Too Many Magicians

CHAPTER 17

There was a chilling shock as Lord Darcy’s body cut into the inky waters of the Thames. For long seconds it seemed as if he would keep on going down until he buried himself in the mud and muck at the bottom; then he was fighting his way up again, tearing off his jacket. His head broke the surface, he took one deep breath, and then doubled over to pull off his boots.

And all the while Lord Darcy was telling himself that he was a fool — a bloody, stupid, harebrained fool. The girl had allowed herself to be pushed in without a struggle, and she had fallen without a sound. What chance was there of finding her in a world of darkness and watery death, better than a hundred yards from the nearest bank? A heaviness at his hip reminded him of something else. He could have drawn his pistol, but he would never have shot a man armed only with a sword, and the time it would have taken to force the man to drop his weapon and then turn him over to Ashley would have been precious seconds wasted. His chances of finding the girl were small now; they would have been infinitesimal if there had been any delay.

At least, he told himself, he could have drawn his gun and dropped it on the bridge as he had his cloak. Its added weight now was only a hindrance. Regretfully he drew it from its holster and consigned it forever to the muddy depths of the mighty river. He surfaced again and looked around. It was not as dark as he had thought. Dimly, he could still see the lights on the bridge.

“Tia!” he shouted. “Tia Einzig! Where are you? Can you hear me?”

She should have been borne downstream, beneath Somerset Bridge, but how far beneath the surface? Had she already taken her last gasp and filled her lungs with water?

And then he heard a noise.

There was a soft, spluttering, sobbing sound and a faint splash.

“Tia Einzig!” he shouted again. “Say something! Where are you?”

There was no answer except that faint sound again, coming from upstream, between himself and the bridge. His sprint across the bridge and his long dive had put him downstream from her, as he had hoped.

Lord Darcy swam toward the sound, his powerful arms fighting against the current of the Thames. The sound came closer, a sort of mewing sob that hardly sounded human.

And then he touched her.

She was struggling, but not much. just enough, apparently, to keep her head above water. He put his left arm around her, holding them both up with powerful strokes of his right, and her struggles stopped. Her cloak, he noticed, was gone — probably torn off when she struck the water. The whimpering sounds had ceased, and her body was completely relaxed but she was still breathing. He kept her face above water and began swimming toward the right bank, towing her through the chilling water. Thank God she was small and light, he thought. She didn’t weigh more than seven stone, sopping wet.

The joke struck him as funny but he couldn’t waste his breath now in laughing. It would be like laughing at my own funeral, he thought, and this second joke was grim enough to preclude any desire to laugh.

Where was the damned bank, anyway? How long does it take to cover a hundred-odd yards of water? He felt as though he had been swimming for hours, and the muscles of his right shoulder were beginning to feel the strain. Treading water, carefully holding the girl’s head above the surface, he changed about, letting his right arm keep her up, and swimming with his left.

Hours more seemed to pass, and now there was nothing but blackness around him. The lights of the bridge had long since faded away, and the lights on the river bank — if there was any river bank! — were not yet visible.

Had he lost his bearings? Was he swimming downstream instead of across it? There was no way of knowing; his body was moving with the water and there was nothing visible to judge by.

Then, as he reached out for another in a seemingly endless series of strokes, his fingers slammed into something hard and sent a stinging pain into his hand and wrist. He reached out again, more carefully this time.

It was a shelf of stone, one of the steps leading down to the water’s edge from the bank above. He levered the girl’s body up onto the step, then climbed out of the water himself. She was all right, as far as he could tell; she was still breathing.

He realized suddenly that he was too weak and exhausted even to climb the steps to the embankment by himself, much less carry the girl up. But he couldn’t just let her lie there on the cold stone. He lifted her up and held her in his arms, trying to warm her body with his, and then for a long time he just sat there — motionless, cold, and wet, his mind almost as blank as the endless darkness that surrounded them.

After what might have been minutes or hours of mental and physical numbness, a slight, almost imperceptible change in Lord Darcy’s surroundings forced his sluggish mind to function again.

What was it that was different? Something to his left. Something he could see out of the comer of his eye. He turned his head to look. It was nothing; just a light — a dim glow in the distance that seemed to shift back and forth a little and grow steadily brighter. No, not just one light, there were two… three…

Then a voice said, “Hallooo… Lord Darcy! Can you hear us, my lord?”

Lord Darcy’s mind snapped into full wakefulness. The fog must have thinned somewhat, he realized. He could tell from the voice that they were still some distance away, but the lights were easily visible. “Halloo,” he shouted. His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears. He tried again. “Halloo.”

“Who’s that?” called the voice.

Lord Darcy grinned in spite of his weariness. “Lord Darcy here,” he shouted. “You were calling me, I believe?”

