Too Many Magicians

CHAPTER 18

“I trust you are feeling fit, my lord.”

The always punctilious Geffri put the caffe urn and the cup on the bedside table.

“Quite fit, Geffri; thank you,” said Lord Darcy. “Ah! the caffe smells delicious. Brewed by your own hand as usual, I trust? Carlyle House is, except for my own home, the only place in the Empire where one can get one’s morning caffe at exactly the right temperature and brewed to perfection.”

“It is most gratifying to hear you say so, my lord,” said Geffri, pouring the caffe. “By the by, I have taken the liberty, my lord, of bringing up this morning’s Courier. There is, however, another communication which your lordship might prefer to peruse previous to perusal of the news.” He produced an envelope, ten inches wide by fourteen long. Lord Darcy immediately recognized Master Sean’s personal seal upon the flap.

“Master Sean,” said Geffri, “arrived late last night — after your lordship had retired. He requested that I deliver this to your lordship immediately upon your lordship’s awakening.”

Lord Darcy took the envelope. It was quite obviously the report on the tubby little Irish sorcerer’s thaumaturgical investigation and the autopsy report on the body of Sir James Zwinge.

Lord Darcy glanced at his watch on the bedside table. “Thank you, Geffri. Would you be so good as to waken Master Sean in forty-five minutes and tell him that I should like to have him join me for breakfast at ten o’clock?”

“Of course, my lord. Is there anything else, my lord?”

“Not at the moment, I think.”

“It is a pleasure to serve you, my lord,” said Geffri. Then he was gone.

By the time an hour had passed, Lord Darcy had read both Master Sean’s report and the London Courier, and was awaiting the knock on the door that came at precisely ten o’clock. By that time, Lord Darcy was dressed and ready for the day’s work, and the hot breakfast for two had been brought in and laid out on the table in the sitting room.

“Come in, my good Sean,” Lord Darcy said. “The bacon and eggs are waiting.”

The sorcerer entered with a smile on his face, but it was quite evident to Lord Darcy that the smile was rather forced.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said pleasantly. “You’ve read my report?” He seated himself at the table.

“I have,” Lord Darcy said, “but I see nothing in it to account for that dour look. We’ll discuss it after breakfast. Have you seen this morning’s Courier?”

“No, my lord, I have not.” Master Sean seated himself and began to dig into the bacon and eggs. “Is there something of interest there?”

“Not particularly,” said Lord Darcy. “Except for some rather flattering references to myself, and some even more flattering references to you, there is little of interest. You may peruse it at your leisure. The only offering of any consequence is the fact that there will be no fog tonight.”

The next quarter of an hour was spent in relative silence. Master Sean, usually quite loquacious, seemed to have little to say.

Finally, with some irritation, Lord Darcy pushed his plate aside and said: “All pleasantries aside, Master Sean, you are not your usual ebullient self. If there is anything I should know besides what is contained in your report, I’d like to hear it.”

Master Sean smiled across his caffe cup. “Oh, no, it’s all there. I have nothing to add to it. Don’t mean to disturb you. Perhaps I’m a bit sleepy.”

Lord Darcy frowned, reached over, picked up the carefully written report and flipped it open. “Very well. I do have a question or two, merely as a matter of clarification. First, as to the wound.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“According to your report, the blade entered the chest vertically, between the third and fourth ribs, making a wound some five inches deep. It nicked the wall of the pulmonic aorta and made a small gash in the heart itself, and this wound was definitely the cause of death?”

“Definitely, my lord.”

“Very well.” He stood up. “If you will, Master Sean, take that spoon and assume that it is a knife. Yes. Now, would you be so good as to stab me at the precise angle which would cause exactly such a wound as you discovered in Sir James’ chest.”

Master Sean grasped the handle of the spoon, lifted it high over his head, and brought it down slowly in a long arc to touch his lordship’s chest. “Very good, Master Sean, thank you. The wound, if extended, then, would have gone well down into the bowels?”

