Too Many Magicians

CHAPTER 2

Sean O Lochlainn, Master Sorcerer, Fellow of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society, and Chief Forensic Sorcerer to His Royal Highness, Richard, Duke of Normandy, was excruciatingly angry and doing his best not to show it. That his attempt to do so was highly successful was due almost entirely to his years of training as an officer of the law; had his Irish blood been allowed to follow its natural bent, it would have boiled over. But above all things, a sorcerer must have control over his own emotions.

He was not angry at any person, least of all himself. He was furious with Fate, with Chance, with Coincidence — poor targets upon which to vent one’s wrath even if one were to allow oneself to do so. Therefore, Master Sean channeled his ire, converted it, and allowed it to show as a pleasant smile and a pleasant manner.

But that did not keep him from thinking more about the paper he had spent six months in preparing, only to find that he had been anticipated, than in listening to what his lordship the Bishop of Winchester was saying. His eyes wandered over the crowd in the Main Exhibit Hall while the voice of the Bishop — who was a fine thaumaturgist and Healer, but a crashing bore — droned on in his right ear, keeping just enough attention on the episcopal voice to enable him to murmur “Yes, my lord,” or “Indeed, my lord,” at appropriate intervals.

Most of the men and women in the hall were wearing the light blue dress clothing appropriate to sorcerers and sorceresses, but there were many spots of clerical black, and several of episcopal purple. Over in one corner, four bearded Healers in rabbinical dress were conversing earnestly with the Archbishop of York, whose wispy white hair seemed to form a cloud around his purple skullcap. Over near the door, looking rather lost, was a Naval Commander in full dress uniform, complete with gold braid and a thin, narrow-bladed dress sword with a gilded hilt. Master Sean wondered briefly why a Naval officer was here. To give a paper, or as a guest?

His attention shifted to the botanical section of the exhibit. He thought he recognized the back of the man who was standing in front of a row of potted herbs.

“I wonder what he’s doing here?” he muttered without thinking.

“Um-m-m?” said the Bishop of Winchester. “Who?”

“Oh. I beg your pardon. I thought I recognized a colleague of my master, Lord Darcy, but I couldn’t be sure, since his back is turned.”

“Where?” asked my lord the Bishop, turning his head.

“Over at the botanical display. Isn’t that Lord Bontriomphe, Chief Investigator for London? It looks like him from here.”

“Yes, I believe it is. The Marquis of London, as you may know, makes a hobby of cultivating rare and exotic herbs. Very likely he sent Bontriomphe down here to look over the displays. My lord the Marquis leaves his palace but seldom, you know. Dear me! Look at the time! Why, it’s after nine! I had no idea it was so late! I must deliver an address at ten this morning, and I promised Father Quinn, my Healer, that I’d have a short session with him before that. You must excuse me, Master Sean.”

“Of course, my lord. It has been most pleasant.” Master Sean took the outstretched hand, bowed, and kissed the ring.

“Indeed, I found it most enlightening, Master Sean. Good day.”

“Good day, my lord.”

Physician, heal thyself, Master Sean thought wryly. The phrase was archaic only in that Healers no longer relied on “physick” to heal their patients. When the brilliant genius, St. Hilary Robert, worked out the laws of magic in the Fourteenth Century, the “leech” and the “physician” might have heard their death knell ringing from the bell tower of the little English monastery at Walsingham, where St. Hilary lived. Not everyone could use the laws; only those who had the Talent. But the ceremony of healing by the Laying On of Hands had, from that time on, become as reliable as it had been erratic before. However, it was still easier to see — and to remove — the speck in one’s brother’s eye than to see the beam in one’s own. Besides, my lord of Winchester was a very old man, and the two ailments still incurable by the finest Healers were old age and death.

Master Sean looked back at the botanical display, but Lord Bontriomphe had vanished while the Bishop was taking his leave, and, look as he might, the tubby little Irish sorcerer could not locate the Chief Investigator of London anywhere in the crowd.

The Triennial Convention of Healers and Sorcerers was an event which Master Sean always looked forward to with pleasure, but this time the pleasure had soured — badly. To find that a paper, which one had been researching for three years and writing on for six months, has been almost exactly paralleled by the work of another is not conducive to overwhelming joy. Still, there was no help for it, Sean thought, and, besides, Sir James Zwinge felt as upset about it as Sean O Lochlainn did.

“Ah! Good morning, Master Sean! You slept well last night, I trust?” The brisk, rather dry voice came from Master Sean’s left.

He turned quickly and gave a medium bow. “Good morning, Grand Master,” he said pleasantly. “I slept reasonably well, thank you. And you?”

Master Sean had not slept well, and the Grand Master not only knew he hadn’t but knew why he hadn’t. But not even Master Sean O Lochlainn would argue with Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey, K.G.L., M.S., Th.D., F.R.T.S., Grand Master of the Most Ancient and Honorable Guild of Sorcerers.

