Too Many Magicians

CHAPTER 16

Commander Lord Ashley did not see Lord Darcy’s dive from the bridge. His eyes had not for a second left the hooded figure that faced him in the tiny area of mist-filled light beneath the gas lamp. He felt confident, sure of himself. The way the other man had drawn his sword proclaimed him an amateur.

Then, as his opponent came in suddenly, he felt an odd surge of fear. The sword in the other man’s hand seemed to flicker and vanish as it moved!

It was only by instinct and pure luck that he managed to avoid the point of the other’s sword and parry the thrust with his own blade. And still his eyes could not find that slim, deadly shaft of steel. It was as if his eyes refused to focus on it, refused to look directly at it.

The next few seconds brought him close to panic as thrust after thrust narrowly missed their mark, and his own thrusts were parried easily by a blade he could not see, a blade he could not find.

Wherever he looked, it was always somewhere else, moving in hard and fast, with strikes that would have been deadly, had his own sword not somehow managed to ward them off each time. His own thrusts were parried again and again, for each time the other blade neared his own, his eyes would uncontrollably look away.

He did not need to be told that this was sorcery. It was all too apparent that he was faced with an enchanted blade in the hands of a deadly killer.

And then the Commander’s own latent, untrained Talent came to the fore. It was a Talent that was rare even in the Sorcerers Guild. It was an ability to see a very short time into the future, usually only for seconds, and — very rarely — for whole minutes.

The Guild could train most men with that Talent; these were the sorcerers who predicted the weather, warned of earthquakes, and foresaw other natural phenomena that were not subject to the actions of men. But, as yet, not even the greatest thaumaturgical scientists had devised a method of training the Commander’s peculiar ability. For that ability was the rarest of all — the ability to predict the results of the actions of men. And since the thaumaturgical laws of time symmetry had not yet been fathomed, that kind of Talent still could not be brought to the peak of reliability that others had been.

The Commander had occasional flashes of precognition, but he never knew when they would come nor how long he could sustain their flow. But, like any other intelligent man who has what he knows is an accurate hunch, Commander Lord Ashley was capable of acting upon it.

Quite suddenly, he realized that he had known instinctively, with each thrust, where that ensorcelled blade was going to be. The black sorcerer who sought to kill him might have trained Talent on his side, but he could not possibly cope with Commander Lord Ashley’s hunches.

Once he realized that, Ashley’s eyes no longer sought the enemy’s blade, or the arm that held it. They watched the body of his opponent. It moved from one position to another as though posing for sketches in a beginner’s textbook. But he could have kept his eyes closed and still known.

For a little while, Ashley did nothing but ward off the other’s attacks, getting the feel of the black sorcerer’s sword work. But he was no longer retreating.

He began to move in. Step by step he forced his opponent back. Now they were directly beneath the gas lamp again. Lord Ashley could tell that the other man was beginning to lose his confidence. His thrusts and parries were less certain. Now the panic and fear were all on the other side.

With careful deliberation, Commander Lord Ashley plotted out his own course of action. He did not want this man dead; this sorcerer and spy must be arrested, tried, and hanged, either for the actual murder of Sir James Zwinge, or for having ordered it done. There was no doubt in Lord Ashley’s mind as to the guilt of this black sorcerer, but it would be folly to kill him, to take the King’s justice into his own hands.

He knew, now, that it would be easy to take his opponent alive. It would require only two quick moves: a thrust between elbow and wrist to disarm the man, and then a quick blow to the side of his head with the flat of the blade to knock him senseless.

Lord Ashley made two more feints to move his opponent back and get him in just the right position to receive the final thrust. The sorcerer retreated as though he were obeying orders — which, indeed, he was: the orders of the lightning-swift sword in the Commander’s hand.

Now the gas lamp was at Ashley’s back, and for the first time the light fell full upon the face beneath the hood.

Lord Ashley smiled grimly as he recognized those features. Taking this man in would be a pleasure indeed!