“Well, my lord, if a bullet had entered at that angle, it would have come out the small of the back.”

Lord Darcy nodded, and looked back down at the report. “And,” he mused, “as could be surmised from the exterior aspect of the wound, the blade actually did slice into the ribs above and below the cut itself.”

He looked up from the report. “Master Sean, if you were going to stab a man, how would you do it?”

Master Sean reversed the spoon in his hand so that his thumb was pointing toward the bowl. He moved his hand forward to touch Lord Darcy. “This way, of course, my lord.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “And in that position, the flat of the knife is parallel to the ribs instead of perpendicular to them.”

“Well, of course, my lord,” said Master Sean. “With the blade up and down you’re likely to get your blade stuck between the ribs.”

“Precisely,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Now, according to the autopsy report which Sir Eliot sent us yesterday from Cherbourg, Goodman Georges Barbour was stabbed in the efficient manner you have just demonstrated, and yet Sir James was stabbed in a manner which no efficient knifesman would use.”

“That’s true, my lord. Nobody who knew how to use a knife would come in with a high overhand stab like that.”

“Why should the same man stab with two such completely different techniques?”

“If it was the same man, my lord.”

“Very well, assuming that there were two different killers, which is the Navy’s hypothesis, the blow that killed Sir James was still inefficient, was it not? Would a professional hired killer have deliberately used a thrust like that?”

Master Sean chuckled. “Well, if it were up to me to hire him, my lord, I don’t think he’d pass my employment specifications.”

“Neatly put,” Lord Darcy said with a smile. “And by the way, did you examine the knife closely?”

“Sir James’ contact cutter? I did.”

“So did I, when it was on the floor of Sir James’ hotel room yesterday. I should like to call your attention to the peculiar condition of that knife.”

Master Sean frowned. “But… there was nothing peculiar about the condition of that knife.”

“Precisely. That was the peculiar condition.”

While Master Sean thought that over, Lord Darcy said: “Now to another matter.” He sat down and turned over a page of the report. Master Sean settled himself in his chair and put the spoon back on his plate.

“You say here that Sir James died between 9:25 and 9:35, eh?”

“That’s according to the chirurgical and thaumaturgical evidence. Since I meself heard him cry out at precisely half past nine — give or take half a minute — I can say that Sir James died between 9:30 and 9:35.”

“Very well,” Lord Darcy said. “But he was stabbed at approximately five minutes of nine. Now, as I understand it, the psychic patterns show both the time of the stabbing and the time of death.” He flipped over a page of the report. “And the death thrust cut down and into the wall of the pulmonic aorta, but did not actually open that great blood vessel itself. There was a thin integument of the arterial wall still intact. The wound was, however, severe enough to cause him to fall into shock. He was mortally wounded, then, at that time.”

“Well, my lord,” Master Sean said. “It might not have been a mortal wound. It is possible that a good Healer, if he had arrived in time, might have saved Sir James’ life.”

“Because the pulmonic aorta was not actually cut into, eh?”

“That’s right. If that artery had actually been severed at that time, Master Sir James would have been dead before he struck the floor. When that artery is cut open the drop in blood pressure and the loss of blood cause unconsciousness in a fraction of a second. The heart goes into fibrillation and death occurs very shortly thereafter.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “I see. But the wall was not breached. It was cut almost through but not completely. Then, after lying on the floor for half an hour or better, Sir James heard your knock, which brought him out of his shock-induced stupor. He tried to lift himself from the floor, grabbing at his desk, upon which lay, among other things, his key.” He paused and frowned. “Obviously his shout to you was a shout for help, and he wanted to get his key to unlock the door for you.” He tapped a finger on the report. “This exertion caused the final rupture of the aorta wall. His life’s blood gushed forth upon the floor, he dropped the key, and died. Is that your interpretation of it, Master Sean?”

Master Sean nodded. “That’s the way it seems to me, my lord. Both the thaumaturgical and the chirurgical evidence corroborate each other.”