Then somebody yelled: “We’ve found him; he’s here!” Somebody else blew on a whistle. Lord Darcy felt himself beginning to shiver.

Reaction, he thought, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. I feel weak as a kitten. His muscles felt as though they had been jelled by the cold; the only warm spot in his body was his chest, against which he had been holding Tia. She was still breathing — quietly, regularly. But she was limp in his arms, completely relaxed; she wasn’t even shivering. That’s all right, Lord Darcy thought, I’m shivering enough for both of us. There were more whistles and more lights and footfalls all over the place. He wondered vaguely whether they had decided to call out the Army. And then a Man-at-Arms with a lantern was beside him, saying, “Are you all right, Lord Darcy?”

“I’m all right, just cold.”

“Good Heavens, my lord, you’ve got the girl.” He shouted up the embankment, “He’s got the girl!”

But Lord Darcy hardly heard the words. The light from the man’s lantern was shining directly into Tia’s face, and her eyes were wide open, staring blankly, unseeingly, into nothing. He would have thought her dead, but the dead do not breathe.

There were more men around him now.

“Give his lordship more light.”

“Let me help you up, my lord.”

Then: “Darcy! Thank Heaven you’re safe! And the girl, too! It’s a miracle!”

“Hullo, Ashley,” said Darcy. “Thanks for calling out the troops.”

Lord Ashley grinned. “Here’s your cloak. You shouldn’t go around leaving things on bridges.” And then he was taking off his own cloak to wrap it around Tia. He took her from Darcy’s arms and carried her up the steps, carefully, tenderly.

Lord Darcy wrapped his cloak tightly around himself, but it didn’t help the shivering.

“We’ll have to get you some place warm, my lord, or you’ll catch your death of dampness,” said an Armsman.

Lord Darcy started up the steps. Then a voice from the top said, “Did you find him?”

“We found both of them, Your Grace,” said another Armsman.

Darcy said, “Mary. What the deuce are you doing here?”

“As I told you last night,” she said, “when you asked that same question, I came to fetch you.”

“This time,” Lord Darcy said, “I believe you.”

When he reached the top and had climbed over the retaining wall, he saw Lord Ashley standing solidly, holding Tia in his arms. Several Armsmen were shining their lanterns on her, and Mary, not a Duchess now but a trained nurse, was looking at the girl and touching her with her Sensitive’s fingers.

“How is she?” he asked. “What’s the matter with her?”

“You’re shivering,” said Mary without looking up. “There’s brandy in the coach, go get yourself some.” She looked up at Lord Ashley. “Put her in the coach. We’ll take her directly to Carlyle House. Father Patrique is there; she couldn’t get better care in a hospital.”

Two good swallows of brandy had calmed Lord Darcy’s shivering. “What’s the matter with her?” he asked again.

“Shock and cold, of course,” she said. “There may be some internal injuries. Nothing serious. But she’s under a spell, one I can’t break. We’ll have to get her to Father Patrique as soon as possible.”

They stretched the girl out on one of the coach seats.

“Will she be all right?” asked Lord Ashley.

“I think so,” said the Duchess.

Then Lord Ashley said, “Lord Darcy, may I speak to you a moment?”

“Surely; what is it?”

They stepped out of earshot of the others.

“The man on the bridge,” Lord Ashley began.

“Oh, yes,” said Lord Darcy. “I should have asked about him. I see you’re not hurt. I hope you didn’t have to kill him.”

“No, I’m ashamed to say I didn’t even capture him. My foot slipped on the pavement and he got away. But I got a good look at his face.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Yes. It was our oily friend, Master Ewen MacAlister.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “I thought I recognized something familiar in his voice when he told Tia to climb up on the balustrade. He had her under a spell, as Her Grace just said.”

“That wasn’t the only Black Magic the little swine was working,” Lord Ashley said. He told Lord Darcy about the ensorcelled sword.

“Then you need not apologize for letting him escape,” Darcy said. “I am thankful that you’re still alive.”

“So am I,” said Lord Ashley. “Look here; there’s not going to be room for all of us in that coach with Tia taking up one whole seat. And I shan’t be needed any more tonight anyway. You two go ahead.” He stepped back. “Petty Officer Hosquins,” he called. “Her Grace and Lord Darcy are going to Carlyle House. One of the Armsmen will get a cab to take me home.”

“Very well, My Lord Commander,” answered Hosquins.

“Thank you,” said Lord Darcy. “Would you do me one favor? Would you go to the Royal Steward and report everything to Lord Bontriomphe? If Master Ewen knows you recognized him, he won’t show up at the hotel, of course. Tell Lord Bontriomphe to notify Sir Lyon. All right?”

