Any Other Name (15 page)

“The puppet seemed to like it, sir, and it may make her drop her guard.”

“Don’t let her inspect the formulae too closely.”

“I won’t, sir.”

As Ekstrand nodded, an outline of a doorway burned into the wall opposite him. Max reminded himself of the objective, got to his feet and readied himself for any foul play.

The door materialised, opened and the puppet stepped through and closed the door quickly behind her. She was dressed in mundane clothes with satin gloves that looked out of place.

“Good evening,” Max said.

“Hey,” the gargoyle called from the corner.

She looked at Ekstrand, swallowed and then waved in the gargoyle’s direction uncertainly. Her eyes flicked about the room before she looked at Max properly. “Good evening, Mr Sorcerer, Mr Arbiter.”

“You know the drill,” Max said, approaching to frisk her, but she took a step back.

“Just make sure you don’t touch my skin, whatever you do.”

“I’ll check her,” Ekstrand said and beckoned her further into the room. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“So we can be more civilised than before,” he replied and she did so.

He went behind her and peered through the magnifying glass. “Good grief,” he muttered, and then moved the inspection across her left hand. “Damnable things, wedding rings.”

“You’re telling me. You can see it through my gloves?”

“It’s cursed.”

“I know. I daren’t take it off. I’m not wearing anything else that’s dodgy. Actually, can you tell if it’s linked to Lord Iris?”

“Not actively, not this moment,” Ekstrand replied. “But it’s tied deeply to your soul. I’d be unsurprised if he knew when it was removed. Fascinating. The Irises take their marriages seriously, it seems. Other than that she’s clean.” He stepped away, tucked the magnifying glass under his cloak. “You can look again now.”

She peered up at him, seeming braver. “I don’t know why you’re bothering with the face-mask thing. I’m hardly going to run off and tell people we’ve met, am I? And it’s not like I could bump into you on the street.”

“It’s standard procedure when dealing with your kind,” he said, and Max noticed her wince.

Ekstrand sat on an empty chair next to Max and gestured to the one in front of them. She scanned the shadows as she crossed the room and sat. “Is this where I was before?”

Max ignored the question. “We have a lot to discuss, and I’m sure you don’t have a lot of time.”

She nodded. “True enough. Why did you want to see me?”

“You said the last time we dealt with each other that you wanted my help,” Ekstrand began. “I’m giving you the opportunity to earn it.”

She folded her arms and crossed her legs. “I’m listening.”

“We need to talk to one of the Rosas,” Max said. “We know some of them are hiding in Londinium or possibly London.”

“Why do you need my help to find them? Don’t you have sorcerous means to do that?”

“It’s not possible, in this instance,” Ekstrand said.

“Why?”

“That’s all you need to know,” Ekstrand replied.

“The first time we met, you said you wanted protection from your family,” Max began. “You said you weren’t like them. Then when you returned from Exilium Sam told us you knew about things one of your kind normally wouldn’t. Can you explain how?”

“I lived in Mundanus for a while.”

“That’s not usual for a female puppet,” Ekstrand said.

She swore under her breath. “Look, if we’re going to actually work with each other you need to stop calling me that. I have a name, it’s Cathy. It’s not my fault I was born into Society, it’s not my fault the bloody Fae are constantly screwing up my life. I’m a person, and not like all of the other people who live in the Nether.”

“I apologise,” Ekstrand said.

“Point taken,” Max acknowledged. She would always be a puppet though, regardless of how she chose to delude herself. “Can you explain why you spent time in Mundanus?”

“Look, let’s get to the point here, I don’t have time to justify myself to you both. We need to make a deal and quick, before someone notices I’m gone. I ran away from my family, I lived in Mundanus for about three years. Lord Poppy, the bastard, found me and dragged me back into Society. I had a plan to make a deal with you guys that day you took me, so I could escape before I was married off. But because you were so busy playing your Us versus Them game and wouldn’t listen to me, I’ve been married off to a man I hardly know. Now, if you want my help you need to get me out of the Nether and protected from Lord Iris, Lord Poppy and the rest of the so-called Great Families before my husband rapes me in the name of consummating a marriage, or I’m going to be a lot less inclined to help you. Clear enough?”

“We’ll get you out,” the gargoyle said, coming out of the shadows. “Right?”