“I agree completely, Master Sean,” Lord Darcy said. He flipped over a few more pages. “No drugs or poisons, then.”

“Not unless somebody used a substance that is unknown to the Official Pharmacopoeia. I performed a test for every one of ’em, and unless God Himself has repealed the Law of Similarity, Master Sir James was neither poisoned nor drugged.”

Lord Darcy flipped over another page. “And the brain and skull were both undamaged… no bruises… no fractures… yes.” He turned to another section of the report. “Now, we come to the thaumaturgical section. According to your tests, all the blood in the room was Master Sir James’?”

“It was, my lord.”

“And what of that curious half-moon stain near the door?”

“It was definitely Sir James’ blood.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “As I suspected,” he said. “Now, according to the thaumaturgical tests, there was no one in the room except Sir James at the time he was stabbed. This corresponds to the information on Georges Barbour that we have from Cherbourg.” He smiled. “Master Sean, I well understand that you can only put scientifically provable facts in a report like this, but do you have any suggestion, any guess, anything that will help me?”

“I shall try, my lord,” said Master Sean slowly. “Well, as I told you yesterday, I should be able to detect the operation of a black sorcerer. As you are aware, the ankh is almost infallible as a detector of evil.” He took a deep breath. “And now that we know the culpability of Master Ewen MacAlister, his operations should be easy to detect.”

Then Master Sean pointed at the sheaf of paper in front of Lord Darcy. “But I will not — I cannot — go back on what I said there.” He took another deep breath. “My lord, I can find no trace of any kind of magic — black or white — associated with the murder of Master Sir James Zwinge. There was no…”

He was interrupted by a rap on the door. “Yes,” Lord Darcy said with a touch of impatience in his voice, “who is it?”

“Father Patrique,” came the voice from the other side of the door.

Lord Darcy’s irritation vanished. “Ah, come in, Reverend Sir.”

The door opened and a tall, rather pale man in Benedictine habit entered the room. “Good morning, my lord; good morning, Master Sean,” he said with a smile. “I see you are well this morning, my lord.”

“In your hands, Reverend Father, how could I be otherwise? Can I be of service to you?”

“I believe you can — and be of service to yourself at the same time, if I may say so.”

“In what way, Father?”

The priest looked gravely thoughtful. “Under ordinary conditions,” he said carefully, “I cannot, as you know, discuss a penitent’s confession with anyone. But in this case I have been specifically requested by the penitent to speak to you.”

“The Damoselle Tia, I presume,” said Lord Darcy.

“Of course. She has told her story twice — once to me, and once to Sir Thomas Leseaux.” He looked at Master Sean, who was solemnly nodding his head up and down. “Ah, you follow me, Master Sorcerer.”

“Oh, certainly, Your Reverence. The classic trilogy. Once to the Church, once to the loved one, and” — he gestured respectfully toward Lord Darcy — “once to the temporal authorities.”

“Exactly,” said the priest. “It will complete the Healing.” He looked back at Lord Darcy, who had already risen from his chair. “I will give you no further details, my lord; it is best that you hear them for yourself. But she is well aware that it was you who saved her life last night, and you must understand that you must not depreciate your part in the matter.”

“I think I understand, Reverend Father. May I ask you a couple of questions before we go in?”

“Certainly. As long as they do not require me to violate my vows, I shall answer them.”

“They have merely to do with the spell that was cast over her last evening. Does she remember anything that happened after Master Ewen cast his black enchantment upon her?”

Father Patrique shook his head. “She does not. She will explain to you.”

“Yes, but what bothers me, Reverend Father, is the speed and ease with which it was done. I was watching. One moment she was coherent, in full possession of her senses, the next she was an automaton, obeying his every word. I was not aware that sorcerers had such power over others.”

“Oh, good Heavens, it can’t be done that quickly,” said Master Sean. “Not at all, my lord! Not even the most powerful of black sorcerers could take over another’s mind just by waving his hand that way.”

