Castle Dreams

Eighteen Malnovia — Elector’s Palace Office of the Chamberlain

“So kind of you to pay us this visit, my lord.”

The Chamberlain was an elderly man with a shiny bald pate and skin like wrinkled parchment. His eyes were sharp, his fingers long and thin. The office in which he sat was a rococo wonder, glinting with gold leaf on fancy scrollwork.

The chamber’s high, mullioned windows looked out on an expanse of formal garden. The weather was sunny and pleasant, matching the Chamberlain’s official disposition.

Nevertheless, Trent caught the hint of a nervous chill underneath all the diplomacy.

“Something of urgency came up,” Trent said. “I came as soon as I could. You’re very kind to receive me on such short notice. Chamberlain.”

Trent’s host raised both hands. “How could I refuse the brother of our late lamented Court Magician? What with the press of duties attending upon the funeral and other matters, I naturally assumed any request for a visit from a member of the family to be extremely urgent indeed.”

“It is.”

A servant came in, bearing a tray with a cut-glass decanter and long-stemmed glasses.

“Will you take some dry sack this afternoon, my lord?” the Chamberlain asked.

“Thank you.”

Wine poured and served, the servant left, closing tall doors behind him. The sound echoed in the high chamber.

“And now, my good lord,” the Chamberlain said, “would you be so kind as to tell me what brings you to our fair principality?”

Trent set his glass down on a small table at this side.

“I have reason to believe that my brother was murdered.”

After helping to sop up the wine that the Chamberlain had sprayed and spilled across the desk, Trent sat back down. He waited for the Chamberlain to stop choking.

At last, hoarse-voiced and weakly smiling, the Chamberlain said, “Went down the wrong pipe, that did.”

“Very sorry to be so brusque.”

“Think nothing of —” The Chamberlain coughed, took a gulp of sherry, coughed once again and cleared his throat. He then went on: “Whatever makes you think that your brother was — “ He swallowed hard. “Murdered?”

“One thing only. There is some sort of spell on him. A very subtle and hard-to-detect spell. And in fact it was only detected when the undertaker tried to cast a preservation spell on the body. The spell was warded off by something.”

The Chamberlain finished mopping the desk with is handkerchief and sat back. “This is very interesting. Uh … but of course, your brother was a magician. Could this spell be of his doing?”

“No. It is not his style.”

“I’m not sure I —”

“Each magician has his own, identifiable style, like an artist. It’s as unmistakable as a signature. I know my brother’s hand, and this spell is not his work.”[20]

“I see. Yes, I’ve heard that about magic and magicians.”

“It takes some sensitivity to perceive these subtleties, naturally.”

“Naturally. Doubtless you know whereof you speak.”

The Chamberlain drained his glass and poured himself another from the decanter.

He sat back, glass in hand. “Now, exactly, what is it you want of me?”

“I want an investigation, naturally.”

“An investigation? Ah, yes … yes.”

“I want the murderer brought to justice. To do that, you have to catch him — and to do that you must proceed with the usual police procedures. You —” Trent leaned forward. “Unless there’s some problem with that?”

“Problem. Well, I actually can’t say at the moment. I see no reason why there would be any difficulty, looking at it at first blush. Of course, if there’s been a murder, why it follows as the night the day that … uh, well —”

Trent slumped back. “I take it there is some problem.”

The Chamberlain drank and set the glass on his sedulously polished desk. “I suppose it would be better to say that I see no barrier to our proceeding with a murder investigation, or any criminal investigation, provided I can present the Lord Prosecutor’s office with clear prima facie evidence of criminal wrongdoing.”

“In other words, you’re saying my word isn’t good enough.”

The Chamberlain raised a hand in protest. “My lord, I say no such thing. I have no reason to doubt you. But I can’t approach the Lord Prosecutor with anything but hard evidence. Not necessarily conclusive evidence, mind you, but evidence of some kind other than the conjecture, however well-founded, of an aggrieved relative, even one of so high a station as yourself.”