Max gave it a steady stare, willing it to back off. “You’ve made your point, pup… Cathy. You hid from your family, so you know the best way to hide using the Charms and artefacts available to those in Society, yes?”

She nodded. “You want me to tell you how I did it?”

“Yes,” Ekstrand said.

“No,” Cathy replied. “I can’t do that.”

“But you need to help us so we help you,” Ekstrand said. “What harm could it do to–”

“No,” she repeated, more forcefully. “I can’t tell you, I’m sorry. It would break a promise. But I can still help. Do you want to speak to a particular Rosa, or just any?”

“We want to speak to the head of the Gallica-Rosa line or the Alba-Rosa line,” Max replied. They were complicit in the plot against the Master of Ceremonies, and the two most powerful families in the Londinium Court. It stood to reason that one of them would know something useful.

“If I tell you where you can find them, I want you to free me from this curse and hide me from the Fae in return. You can do that, right?” She was looking at Ekstrand. “I mean, you’re probably one of the few people in the Split Worlds who’d know how.”

“I could,” Ekstrand said. “But I’ll only do that when I know I no longer need you in Fae-touched Society.”

“But she needs to get away from them now!” The gargoyle’s voice was half-growl.

“One more word from you and you’re out,” Ekstrand said, pointing a long finger at him. He looked back at the puppet. “This is just the first step to finding out what we need to know. The information you provide will help, but not solve the issue. If I’m to free you from the ties of your blood, you need to work harder than that.”

“You’re all the same,” she muttered. “You don’t give a shit about people, we’re just the proverbial pawns on the chessboard.”

“It’s the way of the Worlds,” Ekstrand said, without sympathy. “There is far more at stake than your happiness.”

The puppet fidgeted for a moment and then said, “All right then, if you insist on being just the same as the Fae, how about this: I’ll tell you where to find the head of the Gallica-Rosa line but in return I want you to find all the information you can on an employee of the Agency. She was a servant, not a member of one of the Great Families, so it shouldn’t be hard to find out. Then if you need me to help with your Rosa problem, I will. In return you help me to get out of the Nether and hidden away from the Irises for good. Deal?”

“Who do you want to find?” Max asked.

“Deal?”

“Yes,” Ekstrand said with an impatient wave of the hand.

“She’s called – or was called – Miss Rainer. She was my governess for about ten years. She died about two years ago.”

“She was involved with the Agency?” Ekstrand asked.

“Duh, of course she was,” the puppet replied, and then her eyebrow twitched. “You do know the Agency provides all the staff, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Ekstrand said, but the puppet looked unconvinced. She was sharp.

Max whispered in the Sorcerer’s ear, concerned that the longer Ekstrand stayed, the more of their ignorance he’d give away. “I think I should take it from here, sir.”

Ekstrand nodded and stood up. “The Arbiter will deal with the details. I’m needed elsewhere.”

The puppet nodded slowly, watching him leave, then looked at Max once the door to the rest of the house was shut and locked.

“All right,” Max said. “So where do I find the Rosas?”

She smiled. “At the Agency. They were rounded up the night we all spoilt their party.”

“I knew that already,” Max said. “I need more.”

“If that’s the case, why not just go and demand a search? Why bother to ask me for help?” She leaned forwards, the smile widening. “You don’t know anything about them, do you?”

“No, we don’t,” said the gargoyle.

“Go outside,” Max said to it.

“She knows already, stop treating her like an idiot. There’s no time for this crap,” it replied. It went and sat next to her. It smiled and lowered its head, inviting a scratch behind the ears that she gave readily whilst smirking at Max.

“He’s right,” she said. “OK, how about this: I tell you what I know about the Agency and help you to track down their headquarters and in return you bring me the information on Miss Rainer.”

“There’s no other way to get to a Rosa?”

“No,” she replied, but he didn’t believe her.

“It would save time if there was.”

“There isn’t.” She said it firmly enough to convince him she’d have to be persuaded in an unpleasant way to tell him. “Look, this way is mutually beneficial and we can start as early as tomorrow. I’ll send a note to their rep. Give me something to put in his bag or pocket, something you can track through the Nether. Have you got something like that?”

He nodded. “I’ll get one and send it via your uncle, with instructions. I take it that method is still secure?”