“Certainly. I’ll get down there right away. Good night, my lord. Good night, Your Grace,” he said, raising his voice.

Lord Darcy opened the door of the coach. “To Carlyle House, Hosquins,” he said, and climbed in.

It was more than an hour later before Lord Darcy really felt good again. A hot bath had taken the smell of the Thames from him, and some of the chill out of his blood. A short session with Father Patrique had removed any susceptibility to catching cold. Mary de Cumberland and the good Father had both insisted that he go to bed, so now he found himself in his silken night clothes, propped up on four or five pillows, with a couple of warm woolen blankets over his legs, a heavy shawl around his shoulders, a hot water bottle at his feet, and two bowlsful of hot, nourishing soup inside him.

The door opened and Mary de Cumberland came in, bearing a large steaming mug on a tray. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Quite fit, really. How is Tia?”

“Father Patrique says she’ll be all right. He put her to sleep. He says that she won’t be able to talk to anyone until tomorrow.” She put the mug down on the bedside table. “Here, this is for you.”

“What is it?” Lord Darcy asked, eyeing the mug suspiciously.

“Medicine. It’s good for what ails you.”

“What’s in it?”

“If you must know, it contains brandy, Oporto, honey, hot water, and a couple of herbs that Father Patrique prescribed.”

“Humph,” said Lord Darcy. “You made it sound good until you mentioned that last.” He picked up the mug and sipped. “Not bad at all,” he admitted.

“Do you feel strong enough to see visitors?” she asked solicitously.

“No,” he said. “I’m on my deathbed. I’m in a coma. My breathing is shallow, my pulse weak and threadlike. Who wants to see me?”

“Well, Sir Thomas wanted to see you; he just wanted to thank you for saving Tia’s life, but the poor man seems on the verge of collapse himself and I told him he could thank you tomorrow. Lord John Quetzal said that he could wait to speak to you until tomorrow, too. But Sir Lyon Grey arrived just a few minutes ago, and I strongly suggest that you see him.”

“And where, may I ask, is Master Sean?”

“I have no doubt that he would be here, my lord, if anyone had thought to tell him of your desire for an invigorating cold bath. He is still at the morgue.”

“Poor chap,” said Darcy, “he’s had a hard day’s work.”

“And what have you been doing?” said Her Grace. “Tatting?”

Lord Darcy ignored her. “I presume that he is making absolutely sure, one way or another, whether drugs or poisons were administered,” he said thoughtfully. “I am strongly inclined to doubt that they were, but when Sean has finished with his work we shall know for certain.”

“Yes,” agreed Her Grace. “Will you see Sir Lyon?”

“Of course, of course. Show him in, will you?”

The Dowager Duchess of Cumberland went out and returned a minute later accompanied by the tall, stately, silver-bearded figure of Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey. “I understand you have had quite an adventurous evening, my lord,” he said gravely.

“All in the day’s work for an Officer of the King’s Justice, Sir Lyon. Pray be seated.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Lyon. Then, as the Duchess started to leave the room, “Please, Your Grace — if you would be so good as to remain? This concerns every member of the Guild, as well as the King’s Officers.”

“Certainly, Grand Master.”

Sir Lyon looked back at Lord Darcy. “Commander Lord Ashley has informed me of his identification of Master Ewen MacAlister. He and Lord Bontriomphe have sent out word to the Armsmen all over the city to be on the watch for him. I have sent out every available Master Sorcerer in London to accompany the Armsmen, to make certain he does not use his Art to escape.”

“Very good,” said Lord Darcy.

“Lord Ashley’s unsupported word,” continued the Grand Master, “would not be sufficient in itself to bring charges against Master Ewen before the Special Executive Commission of the Guild. But it was enough to make us take immediate action to procure further evidence.”

“Indeed?” said Lord Darcy with interest. “You have found this evidence, of course.”

Sir Lyon nodded gravely. “We have. You are perhaps aware that a sorcerer casts certain protective and precautionary spells upon the bag in which he carries the tools of his trade?”

“I am,” said Lord Darcy, remembering how easily Master Sean had regained possession of his own symbol-decorated carpetbag.

“Then you will understand why we asked Lord Bontriomphe to procure a search warrant from a magistrate immediately, and then went directly to Master Ewen’s room. He, too, had put a special spell on the lock, as Sir James had done, but we solved it within fifteen minutes. Then we solved and removed the protective spells from his bag. The evidence was there — a bottle of graveyard dirt, two mummified bats, human bones, fire powder containing sulphur — and other things which no sorcerer should have in his possession without a special research permit from the Guild and special authority from the Church.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “ ‘Black Magic is a matter of symbolism and intent,’ ” he quoted.