“I see. What sort of evidence would you need?”

“The usual, my lord. First and foremost, clear forensic proof that death was caused by occult means.”

“Very hard to get.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

“What else?”

“Well, again, the usual sorts of things. Depositions of eyewitnesses.”

“Again, difficult in magical cases.”

“Evidence of the means by which the murder was committed.”

“Tough.”

“A motive —”

“Means, motive, and opportunity, the whole bit.”

“Precisely, my lord. Solid forensic proof would be enough to start things off.”

“Well, I’ll see if that can’t be done, somehow,” Trent said. “Should be some way, though I don’t know much about these things. I’ll talk to Dr. Mirabilis. Our forensic pathologist.”

“Would he be able to detect another hand in the spell and file a deposition to that effect?”

“Possibly.” Trent reached for his glass. “Damn it, I don’t know. He’s good at medical magic and not much else.”

“Ah,” the Chamberlain said regretfully. “Then …”

“I’m up shit creek without a kayak.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Is there any way … What if I speak to the Lord Prosecutor himself? If I could convince him —”

“I am afraid that his lordship is away on state business. He won’t be back for several weeks.”

“Well, that’s no good. My brother will be in his grave. It will be hell persuading my people to exhume the body.”

The Chamberlain sighed. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done.”

“Perhaps the Prosecutor can be reached by messenger?”

“Yes, but it would be several days getting word back, and I’m afraid it would be difficult for his lordship to initiate a major criminal investigation at such a great remove.”

“Nevertheless, I must give it a try. Would you have your secretary draft a message for me? I’ll dictate.”

The Chamberlain seemed hesitant. “Why, of course.”

“Where is the Prosecutor, by the way?”

“With the Emperor.”

Trent’s shoulders sagged. “No doubt he’s preoccupied.”

“Oh, very much so, my lord. He’s assisting in an investigation of high crimes and misdemeanors among His Imperial Majesty’s own ministers. His time will be at a premium. I said that it would take a few days for him to respond. I should have added that a few weeks might be the more likely interval.”

“Great.”

“Eh? Oh. Yes, unfortunate. And, of course …”

Trent’s blue eyes narrowed. “Yes?”

“Well, you know, magicians.”

“What about magicians?”

The Chamberlain shrugged. “No one likes to meddle in these things. This city is full of magicians. They practically have their own government. The Magicians’ Guild is powerful. Most of time they dispose of these matters among themselves, and no one gainsays them the right to do it.”

“So,” Trent said. “I must deal with them.”

“So it would seem. Have you any connections here?”

“None. I haven’t been here in … well, it’s been quite a while.”

“I would recommend visiting the local chapter of the Guild.”

Trent was silent as he stared out the window. “I am very sorry, my lord, that I have nothing else to offer. Would you … would you care for more sherry?”

Trent’s answer was slow to come. “Hm? Oh. No, no thank you. I shall be leaving. Chamberlain.”

Trent rose and gathered up his cape.

The Chamberlain rose with him. He was a small man, eager to please, fearful of giving offense, politic in the extreme, and totally bland.

“Thank you so much. Chamberlain.”

“It is nothing, my lord. What will you do?”

“I will stay in Malnovia, for the moment, if the Elector will permit.”

“I shall see that you are granted every amenity.”

“My thanks.”

“But what else will you do, my lord?”

“I shall try to find my brother’s murderer.”

The Chamberlain’s expression was pained. “But are you quite sure he was murdered?”

“Very sure.”

“But, my lord, isn’t it sometimes better not to meddle where there is no hope of success? You are a stranger here. The chances you will uncover anything — please forgive — are quite remote. Why must you —?”

“I must,” Trent said. “I must find out who killed Incarnadine — or else …”

“Yes?”

“They’ll blame it on me.”

Trent walked out of the high, resplendent chamber, his footsteps echoing hollowly.