“Not even Satan himself can take over a human mind without some preparation, my lord,” said Father Patrique. “Master Ewen must have prepared preliminary spells before that time. He would have had to, for the spell to have been as effective as it was.”

“I seem to recall,” said Lord Darcy, “that at the last Triennial Convention, a footpad made the foolish mistake of attacking a Master Sorcerer on the street during the last night of the Convention. The sorcerer informed the Armsmen shortly thereafter what had happened. He himself was unharmed, but the footpad was paralyzed from the neck down, completely unable to move. It was a brilliant piece of work, I admit; the spell was such that it could not be removed until the criminal made a full and complete confession of his crime — which meant, of course, that the sorcerer need not appear in Court against him. But that spell must have been cast in a matter of seconds.”

“That is a somewhat different matter, my lord,” said Father Patrique. “In that case, when there is evil intent on the part of the attacker, the evil itself can be reflected back upon its generator to cause the paralysis you spoke of. Any Master Sorcerer can use that as a defensive technique. But to cast a spell over a human being who has no evil intent requires the use of the sorcerer’s own power; he cannot use the psychic force of his attacker, since he is not being attacked. Therefore, his own spells require much more time to be set up and to become effective.”

“I see. Thank you, Father,” Lord Darcy said. “That clears up the matter. Well, let’s get along then and see the young lady.”

“With your permission, my lord,” said Master Sean, “I’ll go on to the Royal Steward. Likely Lord Bontriomphe will be wanting to take a look at my report.”

Lord Darcy smiled. “And likely you’d be wanting to get back to the Convention, eh?”

Master Sean grinned back. “Well, yes, my lord, I would.”

“All right. I’ll be along later.”

Sir Thomas Leseaux, tall, lean and grim-faced, was standing outside the Gardenia Suite, which the Duchess of Cumberland had given to Tia Einzig. “Good morning, my lord,” he said. “I… I want to thank you for what you did last night, but I know of no way to do so.”

“My dear Sir Thomas, I did nothing that you would not have done had you been there. And there is no need for the grim look.”

“Grim?” Sir Thomas forced a smile. “Was I grim?”

“Of course you were grim, Sir Thomas. Why shouldn’t you be? You have heard Tia’s story and you are greatly afraid that I shall arrest her on a charge of espionage.”

Sir Thomas blinked and said nothing.

“Come, come, my dear fellow,” said Lord Darcy. “She cannot have betrayed the Empire to any great extent, else you would be as eager for her arrest as anyone. You are not a man to allow love to blind you. Further, may I remind you of the laws concerning King’s Evidence. Ah, that’s better, Sir Thomas, now your smile looks more genuine. And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I shall allow you to pace this hallway at your leisure.” He opened the door and went in.

Lord Darcy walked through the sitting room of the Gardenia Suite toward the bedroom, and halfway there heard a girl’s voice.

“My Lord Darcy? Is that you?”

Lord Darcy went to the bedroom door. “Yes, Damoselle, I am Lord Darcy.”

She was in bed, covered by warm blankets up to her shoulders. Her lips curved in a soft smile. “You are handsome, my lord. I am very glad. I don’t think I should care to owe my life to an ugly man.”

“My dear Tia, so long as beauty such as yours has been saved, the beauty of he who saved it is immaterial.” He walked over and sat down in the chair by her bed.

“I won’t ask you how you came to be there when you were so sorely needed, my lord,” she said softly. “I merely want to say again that I am glad you were.”

“So am I, Damoselle. But the question, as you have said, does not concern how I happened to be upon that bridge, but how you did. Tell me about Master Ewen MacAlister.”

For a moment her mouth was set in grim, hard lines; then she smiled again. “I’ll have to go back a little; back to my home in Banat.”