Then the moment came. Ashley began his lunge toward the sorcerer’s momentarily unprotected forearm.

It was at that moment that he felt his Talent desert him. He had become overconfident, and the psychic tension, which had sustained his steady flow of accurate hunches, had fallen below the critical threshold.

His left foot slipped on the fog-damp pavement of the bridge.

He tried to regain his balance but it was too late. In that moment, he could almost feel death.

But he had already thrown the fear of death so deeply into his opponent that the sorcerer did not see the opening as a chance to kill. He only saw that, for a moment, the deadly Naval sword no longer threatened him. His cloak swirled around him as he turned and ran, vanishing into the surrounding fog as though he had never been.

Lord Ashley kept himself from falling flat on his face by catching his weight on his outstretched left arm. Then he was back on his feet, and a stab of pain went through his right ankle. He could hear the running steps of the sorcerer fading into the distance, but he knew he could never catch him trying to run on a twisted ankle.

He braced himself against the balustrade for a moment and gave in to the laughter that had been welling up ever since he had seen that twisted, frightened face. The laughter was at himself, basically. To think that, for a few seconds, he had actually been deathly afraid of that obsequious little worm, Master Ewen MacAlister!

It took half a minute or so for the laughter to subside. Then he pulled a deep breath of fog-laden air into his lungs, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his left hand. Deftly, he slid his sword back into its sheath.

It was too bad, he thought, that a spot of slippery pavement had prevented him from capturing Master Ewen, but at least the identity of the black sorcerer was now known, and Lord Darcy could -

Lord Darcy!

The haze of excitement cleared from his brain, and he limped across the bridge to the balustrade on the downstream side.

Black as pitch down there. He could see nothing.

“Darcy!” the Commander’s voice rang out across the water, but the dense fog that brooded over the river seemed to distort and disperse the sound before it traveled far. There was no answer.

Twice more he called, and still there was no answer.

He heard rapid footsteps coming from his right and turned to face them, his hand on the hilt of his narrow-bladed sword.

MacAlister returning? It couldn’t be! And yet…

Damn the fog! He felt as though he were isolated in a little world of his own, whose boundaries were a bank of cotton wool a dozen feet away, and which was surrounded by invisible beings that were nothing but disembodied footsteps.

Then he saw a glow of light, and out of the cotton wool came a friendly figure, carrying a pressure-gas lantern. Lord Ashley didn’t know the big, heavy man, but the black uniform of a London Armsman made him a friend. The Armsman slowed, stopped, and put his hand on the hilt of his own smallsword. “May I ask what’s going on here, sir?” he inquired politely. But his eyes were wary.

Lord Ashley carefully took his hand off the hilt of his own sword. The Armsman kept his where it was. “I heard a disturbance on the bridge, sir,” he said stolidly. “A noise of swords clashing, it sounded like, sir. Then somebody from off the bridge ran past me in the fog. And just now…” He paused. “Were that you shouting, sir?”

It came suddenly to Lord Ashley what a forbidding figure he must be. In his long black Naval cloak, with the hood up, and his back to the lamp, his shadowed face was as invisible as MacAlister’s had been. He reached up with one hand and pulled back the hood, and then pushed the cloak back over his shoulders so that the Armsman could see his uniform.

“I am Commander Lord Ashley,” he said. “Yes, Armsman, there has been trouble. The man you heard running is a criminal wanted for murder.”

“Murder, your lordship?” said the Armsman blankly. “Who was he?”

“I’m afraid he did not give me his name,” said Lord Ashley. The statement was perfectly true, he thought, and he wanted to tell Darcy about MacAlister before he told anyone else. “The point is that a short time ago he pushed a young girl off the bridge. My companion dived in after her.”

“Dived in after her? That were a foolish thing to do on a night like this. Likely we’ve lost two people instead of one, your lordship.”

“That may well be,” Lord Ashley admitted. “I’ve called him and he doesn’t answer. But he’s a powerful man, and although the chances are against his having found the girl, there’s a good chance he can make it to shore by himself.”