“Yep. OK, the Agency…”

He listened as she described her understanding of the Agency and her interactions with its representative. He didn’t ask any questions or request any clarifications, letting his silence prompt her to speak more. When she was done, the puppet stood, brushed the gargoyle’s cheek with her thumb and went back towards the place in the wall she came through. “Are you going to open a Way for me?”

He retrieved the Opener from its resting place under his chair and struggled to his feet.

“We’ll do this as quick as we can,” the gargoyle said as Max hobbled over. “Don’t let that husband bully you into anything.”

She didn’t reply, just looked sadly at the stone creature. “You’re sweet,” she said finally and kissed the top of its head as Max drove the Opener’s pin into the wall. She gave him one last glance after he opened it and went through.

When the Way was closed and the Opener was back in his pocket, Max turned to the gargoyle. “I’m not sure that’s how good cop, bad cop is supposed to go.”

The gargoyle’s shrug was made impressive by its huge stone shoulders. “I felt sorry for her.”

“That’s what they’re good at making people do. It’s called manipulation.”

 

12

Will watched Catherine fiddle with the fingers of her gloves, newly made in a warm shade of gold silk. “Try not to be so nervous.”

“You say that after spending most of the afternoon coaching me and saying how important it is every five minutes.”

“Well, I felt you should know.” He twisted the cane; her nervous energy was leaching into him. “And you learned practically everything the first time so there’s nothing to worry about on that front.”

“A bunch of names and anecdotes is hardly quantum physics. Sorry, you were trying to be nice again, weren’t you?”

He sighed. “I’m trying to reassure you. You seem to need it.”

“Look, I told you that I was a bad match. I told my family and no one listened. Just don’t go postal on me when I screw something up tonight, because you’ve had ample warning.”

“‘Go postal’?” He waved away the explanation, noticing she said
when
rather than
if
. “Just don’t discuss politics or pick out any flaws and you’ll be fine.”

“I know. I stick to fashion –” she mimed being sick in a most uncouth manner “– the joy of being newly married and the ‘delicious challenge’ of decorating our grand new house. You’d be better off paying a professional actress to pretend to be me, rather than me pretending to have any interest in these topics. Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Catherine.”

She went back to glove-fiddling.

“Do you like your dress?”

“Well, I know what honeyed gold looks like now. If only my uncle could see me he’d weep with happiness.”

“You look lovely.”

“The
dress
looks lovely, William,” she replied. “Whereas you look handsome.”

It was the first time she’d genuinely complimented him. “Thank you,” he said with a smile. If only she could accept a compliment given to her.

At the tap on the roof from the driver they both readied themselves for arrival. Whilst he was taking care not to show it, Will was nervous too. They both had to make an excellent impression and also weigh up the opposition. Cornelius had given him vital information that would make it easier for him, but Catherine’s social skills were a concern and she would be on her own after dinner.

The carriage slowed and he peered out of the window at the entrance to Hampton Court, dismayed by how much it looked like a ducal residence, even if it was out in the middle of nowhere.

He got out of the carriage and helped her down the steps. The Tulipa butler greeted them and led them through a beautiful formal garden. “This is the reflection of the Privy Garden created in the reign of William III,” he said with pride.

Of all the routes into the grand palace, Tulipa had picked this one. They were being reminded of the fact it was once owned by a King who was a puppet of the Tulipas.

They were led into the grand Tudor buildings, guided through a variety of breathtaking chambers and then shown into a relatively humble receiving room. A man he recognised from Cornelius’s description as the Tulipa was handing a glass of sherry to one who was presumably the Viola. He wondered if he and Catherine had been given a slightly later time on the invitation so as to enable the Londinium residents to observe their entrance.

“Mr and Mrs William Reticulata-Iris,” the butler announced and the doors were closed behind them.

“Ah, excellent, now we are complete.” The host smiled and approached. “Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Bartholomew Semper-Augustus-Tulipa.” He gave a formal bow which Will duly returned.

“Thank you for your kind invitation,” he said. “May I introduce my wife, Catherine.”

He watched Tulipa kiss her gloved hand, taking the opportunity to study him. The host was tall and most handsome, with dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail by a short black ribbon and eyes so brown they were almost black. He wore clothes in the late-eighteenth century style, and wore them well. His elaborately embroidered red jacket and long waistcoat glittered in the sprite light. Cornelius had reported his true age to be over two hundred and fifty but Bartholomew looked like he was in his thirties. Will had felt nauseous when he’d heard the true age, realising he was to be pitted against a man who’d lived ten times longer than he.

