Too Many Magicians

CHAPTER 13

The broad doors that led from the lobby of the Royal Steward Hotel to the main ballroom were closed but not locked. There was no sign upon the door that said Convention Members Only; at a Sorcerers Convention such signs were unnecessary. The spell on those doors was such that none of the lay visitors who were so eagerly thronging to the displays in the lobby would ever have thought of entering them — or, if the thought did occur to them, it would be dismissed in a matter of seconds.

Sir Thomas Leseaux and the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland pushed through the swinging doors. A few feet inside the ballroom Lady de Cumberland stopped and took a deep breath.

“Trouble, Your Grace?”

“Good Heavens, what a mob!” said Mary de Cumberland. “I feel as though they’re breathing up all the fresh air in London.”

The ballroom presented a picture that was both peaceful and relaxed in comparison with the lobby. The room was almost the same size but contained only a tenth as many people. And instead of the kaleidoscopic variety of color in the costumes displayed in the lobby, the costumes in the ballroom were of a few basic colors. There was the dominating pale blue of the Sorcerers, modified by the stark black-and-white of the priestly Healers, and the additional touch of episcopal purple. The dark rabbinical dress of the occasional Jewish Healer was hardly distinguishable from that of a priest, but an occasional flash of bright color showed the presence of a very few Hakime, Healers who were part of the entourages of various Ambassadors from the Islamic countries.

“Visitors Day,” said Sir Thomas, “is simply something we must put up with, Your Grace. The people have a right to know what the Guild is doing; the Guild has the duty to inform the people.”

Mary turned her bright blue eyes up to Sir Thomas’ face. “My dear Sir Thomas, there are many acts that human beings must perform which are utterly necessary. That does not necessarily mean that they are enjoyable. Now, where is this lovely creature of yours?”

“A moment, Your Grace, let me look.” Sir Thomas, who was a good two inches taller than the average, surveyed the ballroom. “Ah, there she is. Come, Your Grace.”

The Dowager Duchess followed Sir Thomas across the floor. The Damoselle Tia was surrounded by a group of young, handsome journeymen. Mary of Cumberland smiled to herself. It was obvious that the young journeymen were not discussing the Art with the beautiful apprentice. Her ’prentice’s smock was plain pale blue, and was not designed to be alluring, but on the Damoselle Tia…

And then the Dowager Duchess noticed something that had escaped her attention before: the Damoselle Tia was wearing arms which declared her to be an apprentice of His Grace, Charles Archbishop of York.

To Mary of Cumberland, the Damoselle Tia appeared somewhat taller than she had when the Duchess saw her leaving Master Sir James’ room on the previous morning. Then she saw the reason. Tia was wearing shoes of fashion that had arisen in the southern part of the Polish Hegemony and had not yet been accepted in the fashion centers either of Poland or of the Empire. They were like ordinary slippers except that the toes came to a point and the heels were lifted above the floor by a spike some two-and-a-half inches long. Good Heavens, thought Mary to herself, how can a woman wear such high heels without ruining her feet?

Was it, she wondered, some psychological quirk? Tia was a tiny girl, a good inch less than five feet tall without those outré heels, and a good foot shorter than the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. Did she wear those heels simply to increase her physical height?

No, Mary decided; Tia had too much self-assurance, too much confidence in her own abilities, to need the false prop of those little stilts. She wore them simply because they were the fashion she had become used to. They were “native costume,” nothing more.

“Excuse me,” said Sir Thomas Leseaux, pushing his way through the crowd that surrounded Tia. Every one of the journeymen looked thrice at Sir Thomas. Their first look told them that he did not wear the blue of a sorcerer. A layman, then? Their second look encompassed the ribbons on his left breast which proclaimed him a Doctor of Thaumaturgy and a Fellow of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society. No, not a layman. Their third look took in his unmistakable features, which identified him immediately as the brilliant theoretical sorcerer whose portrait was known to every apprentice of a week’s standing. They stepped back, fading away from Tia in awe at the appearance of Sir Thomas.

Tia had noticed that the handsome young sorcerers who were paying court to her seemed to be vanishing, and she looked up to discover the cause of the dispersion. Mary de Cumberland noticed that Tia’s eyes lit up and a smile came to her pixieish face when she saw the tall figure of Sir Thomas Leseaux.

Well, well, she thought, so Tia reciprocates Sir Thomas’ feelings. She remembered that Lord Darcy had said “Sir Thomas is in love with the girl — or thinks he is.” But Lord Darcy was not a Sensitive. Since she herself was sensitive to a minor degree, she knew that there was no question about the feeling between the two.