“All right, your lordship, we’ll start looking for both of them right away.” He took out his whistle and blew a series of shrill, high, keening notes into the murk-filled air — the “Assistance” call of the King’s Armsmen. A second or two later, they heard distant whistles from both sides of the river blowing the answer: “Coming.” After several more seconds, the Armsman repeated the call, to give his hearers a bearing.

“There’ll be help along in a few minutes. Nothing we can do till then,” the Armsman said briskly. He took a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Now, your lordship, if I might have your name again and the names of the other people involved.”

The Commander repeated his own name, then he said, “The girl’s name is Tia Einzig.” He spelled it. “She is an important witness in a murder case, which is why the killer tried to do away with her. The man who went in after her is Lord Darcy, the—”

“Lord Darcy, did you say?” The Armsman lifted his head suddenly from the notebook. “Lord Darcy, the famous investigator from Rouen?”

“That’s right,” said Lord Ashley.

“The same Lord Darcy,” persisted the Armsman, who seemed to want to make absolutely sure of the identification, “who came over from Normandy to help Lord Bontriomphe solve the Royal Steward Hotel Murder?”

“The same,” Lord Ashley said wearily.

“And he’s gone and jumped in the river?”

“Yes, that’s what I said. He jumped in the river. He was trying to save this girl. By now he’s had time to swim clear to the Nore. If we wait a little longer, he may be on his way back.”

The Armsman looked miffed. “No need to get impatient, your lordship. We’ll get things done as fast as we can.” He put his whistle to his lips again and sent out the distress call a third time. Then, after a moment, a fourth.

Then they could hear hoofbeats clattering on the distant street and the sound changed to a hollow thunder as the horse galloped onto the bridge. They could see a glow of light approaching through the fog; the Armsman signaled with his own lantern. “Here comes the sergeant now, your lordship.”

The mounted Sergeant-at-Arms was suddenly upon them, pulling his big bay gelding to a halt, as the Armsman came to attention. “What seems to be the trouble, Armsman Arthur?”

“This gentleman here, Sergeant, is Commander Lord Ashley of the Imperial Navy.” Referring to his notebook, he went on to report quickly and concisely what Lord Ashley had told him. By that time, they could hear the thud of heavy boots and the clatter of hoofbeats from both ends of the bridge, as more Armsmen approached.

“All right, My Lord Commander,” said the sergeant, “we’ll take care of it. Likely he swam for the right bank since it’s the nearer, but we’ll cover both sides. Arthur, you go to the Thames Street River Patrol Station. Tell them to get their boats out, and to send a message to the other patrol stations downriver. We’ll want everything covered from here to Chelsea.”

“Right away, Sergeant.” Armsman Arthur disappeared into the fog.

“I’d like to ask a favor if I may, Sergeant,” said Lord Ashley.

“What might that be, My Lord Commander?”

“Send a horseman to the Royal Steward Hotel, if you would. Have him report exactly what happened to the Sergeant-at-Arms on duty there. Also, there is an official Admiralty coach waiting for me there, Petty Officer Hosquins in charge. Have your man tell Hosquins that Commander Lord Ashley wants him to bring the coach to Thames Street and Somerset Bridge immediately. I’m going to assume that Lord Darcy made for the right bank, and help your men search that side.”

“Very good, My Lord Commander. I’ll send a man right along.”

Mary de Cumberland walked across the almost deserted lobby of the Royal Steward, doing her best to suppress her nervous impatience.

She felt she ought to be doing something, but what?

She would like to have talked to someone but there was no one to talk to.

Sir Lyon and Sir Thomas were still in conclave with the highest ranking sorcerers of the Empire. Master Sean was at the morgue attending to the autopsy of Sir James Zwinge. Lord Bontriomphe, according to the Sergeant-at-Arms who was on duty in the temporary office, was out prowling the city in search of a missing man named Paul Nichols. (She knew that the Sergeant-at-Arms would not have given her even that much information except that Lord Bontriomphe had told him that Her Grace of Cumberland would be bringing in information. The sergeant apparently assumed that her status in the investigation was a great deal more official than it actually was.)