“A pleasure, Catherine,” Bartholomew said. “I welcome you both into my home. This is my wife, Margritte.”

He was joined by a fairly attractive woman with auburn hair. When she smiled, her blue eyes sparkled and her cheeks dimpled in a most becoming manner. Will kissed the soft skin on the back of her hand.

“And this is Mr Frederick Persicifolia-Viola.” He gestured to a barrel-chested man who appeared to be in his late forties, with greying black hair and dramatic mutton chops.

“Call me Freddy!” he said cheerfully, coming over to pump Will’s hand up and down. “Bloody mouthful that name is. Here’s the wife too then, how do you do?”

He grabbed Catherine’s hand and for a moment Will thought he was going to bite it off, but instead he kissed it in a way that made her recoil and left a damp mark on the silk.

“How do you do,” she said as politely as she could in the circumstances.

“M’wife is over there.” He pointed rather rudely at a woman half his size who also looked half his age. “George, come over here, there’s a good girl.”

She glided over gracefully with no embarrassment showing on her delicate features. Her hair was ash-blond, her eyes also blue. She was attractive, but nothing about her appealed to Will. There was something too mask-like about her face.

“I’m Georgiana.
Enchantée
,” she said as Will kissed her hand. He didn’t like the way she smiled at Catherine, as if having decided her superiority over her already.

“Sherry?” Bartholomew offered.

“Please,” he replied.

“I’d like another,” Freddy said, thrusting out his empty glass. “Helps build the appetite, what?”

“Indeed,” Bartholomew replied, his smile perfectly polite.

“So, Aquae Sulis not good enough for the man who destroyed the Rosas, eh?” Freddy swallowed the sherry in one shot and waited for a response, along with everyone else in the room.

“Well, the Season peaked,” Will replied nonchalantly. “After that evening, I knew nothing interesting could possibly happen there for at least another ten years.”

It earned a smile from Tulipa and a guffaw from Viola and he felt the first test had been passed. As he sipped the sherry, he heard the Tulipa wife complimenting Catherine’s dress, the colour in particular.

The butler announced that dinner was to be served and they went through another set of doors into a dining room, sparkling with silver and crystal but smaller than he expected.

“We prefer to dine in a more intimate space when meeting new friends,” Margritte said, as she guided him gently towards his seat.

The Tulipas were, as hosts should be, seated at either end of the table. Will was placed at Margritte’s right. Georgiana sat on his right, between him and Bartholomew. Freddy dropped into the chair directly opposite him, Catherine to his left and on Bartholomew’s right. He had the feeling she had the worse deal, and didn’t like the fact that she would be under Tulipa’s scrutiny all evening. However, the fact that they had both been placed to the right of the hosts, considered to be the place for honoured guests, was a positive sign.

It started well enough. The soup was good, eliciting a flurry of comments, and wine was served, which distracted people for a few moments.

“So are we to understand that you have taken permanent residence in Londinium?” Georgiana asked.

“That’s right,” Will replied.

“What a difficult time to move here,” Margritte said. “Everyone is still in shock about the Rosas. So many social events have been cancelled.”

“Especially the ones the Rosas were planning.” Freddy emptied his glass before the starter had even been cleared. “Of course, the Agency are having a bloody field day, nicking all their properties and raking it in.”

“Where are you going to be living?” Georgiana asked.

“Lancaster House,” he replied and watched the reactions with interest. Only Bartholomew was truly inscrutable, the rest were both impressed and envious to varying degrees.

“That’s a beautiful property,” Margritte said.

“What a challenge for a young bride,” said Georgiana, smiling at Catherine.

“The most challenging thing isn’t choosing the new décor,” she said and Will’s stomach tensed. “It’s finding one’s husband when there are so many rooms.”

The ladies tittered. Freddy twisted in his chair to look at her more closely. Will admired the way Catherine ignored his disgraceful behaviour.

“So which family were you from before the Irises got hold of you?” he asked.

“The Rhoeas-Papavers,” she replied.