Before Sir Thomas could speak the Damoselle Tia bowed her head. “Good afternoon, Sir Thomas.”

“Good afternoon, Tia. I’m sorry to have dispersed your court.

“Your Grace,” continued Sir Thomas, “may I present to you the Damoselle Tia. Tia, I should like you to know my friend, Mary, Duchess of Cumberland.”

Tia curtsied. “It is an honor to meet Your Grace.”

Then Sir Thomas looked at his watch and said, “Good Heavens! It’s time for the meeting of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society.” He gave both women a quick, brief smile. “I trust you ladies will forgive me. I shall see you later on.”

Mary de Cumberland’s smile was only partly directed toward Tia. The rest of it was self-congratulatory. Lord Darcy, she thought, would approve of her timing; by carefully checking the meeting time of the R.T.S., she had obtained an introduction by Sir Thomas and his immediate disappearance thereafter.

“Tia,” she said, “have you tasted our English beer? Or our French wines?”

The girl’s eyes sparkled. “The wines, yes, Your Grace. English beer? No.” She hesitated. “I have heard they compare well with German beers.”

Her Grace sniffed. “My dear Tia, that is like saying that claret compares with vinegar.” She grinned. “Come on, let’s get out of this solemn conclave and I’ll introduce you to English beer.”

The Sword Room of the Royal Steward was, like the lobby, thronged with visitors. In one of its booths, the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland lifted the chilled pewter mug.

“Tia, my dear,” she said, “there are many drinks in this world. There are wines for the gourmet, there are whiskies and brandies for the men, there are sweet cordials for the women, and there are milk and lemonade for children — but for good friendly drinking, there is nothing that can compare with the honest beer of England.”

Tia picked up her own mug and touched it to Mary’s. “Your Grace,” she said, “with an introduction like that, the brew of England shall be given its every opportunity.”

She drank, draining half the mug. Then she looked at Mary with her sparkling pixie eyes. “It is good, Your Grace!”

“Better than our French wines?” asked Mary, setting down her own mug half empty.

Tia laughed. “Right now, much better, Your Grace; I was thirsty.”

Mary smiled back at her. “You’re quite right, my dear. Wine is for the palate — beer is for the thirst.”

Tia drank again from her mug. “You know, Your Grace, where I come from, it would be terribly presumptuous for a girl of my class even to sit down in the presence of a duchess, much less to sit down and have a beer with her in a public house.”

“Fiddle!” said Mary de Cumberland. “I’m not a Peer of the Realm; I’m as much a commoner as you are.”

Tia shook her head with a soft laugh. “It would make no difference, Your Grace. Anyone with a title is considered infinitely far above a common person like myself — at least, in the province of Banat, which, I confess, is all of the Polish Hegemony I have ever seen. So when I hear the title ‘Duchess’, I automatically give a start.”

“I noticed,” said Mary, “and I point out to you that anyone who aspires to a degree in Sorcery had better learn to handle symbols better than that.”

“I know,” the girl said softly. “I intend to try very hard, Your Grace.”

“I’m sure you will, my dear.” Then, changing the subject quickly: “Tell me, where did you learn Anglo-French? You speak it beautifully.”

“My accent is terrible,” Tia objected.

“Not at all! If you want to hear how the language can be butchered, you should hear some of our Londoners. Whoever taught you did very well.”

“My Uncle Neapeler, my father’s brother, taught me,” Tia said. “He is a merchant who spent a part of his youth in the Angevin Empire. And Sir Thomas has been helping me a great deal — correcting my speech and teaching me the proper manners, according to the way things are done here.”

The Duchess nodded and then gave Tia a quick smile. “Speaking of Sir Thomas — I hope his title doesn’t make you frightened of him.”

The sparkle returned to Tia’s eyes. “Frightened of Sir Thomas? Oh, Your Grace, no! He’s been so good to me. Much better than I deserve, I’m sure.

“But, then, everyone has been so good to me since I came here. Everyone. Nowhere does one find the friendliness, the goodness that one finds in the realm of His Majesty King John.”

“Not even in Italy?” the Dowager Duchess asked casually.

Tia’s expression darkened. “They might have hanged me in Italy.”

“Hanged you? My dear, what on earth for?”

After a moment’s silence, the girl said: “It’s no secret, I suppose. I was charged with practicing the Black Art in Italy.”

The Dowager Duchess of Cumberland nodded gravely. “Yes. Go on. What happened?”

“Your Grace, I have never been able to stand by and watch people suffer. I think it is because I watched both my parents die when I was very young — within a few months of each other. I wanted so very much for them both to live, and there was nothing I could do. I was — helpless to do anything for them. All children experience that terrible feeling of helplessness at times, Your Grace — but this was a very special thing.” There was a heavy somberness in her dark eyes.