And Lord Darcy was in a low dive down the street, keeping an eye on Tia.

Which left the Duchess with nothing to do.

Part way across the lobby, she turned and headed down the hall that led back to the temporary office. Maybe some information had come in. Even if none had, it was better to be talking to the sergeant than to be pointlessly pacing the hotel lobby.

If this had been a normal convention, she could have found plenty of convivial companionship in the Sword Room, but the murder had stilled the thirst of every sorcerer in the hotel. She went through the open door of the little office. “Anything new, Sergeant Peter?”

“Not a thing, Your Grace,” said the Sergeant-at-Arms, rising to his feet. “Lord Bontriomphe’s not back yet and neither is Lord Darcy.”

“You look as though you’re as bored as I am, Sergeant Do you mind if I sit down?”

“It would be an honor, Your Grace. Here, take this chair. Not too comfortable, I’m afraid. They didn’t exactly give their night manager their best furniture.”

They were interrupted by another Sergeant-at-Arms who walked in the door. He gave the Duchess a quick nod, said, “Evening, mum,” and then addressed Sergeant Peter. “Are you in charge here, Sergeant?”

“Until Lord Bontriomphe or Lord Darcy gets back, I am. Sergeant Peter O Sechnaill.”

“Sergeant Michael Coeur-Terre, River Detail. Lord Darcy might not be back. Girl named Tia Einzig got pushed off Somerset Bridge, and Lord Darcy jumped off the bridge after her. They’re putting out patrol boats and search parties on both sides of the river from Somerset Bridge to Chelsea, but personally I don’t think there’s much chance. A Commander Lord Ashley asked us to report to you. He said Lord Bontriomphe would want the information.”

Sergeant Peter nodded. “Right,” he said briskly. “I’ll tell his lordship as soon as he comes in. Anything else?”

“Yes. Do you know where an Admiralty coach is parked around here with a Petty Officer Hosquins in charge of it? Commander Lord Ashley says he wants it at Thames Street and Somerset Bridge immediately. He wants transportation for Lord Darcy when they find him, though it’s my opinion that his lordship is done for.”

Mary de Cumberland had already risen to her feet. Now she said, in a very quiet voice, “He is not dead. I should know it if he were dead.”

“I beg your pardon, mum?” said Sergeant Michael.

“Nothing, Sergeant,” she said calmly. “At Thames Street and Somerset Bridge, you said? I know where the Admiralty coach is. I shall tell Petty Officer Hosquins.”

Sergeant Michael noticed, for the first time, the Cumberland arms on Mary’s dress. Simultaneously, Sergeant Peter said, “Her Grace is working with us on this case.”

“That’s… that’s very good of Your Grace, I’m sure,” said Sergeant Michael.

“Not at all, Sergeant.” She swept out of the room, walked rapidly down the hall, across the lobby, and out the front door of the Royal Steward. She hadn’t the dimmest notion of where the Admiralty coach might be parked, but this was no time to quibble over details.

It didn’t take her long to find it. It was waiting half a block away, toward St. Swithin’s Street. There was no mistaking the Admiralty arms emblazoned on its door. The coachman and the footman were sitting up in the driver’s seat, their greatcoats wrapped around them and a blanket over their legs, quietly smoking their pipes and talking.

“Petty Officer Hosquins?” Mary said authoritatively. “I’m the Duchess of Cumberland. Lord Ashley has sent word that the coach is wanted immediately at Thames Street and Somerset Bridge. I’m going with you.” Before the footman had even had a chance to climb down she had opened the door and was inside the coach. Petty Officer Hosquins opened the trap door in the roof and looked down at her.

“But Your Grace,” he began.

“Lord Ashley,” the Duchess cut in coldly, “said ‘immediately.’ This is an emergency. Now, dammit, get a move on, man.”

Petty Officer Hosquins blinked. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said. He closed the trap. The coach moved on.