The story she told him was essentially the same as the one she had told Mary of Cumberland — with added details. Her Uncle Neapeler had been denounced for practicing his Healing Art by a business rival, and because his political sympathies were already suspect, the Secret Police of King Casimir IX had come to their home to arrest them both. But Neapeler Einzig had been prepared for just such an eventuality, and his strong — although untrained — Talent had warned him in time. Only a few minutes ahead of the dread Secret Police, they had both headed toward the Italian border. But the Secret Police, too, had sources of sorcery, and the fleeing pair had almost been caught in a trap, less than a hundred yards from the frontier. Neapeler had told his niece to run while he stood off the Secret Police.

And that was the last she had seen of him.

The story she told of her movements through Italy and of her extradition hearing in Dauphine was a familiar one to Lord Darcy, but he listened with care. Then she came to the part he had been waiting for.

“I thought I was safe when Sir Thomas brought me here to England,” she said, “and then Master Ewen came to me. I didn’t know who he was then; he didn’t tell me his name. But he told me that Uncle Neapeler had been captured and imprisoned by the Polish Secret Police. My uncle was being treated well, he said, but his continued well-being would depend entirely upon my cooperation.

“Master Ewen told me that Sir Thomas knew the secret of a weapon that had been developed for the Angevin Imperial Navy. He didn’t know what the weapon was, but the Polish Secret Service had somehow discovered its existence and knew that Sir Thomas had highly valuable information concerning it. Since he knew that Sir Thomas trusted me, he asked me to get this information for him. He threatened to torture — to kill — Uncle Neapeler unless I did as he asked.” She turned her head back suddenly and looked straight at Lord Darcy. “But I didn’t. You must understand that I didn’t. Sir Thomas will tell you, I never once asked him about any of his secret work — never!”

Lord Darcy thought of Sir Thomas’ face as he had last seen it. “I believe you, Damoselle. Go on.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to tell them anything, and I didn’t want to betray Sir Thomas, either. I told them that I was trying. I told them that I was working my way into his confidence. I told them” — she paused for a moment, biting at her lower lip — “I told Master Ewen anything and everything I could to keep my uncle alive.”

“Of course,” said Lord Darcy gently. “No one can blame you for that.”

“And then came the Convention,” she said. “MacAlister said I had to attend, that I had to be there. I tried to stay away. I pointed out to him that even though I had been admitted to the Guild as an apprentice, the Convention does not normally accept apprentices as members. But he said that I had influence — with Sir Thomas, with His Grace the Archbishop — and that if I did not do my best to get in, he would see that I was sent one of Uncle Neapeler’s fingers for every day of the Convention I missed. I had to do something, you understand that, don’t you, my lord?”

“I understand,” said Lord Darcy.

“Ewen MacAlister,” she went on, “had warned me specifically to stay away from Master Sir James Zwinge. He said that Sir James was a top counterspy, that he was head of the Imperial Intelligence apparatus for Europe. So I thought perhaps Sir James could help me. I went to his room Wednesday morning. I met him just as he was leaving the lobby, and asked if I could speak to him. I told him that I had important information for him.” She smiled a little. “He was very grouchy, but he asked me to come to his room. I told him everything — about my uncle, about Master Ewen — everything.

“And he just sat there!

“I told him surely the Imperial agents could get my uncle out of a Polish prison.

“He told me that he knew nothing about spy work, that he was merely a forensic sorcerer, working for the Marquis de London. He said he knew no way of getting my uncle out of a Polish prison or any other prison for that matter.

“I was furious. I don’t really know what I said to him but it was — vicious. I wish now that I had not said it. I left his room and he locked the door after me. I may have been the last person to see Sir James Zwinge alive.” Then she added hurriedly, “That is, aside from his murderer.”

“Damoselle Tia,” said Lord Darcy in his most gentle voice, “at this point I must tell you something, and I must ask you to reveal it to no one else until I give you leave. Agreed?”

“Agreed, of course, my lord.”

“It is this. I believe that you were the last person to see him alive. The evidence I have thus far indicates that. But I want you to know that I do not believe you are in any way responsible for his death.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

Lord Darcy took her hand. “Come, my dear, this is a poor time to cry. Come now, no more tears.”