Mary de Cumberland said nothing, but her sympathy was apparent.

“I was brought up by Uncle Neapeler — a kind and wondrous man. He has the Healing Talent, too, you see, but it is untrained.” Tia was looking back down at her beer mug, running one tiny, dainty finger around and around its rim. “He had no opportunity to train it. He might never have known that he possessed it if he had not spent so many years of his life in the Angevin Empire, where such things are searched out. He found that I had it, and taught me all he knew — which was small enough.

“In the Slavonic States, a man’s right to become a Healer is judged by his political connections and by his ability to pay. And the right to have the services of a trained Healer is judged in the same way. Uncle Neapeler is — was — a merchant, a hard man of business. But he was never rich except in comparison to the villagers, and he was politically suspect because of the time he had spent in the Imperial domains.

“He used his Talent, untrained as it was, to help the villagers and the peasants when they were ill. They all knew they could rely on him for help, no matter who they were, and they loved him for it. He brought me up in that tradition, Your Grace.”

She stopped, compressed her lips, and took another drink from her mug. “Then — something happened. The Count’s officers…” She stopped again. “I don’t want to talk about that,” she said after a moment. “I… I got away. To Italy. And there were sick people there. People who needed help. I helped them, and they gave me food and shelter. I had no money to support myself. I had nothing after… but never mind. The poor helped me, for the help I could give them. For the children.

“But those who did not know called it Black Magic.

“First in Belluno. Then in Milano. Then in Torino. Each time, the whisper went around that I was practicing the Black Art. And each time, I had to go on. Finally, I had to flee the Italian States altogether.

“I got across the Imperial border and went to Grenoble. I thought I would be safe. I thought I could get a job of some kind — apprentice myself as a lady’s personal maid, perhaps, since it is an honored profession. But the Grand Duke of Piemonte had sent word ahead, and I was arrested by the Armsmen in Grenoble.

“I was frightened. I had broken no Imperial law, but the Piemontese wanted to extradite me. I was brought before my lord the Marquis of Grenoble, who heard my plea and turned the case over to the Court of Justice of His Grace the Duke of Dauphine. I was afraid they would just hand me over to the Piemontese authorities as soon as they heard the charge. Why should anyone listen to a nobody?”

“Things just aren’t done that way under the King’s justice,” said the Dowager Duchess.

“I know,” said Tia. “I found that out. I was turned over to a special ecclesiastical commission for examination.” She drank again from the mug and then looked straight into Mary of Cumberland’s eyes. “The commission cleared me,” she said. “I had practiced magic without a license, that was true. But they said that that was not an extraditable offense under the law. And the Sensitives of the commission found that I had not practiced Black Magic in my healing. They warned me, however, that I must not practice magic in the Empire without a license to do so.

“Father Dominique, the head of the commission, told me that a Talent such as mine should be trained. He introduced me to Sir Thomas, who was lecturing at a seminar for Master Sorcerers in Grenoble, and Sir Thomas brought me to England and introduced me to His Grace the Archbishop of York.

“Do you know the Archbishop, Your Grace? He is a saint, a perfect saint.”

“I’m sure he’d be embarrassed to hear you say so,” said the Duchess with a smile, “but just between us, I agree with you. He is a marvelous Sensitive. And obviously” — she gestured toward the archiepiscopal arms on Tia’s shoulder — “His Grace’s decision was favorable. Quite favorable, I should say.”

Tia nodded. “Yes. It was through the recommendation of His Grace that I was accepted as an apprentice of the Guild.”

Mary de Cumberland could sense the aura of dark foreboding that hung like a pall around the girl. “Well, now that your future is assured,” she said warmly, “you have nothing to worry about.”

“No,” said Tia with a little smile. “No. Nothing to worry about.” But there was bleakness in her eyes, and the pall of darkness did not dissipate.

At that moment, the waiter reappeared and coughed politely. “Your pardon, Your Grace.” He looked at Tia. “Your pardon, Damoselle. Are you Apprentice Sorcerer Tia… uh… Einzig?” He hit the final g a little too hard.

Tia smiled up at him. “Yes, I am. What is it?”

“Well, Damoselle, there’s a man at the bar who would like to speak to you. He says you’ll know him.”

“Really?” Tia did not turn to look. She raised an eyebrow.

“Which one?”

The waiter did not turn, either. He kept his voice low. “The chap at the bar, Damoselle, on the third stool from the right; the merchant in the mauve jacket.”

