded. “Then why do people still invite him? In Aquae Sulis he’d never see the inside of another person’s dining room ever again.”

“Well,” Margritte said, sitting back down and inviting Cathy to do the same, “it’s probably because he’s disgustingly rich.”

Cathy laughed at her plain speaking and Margritte smiled. “Catherine, I believe you may be just the breath of fresh air the Londinium salons need. I would be delighted if you could come to a soirée we’re planning for a week from now. Something gentle to get people back into the mood again after all of this upheaval.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Seeing as the Violas have left, perhaps we should rejoin our husbands and play a game of cards a little earlier than usual. I’m sure Bartholomew won’t mind – he seemed quite taken with you, and your husband is a delight.”

“A delight?” She was about to make a comment about telling him that later when she felt the strangest sensation, deep in her stomach, as if she had just been in a very fast lift and reached the top floor.

“Yes, don’t you agree?”

“Well…” It happened again and she gripped the edge of the sofa, squeezing her eyes shut against a pulse of vertigo.

“Oh, my dear, are you feeling unwell?”

“I do feel a little odd.”

“Catherine?” William was at the doorway. Bartholomew was already in the room, though she hadn’t noticed him enter. “Are you all right?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said to the hosts, “but would you mind if we–” She stopped, the vertigo making her feel like she was about to fall off the sofa, this time accompanied by a twinge in her left hand.

“I’d like to take Catherine home. Will you permit me to thank you for a most pleasant evening?” William said as he crossed the room to her side.

She took his hands gratefully as the worst of the latest wave faded. He helped her to stand and she hoped she wasn’t going to make a habit of fainting in his arms. That would just be too much.

“It was a pleasure to meet you both,” Bartholomew said. “Catherine, I do hope you feel better soon.”

After a flurry of capes and hats, Cathy found herself in the carriage once more. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’ve never been like this… must be married life.” There was another awful lurch in her stomach. “Oh, God, do you think it was the lobster? I can’t stand being sick. Do you feel strange?”

He moved across to put his arm around her. She found it comforting and then tried to ignore it.

“I know what it is,” he said, resting a hand over hers and kissing her gently on the cheek.

“If you say it’s something to do with starting to fall in love I swear I will vomit all over you.”

He pulled a face. “Good grief, Catherine, you do say the most awful things. Does your stomach feel like it wants to move in the opposite direction to where you’re going?” When she nodded he said, “And you feel dizzy, it comes in waves and there’s… a tension, underneath it all?” She nodded again. “You’re not ill. You’re being summoned.”

“That sounds bad,” she whispered. The rocking of the carriage was making the vertigo worse. “What does it mean?”

“Lord Iris wants to see you.”

She felt a lot worse. “You’re saying he’s doing this? How can he make me feel ill?”

He brushed her wedding ring with his index finger. “I’m sorry. It must be this. You’re an Iris now.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, this just keeps getting worse! What else does this bloody ring do? Suck my soul out?”

“I don’t think it does anything else. And whilst I understand your distress, please don’t use that language.”

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m upset. Hang on, you know how it feels… it’s happened to you?”

“Once, just before I left on the Grand Tour. He wanted to speak to me.”

“And you felt like this until you saw him?”

“If you speak his name and say you’re on your way, it eases, for a time.”

Feeling foolish, and distinctly unsettled, she said, “Lord Iris, I’m on my way.”

The tug in her gut disappeared and her head cleared.

“Better?” he asked.

“Will he hear what I’m saying now?”

William shrugged. “He’s very powerful, but I don’t know if it works like that. I imagine he’s able to detect your desire to comply with his wishes.”

He didn’t move his hand when hers formed into a fist. “I don’t know how you can bear it. This is worse than being a Poppy. All those years I thought it was hell but even when I was locked in that damn room I had more freedom than this.” She caught the build-up to a rant and shut up. “I’m feeling better. You can let go now.”

“I don’t want to.” He smiled. “I wanted to say how impressed I was.”

“The food was very nice. Now, please, go and sit over there for goodness’ sake.”

He did so, but only after another kiss, its gentleness at odds with the fury she was trying to contain. She wanted to rant and rave and punch the seat cushions, cursing Iris and the entirety of Society, but he was so happy it felt absurd to show any of it.

“I wasn’t impressed with the food, but with you.” He slid down in the seat; it was the first time she could remember him seeming even remotely relaxed. “All that worry and you impressed them immensely, particularly Bartholomew.”

“You don’t mind that I stuck a fork in one of the guests?”

“Absolutely not. Freddy deserved it, disgusting man. If you hadn’t handled it yourself I would have had to call him out. I almost did when we were having the port.” He looked distant for a moment, his brow furrowed and cheeks pink. “He did howl though, didn’t he?” He laughed.

The rage tipped over and she burst into laughter too as she recalled Freddy’s roar. The carriage filled with the sound of the two of them laughing.

“Why do you think Lord Iris wants to see me?” she said once they’d settled down.

“I have no idea.”

“Have I done something wrong?”

“Not in my eyes. The only thing we need to do is make a go of it. I think it really could work between us, do you see? You’re clever, you’re funny, when you’re not being irritating or offensive, that is.” He said it with a smile. “I felt proud of you this evening. Bartholomew complimented you most highly. I think that’s an achievement in and of itself.”

She felt a quickening in her chest: excitement. This is what it was to get it right, then, the feeling that Elizabeth must have had countless times in her life, one that until now had been alien to her. Feeling her cheeks grow hot, Cathy couldn’t look at him as she tried to hold onto the feeling before it was destroyed by someone or something. Her gaze drifted downwards and she saw the ring, the thing they’d forced onto her, the tiny chains about her all held in that single band.

She was disgusted with herself. One taste of success, one bit of praise and she was ready to delude herself into thinking it actually meant anything other than the reinforcement of her slavery.

“What?” he asked.

“I nearly fell for it,” she said. “I nearly started to think like they do.”

He massaged his temples. “Why does it all have to be so complicated? Has it occurred to you that Londinium may just suit you in a way Aquae Sulis never could? Can’t you appreciate that what happened this evening was a triumph and let yourself feel good about it?”