She smiled in spite of her tears. “You’re very kind, my lord.”

“Oh, no, my dear Tia, I’m not kind at all. I am cruel and vicious and I have ulterior motives.”

She laughed. “Most men do.”

“I didn’t mean it quite that way,” said Lord Darcy dryly. “What I intended to convey was that I do have another question to ask.”

She brushed tears from her eyes with one hand, and gave him her impish smile. “No ulterior motives, then. That’s a shame.” Then she became serious again. “What is the question?”

“Why did Master Ewen decide to kill you?” Lord Darcy was quite certain that he knew the answer, but he did not want to disclose to the girl how he knew it.

This time her smile had the same cold, vengeful quality that he had seen the night before. “Because I learned the truth,” she said. “Yesterday evening I was approached by a friend of my uncle’s — a Goodman Colin MacDavid — a Manxman whom I remembered from when I was a very little girl. Goodman Colin told me the truth.

“My Uncle Neapeler escaped from the trap that I told you of. Goodman Colin helped him escape, and my uncle has been working with him on the Isle of Man ever since. He is safe. But he has been in hiding all this time, because he is afraid the Poles will kill him. He thought I was dead — until he saw my name in the London Courier, in the list of those attending the Convention; then he sent Goodman Colin straight away to find me.

“But Goodman Colin also explained that when my uncle escaped he left behind evidence indicating that he had been killed. He did this to protect me. All the time Master Ewen was using my uncle’s life as a weapon against me, he and the Polish Secret Police actually thought he was dead. Do you wonder that I was furious when I finally found out the truth?”

“Of course not,” said Lord Darcy. “That was yesterday evening.”

“Yes,” she said. “Then I got a note from Master Ewen telling me to meet him in a pub called the Hound and Hare. Do you know of it?”

“I know where it is,” said Lord Darcy. “Go on.”

“I suppose I lost my temper again,” she said. “I suppose I said the wrong things, just as I did with Sir James.” Her eyes hardened. “But I’m not sorry for what I said to Master Ewen! I told him what I thought of him, I told him I would report everything to the Imperial authorities, I told him I wanted to see him hanged, I—” She stopped suddenly and gave Lord Darcy a puzzled frown. “I’m not quite sure what happened after that. He raised his hand,” she said slowly, “and traced a symbol in the air, and… and after that I remember nothing, that is… nothing until this morning, when I woke up here and saw Father Patrique.”

She reached out suddenly and grasped Lord Darcy’s right hand in both of her own. “I know I have done wrong, my lord. Will I… will I have to appear before His Majesty’s Court of High Justice?”

Lord Darcy smiled and stood up. “I rather think that you will, my dear — you will be our most important witness against Master Ewen MacAlister. I think I can assure you that you will not appear before the Court in any other capacity.”

The girl was still holding Lord Darcy’s hand. With a sudden movement she brought it to her lips, kissed it and then let it go.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

“It is I who must thank you,” said Lord Darcy with a bow. “If I may do you any further service, Damoselle, you have but to ask.”

He went out the door of the Gardenia Suite expecting to see two men waiting for him in the hall. Instead, there were three. Father Patrique and Sir Thomas looked at him as he closed the door behind him.

“How is she?” asked Father Patrique.

“Quite well, I think.” Then he glanced at the third man, a uniformed Sergeant-at-Arms.

“Sergeant Peter has news for you,” Father Patrique said, “but I would not allow him to interrupt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see my patient.” The door closed behind him as he went into the Gardenia Suite.

Lord Darcy smiled at Sir Thomas. “All is well, my friend. Neither of you has anything to fear.”

Then he looked back at the Sergeant-at-Arms. “You have information for me, Sergeant?”

“Yes, my lord. Lord Bontriomphe said it was most important. We have found Goodman Paul Nichols.”

“Oh, indeed?” said Lord Darcy. “Where did you find him? Has he anything to say for himself?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Sergeant Peter. “He was found in a lumber room at the hotel. And he was dead, my lord. Quite dead.”