Casually, Tia shifted her eyes toward the bar. So did the Dowager Duchess. She saw a dark man with bristling eyebrows, a heavy drooping moustache, and deep-set eyes that darted about like a ferret’s. The jacket he wore was of the oddly-cut “Douglas style,” which was a strong indication that he was a Manxman, since the style was very little favored except on the Isle of Man.

She heard Tia gasp, “I… I’ll speak to him. Would you excuse me, Your Grace?”

“Of course, my dear. Waiter, would you refill our mugs?”

Mary watched as Tia rose and walked over to the bar. She could see the stranger’s face and Tia’s back, but in the hash of emotion that was washing back and forth through the room, it was impossible to interpret Tia’s emotions. As for the stranger, there was no way for her to catch his words. His face seemed immobile, his lips seemed hardly to move, and what movements they did make were covered by the heavy moustache. The entire conversation took less than two minutes. Then the stranger bowed his head to Tia, rose, and walked out of the Sword Room.

Tia stood where she was for perhaps another thirty seconds. Then she turned and came back to the booth where the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland waited. On her face was a look which Mary could only interpret as grim joy.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” she said. “A friend. We had not seen each other for some time.” She sat down and picked up her tankard.

Then she said suddenly, “Pardon me, Your Grace. What o’clock is it?”

Mary looked at the watch on her wrist “Twelve after six.”

“Oh, dear,” said Tia, “Sir Thomas told me specifically that I should wear evening costume after six.”

Mary laughed. “He’s right, of course. We should both have changed before this.”

Tia leaned forward. “Your Grace,” she said confidingly, “I must admit something. I’m not used to Angevin styles. Sir Thomas was good enough to buy me some evening dresses, and there is one in particular I have never worn before. I should like to wear it tonight, but” — her voice sank even lower — “I don’t know how to wear the thing properly. Would Your Grace be so good as to come up and help me with it?”

“Surely, my dear,” Mary said with a laugh, “under one condition.”

“What’s that, Your Grace?”

“The dress I have to wear normally requires a battalion of assistants to get it on. Do you think you can substitute for a battalion?”

The statement was untrue; the Duchess was perfectly capable of dressing herself, but Lord Darcy had asked her to keep an eye on this girl and, even though she was not certain that it was still necessary, she would obey his orders.

“I can certainly try, Your Grace,” said Tia, smiling. “My room is two flights up.”

“Good, we’ll go up and strap you into your finery, then go down one flight and strap me into mine. Between the two of us we’ll have every sorcerer in the place groveling at our feet.”

The Duchess signed the bill that the waiter presented, and the two women left the Sword Room.

Tia turned the key in the door to her room. She pushed open the door and stopped. On the floor, just beyond the door, was an envelope. She picked it up and smiled at the Duchess. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” she said, “the dress I was telling you about is in the closet over there. I would like Your Grace to give me your opinion on it. It’s the blue one.”

Mary walked over to the closet, opened it, and looked at the array of dresses, but before she could say anything she heard Tia’s voice behind her. She could not understand the words of the girl’s short expletive, but she could feel the anger in them. Slowly she turned around and said, “What seems to be the trouble?”

“Trouble?” the girl’s eyes flashed fire. Her right hand crumpled the envelope and then with a convulsive gesture threw it into the wastebasket nearby. “No trouble, Your Grace, no trouble at all.” Her smile was forced. She walked over to the closet and looked at the dress. She stared at it without saying anything.

Mary of Cumberland stepped back. “It’s a lovely dress, Tia,” she said quietly. “You’ll look magnificent in it.” With one lightning-like movement she reached out to the wastebasket, grabbed the piece of paper Tia had thrown away, and slipped it into her pocket. “Yes,” she said, “a very beautiful dress.”

Mary could sense the girl’s hesitation and confusion. Something in that note had upset her, had changed her plans, and now she was trying to think of what to do next.

Tia turned, a pained look on her face. “Your Grace, I don’t… I don’t feel well. I should like to lie down for a few minutes.” For a moment, Mary de Cumberland thought she should offer her services as a Healer. Then she realized that that would simply add to the confusion. Tia had no headache. She simply wanted to get rid of her guest. There was nothing Mary could do.

“Of course, my dear. I understand. I shall,” she smiled, realizing she was repeating Sir Thomas’ words, “see you later on, then. Good evening, my dear.”

She went out into the hall and heard the door close behind her. What now? she thought. There was no way of intruding on Tia without making her intrusion obvious. What to do next?

She went down the stairs. Halfway down she took out the note that had been under Tia’s door, the note she had retrieved from the wastebasket. She opened it and looked at it.

It was in a language she could not identify. Not a single word of it was understandable. The only thing that stood out was a number that was easily recognizable.

7:00.

Nothing else was comprehensible.