“Precisely,” said Sir Lyon. “Then, in addition, I have Father Patrique’s testimony concerning the black spell that Ewen cast upon Tia this evening. We have, then, my lord, quite sufficient evidence to convict him of Black Magic. Whether or not you can obtain enough evidence to convict him of his other crimes is, of course, another matter. But rest assured that the Guild will do everything in its power to help you obtain it. You have but to ask, my lord.”

“I thank you, Sir Lyon. A question, merely to satisfy my curiosity: Lord Ashley told you, did he not, of the swordplay on Somerset Bridge?”

“He did.”

“Am I correct in assuming that the spell Master Ewen had cast upon his own blade was in some manner a utilization of the Tarnhelm Effect?”

“It was indeed,” Sir Lyon said with a rather puzzled smile. “It was astute of you to recognize it from Lord Ashley’s description alone.”

“Not at all,” Lord Darcy said. “It is simply that Sean is an excellent teacher.”

“It’s more than astute, Grand Master,” said the Dowager Duchess. “To me, it’s irritating. I know what the Tarnhelm Effect is, of course, since I have come across mention of it in my studies, but its utilization and theory are quite beyond me.”

“You should not find it irritating, but gratifying,” Sir Lyon said in a firm voice. “One of the troubles with the world is that so few laymen take an interest in science. If more people were like Lord Darcy, we could eliminate the superstitions that still cling to the minds of ninety-nine people out of a hundred.” He smiled. “I realize you spoke in jest, but it behooves all of us to educate the layman whenever we can. It is only because of ignorance and superstition that hedge magicians and witches and other unlicensed practitioners can operate. It is only because of ignorance and superstition that so many people believe that only Black Magic can overcome Black Magic, that the only way to destroy evil is by using more evil. It is only because of ignorance and superstition that quacks and mountebanks who have no trace of the Talent can peddle their useless medallions and charms.”

He sighed then, and Lord Darcy thought he looked somehow older and wearier. “Of course, education of that kind will not eliminate the Master Ewens of this world. Modern science has given us an advantage over earlier ages, in that it has enabled us to keep our Government, our Church and our Courts more nearly uncorrupt and incorruptible than was ever before possible. But not even science is infallible. There are still quirks in the human mind that we cannot detect until it is too late, and Ewen MacAlister is a perfect example of our failure to do so.”

“Sir Lyon,” said Lord Darcy, “I should like to suggest that Master Ewen is more than that. In our own history, and in certain countries even today, we find organizations that attempt to hide and gloss over the wrongdoings of their own members. There was a time when the Church, the Government, and the Courts would ignore or conceal the peculations of a priest, a governor, or a judge rather than admit to the public that they were not infallible. Any group which makes a claim to infallibility must be very careful not to make any mistakes, and the mistakes that will inevitably occur must be kept secret or explained away — by lies, subterfuges and distortions. And that will eventually cause the collapse of the entire edifice. Anyone who has power in the Empire today — be it spiritual, temporal, or thaumaturgical — is trusted by the little man who has no power, precisely because he knows that we do our best to uncover the occasional Master Ewen and remove his power, rather than hiding him and pretending he does not exist. Master Ewen then becomes in himself the embodiment of the failure which may be converted to a symbol of success.”

“Of course,” said Sir Lyon. “But it is still unpleasant when it does happen. The last time was back in ’39, when Sir Edward Elmer was Grand Master. I was on the Special Executive Commission then, and I had rather hoped it would not happen again in my lifetime. However, we shall do what must be done.”

He rose. “Is there anything further I can do for you?”

“I think not, Sir Lyon, not at the moment. Thank you very much for your information.

“Oh, yes. One thing. Would you tell the sorcerers who are searching for him that if Master Ewen is taken during the night I am to be notified immediately, no matter what o’clock it is. I have several questions which I wish to put to him.”

“I have already given such instructions in regard to myself,” said Sir Lyon. “I shall see that you are notified. Good night, my lord. Good night, Your Grace. I shall be in my room if there is any word.”

When the silvery-bearded old sorcerer had left, the Dowager Duchess said, “Well, I hope they don’t catch him until morning; you need a good night’s sleep. But at least this horrible mess is almost over.”

“Don’t be too optimistic,” said Lord Darcy. “There are far too many questions which remain unanswered. As you implied, they have not yet caught Master Ewen, and Paul Nichols has managed to remain hidden wherever he is for more than thirty-six hours. We still do not have the results of Master Sean’s Herculean labors. There are still too many knots in this tangled string to say that the end is in sight.”

He looked down at his empty mug. “Would you mind bringing me another one of those? Without the good Father’s additional flavorings this time, if you please.”

“Certainly.”

But when she returned, Lord Darcy was fast asleep, and the hot mug became her own nightcap instead of his.