“Ah, the red poppy lot, yes.” Freddy waved one of the attendants over since his glass remained empty. “Well, the thing you need to know about Londinium is that there’s no Master of Ceremonies or Censor, which means we can have a lot more fun.”

“What Freddy is trying to say,” Georgiana cut in, “is that Londinium is less socially prescriptive than Aquae Sulis.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that for a moment,” Catherine replied and a chill descended over the table. Seeming oblivious as she winkled another sliver of lobster out of its shell, she continued, “It just won’t be so blatant. Every social group has implicit and explicit rules about behaviour, but without a Master and Censor, the most influential of the Ton will control Society instead. It will be just as rigid, only less open.”

She looked up when no one spoke, right at Georgiana. Then she glanced at Will and added, “That’s what my uncle said anyway.”

“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he dear?” said Margritte. Will gave Catherine as discreet a smile as he could. Good catch, Catherine, he thought. He noted that their hostess knew Lavandula was her uncle. She’d done her research.

“And your uncle is…?” Freddy asked, who clearly hadn’t.

“The Master of Ceremonies,” she replied. “He’s my mother’s brother. Of course he has an opinion on absolutely everything.”

She was more able than she thought herself to be. Will felt a rush of relief and hope for the future. If he could just bolster her confidence, she was intelligent enough to be a real asset.

He noticed a look from Bartholomew when she said it. Yes, he thought, that’s how I got the property. He could imagine the calculations Bartholomew was making: strong family with wealth on his side, massively influential and powerful uncle and aunt on her side… was he being reconsidered as a threat?

“The city has been shaken to the core by the fall of the Rosas,” Bartholomew said. “We’re still coming to terms with it all. It’s a very uncertain time.”

“It’s about bloody time if you ask me,” Freddy said after tipping the last dregs of the second glass down his throat. “Bloody Roses had their fingers in everything. We couldn’t fart without one of them claiming the right to tithe it.”

Catherine laughed at that, whilst Margritte took a sudden interest in her wine glass and the slightest sigh escaped from Freddy’s wife.

“It will be interesting to see how things settle,” Bartholomew said and the third course was brought in.

The conversation skirted around the Rosas a little more before Will gently steered it towards safer topics such as their honeymoon and the delights of London.

“Wonderful place,” Freddy said. “Owe every one of my grey hairs to it. M’wife says I visit it too much but every time I go back there something has changed. Fascinating.” He turned to Catherine. “Soho is a very different place now, of course.”

“Full of media companies and restaurants now, I understand,” she said breezily, but Will noted how Freddy had dabbed at his mouth with the napkin, laid it back down on his lap but not brought his hand back up to his cutlery. Moments later Catherine’s back straightened and her jaw clenched.

Just as Will was about to say something, Freddy sniggered to himself and the left hand came back up to take his fork again. Catherine was frowning at her meal, a gentle flush in her cheeks, and it took everything in him not to yell an accusation at Freddy.

“What exactly is a media company?” Margritte asked.

“Another mundane way to make money out of something utterly incomprehensible,” Georgiana replied.

The conversation then divided. Margritte, Freddy and Georgiana sucked Will into a discussion about what the mundanes got up to in the city, whilst Bartholomew spoke at length with Catherine. Will did his best to maintain a presence in the former whilst listening in on the latter. It seemed mostly about Aquae Sulis at first, and the Lavandula connection, then he heard the names of some composers, and as the meat was served it sounded like they’d moved onto philosophy. Catherine was bright-eyed and animated by the time the fourth course was over. She seemed to be actually enjoying the conversation with the host. Will just prayed she wasn’t saying anything inappropriate.

He suspected she was eager to hold a close conversation with Bartholomew to exclude Freddy as politely as possible. He was gulping down the wine like a man just rescued from a desert and had the table manners of a goat. How his wife could stand it, he had no idea.

Just as the salads were being served he noticed Freddy’s hand below the table again. Margritte was consulting the butler about wine, while Georgiana was drawing Bartholomew’s attention away from Catherine, who was also looking at Freddy’s hand out of the corner of her eye. Catherine met Will’s eyes across the table and he tried to convey that he knew what was happening. Catherine slowly and deliberately looked down at a fork, drawing his gaze. He watched her slide it beneath her napkin and then, with impressive subtlety, lower both below the table line. Freddy was too busy pretending to listen to Margritte to notice what Catherine was doing.