“As well as yourself,” said Sir Lyon. “But at my age, one must not expect to sleep well. I should like to introduce you to a promising young man.”

The Grand Master was an imposing figure, tall, thin almost to the point of emaciation, yet with an aura of strength about him, both physical and psychical. His hair was silvery gray, as was the rather long beard which he affected. His eyes were deep-set and piercing, his nose thin and aquiline, his brows bushy and overshadowing.

But Master Sean had known the Grand Master so long that his face and figure were too familiar to be remarkable. The tubby little Irish sorcerer found his eyes drawn to the young man who stood next to Sir Lyon.

The man was of average height, taller than Master Sean but not nearly as tall as Sir Lyon Grey. The sleeves of his blue dress suit were slashed with white, denoting a Journeyman Sorcerer, instead of the silver of a Master. It was his face which drew Master Sean’s attention. The skin was a dark reddish-brown, the nose broad and well shaped, the nearly black pupils of his eyes almost hidden beneath heavy lids. His mouth was pleasantly smiling and rather wide.

“Master Sean,” said Sir Lyon, “may I present Journeyman Lord John Quetzal, fourth son of His Gracious Highness, the Duke of Mechicoe.”

“A pleasure to meet your lordship,” Master Sean said with a slight bow.

Lord John Quetzal’s bow was much deeper, as befitted Journeyman to Master. “I have looked forward to this meeting, Master,” he said in almost flawless Anglo-French. Master Sean could detect only the slightest trace of the accent of Mechicoe, one of the southernmost duchies of New England, not far north of the isthmus which connected the continent of New France. But then, one would expect a regional accent from a scion of the Moqtessuma family.

“Lord John Quetzal,” said Sir Lyon, “has determined to take up the study of forensic sorcery, and I feel he will do admirably in that field. And now, if you will excuse me, I must see the Program Committee and check up on the agenda.”

And Master Sean found himself left with Journeyman Lord John Quetzal. He gave the young man his best Irish smile. “Well, your lordship, I see that you’re not only quite intelligent but that you have a powerful Talent.”

The young Mechicain’s face took on an expression of startled awe.

“You can tell that just by looking?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Master Sean’s smile broadened. “No, I deduced it.” Lord Darcy should hear me now, he thought.

“Deduced it? How?”

“Why, bless you,” Master Sean said with a chuckle, “the introduction you got from Grand Master Sir Lyon was enough to tell me that. ‘A promising young man,’ he calls you. ‘I feel he will do admirably,’ he says. Why, Sir Lyon Grey wouldn’t introduce the King himself that way, the King having no Talent to speak of. If you have impressed the Grand Master, you come highly recommended indeed. Further, I can deduce that you’re not the kind of lad who’d let praise go to his head — else the Grand Master wouldn’t have said such a thing in your hearing.”

Master Sean could sense that there was an embarrassed blush rising up beneath the young man’s smooth mahogany skin, and quickly changed the subject. “What’s been your specialty so far?”

Lord John Quetzal swallowed. “Why… uh… black magic.”

Master Sean stared, shocked. He could not have been more shocked if a Healer or chirurgeon had announced that he specialized in poisoning people.

The young Mechicain aristocrat looked even more flustered for a second or two, but he regained control quickly. “I don’t mean I practice it! Good Heavens!” He looked round as if he were afraid someone might have overheard. Satisfied that no one had, he returned his attention to Master Sean. “I don’t mean I practice it,” he repeated in a lower voice. “I’ve been studying it with a view to its prevention, you see. I know you haven’t much of it here in Europe, but… well, Mechicoe isn’t the same. Even after four hundred years, there are still believers in the Old Religion — especially the worship of Huitsilopochtelie, the old War God. Not in the cities, or even in most of the rural farming areas, but in the remote places of the mountains and the jungles.”

“Ah, I see. What sort of a god was this Eightwhatsisname?” asked Master Sean.

“Huitsilopochtelie. The sort of god that’s quite common among barbaric peoples, especially militaristic ones. Rigid discipline, extreme asceticism, voluntary privation, and sacrifice were expected of his followers. A typical Satanic exaggeration of the virtues of chastity, poverty, and obedience. Sacrifice meant cutting the hearts out of living human beings. Huitsilopochtelie was a nasty, bloody devil.”

“Human sacrifice — or, at least, the advocation of it is not unknown here,” Master Sean pointed out.

Lord John Quetzal nodded. “I know to what you refer. The so-called Ancient Society of Holy Albion. Their ringleaders were cleaned up in May of 1965, as I recall — or early June.”

“Aye,” said Master Sean, “and that hasn’t got rid of all of ’em by any means. Black magic isn’t as uncommon as you might think, either. The story wasn’t released to the public, but as a Journeyman o’ the Guild, you may have read about the case of Laird Duncan of Duncan, back in ’63.”

“Oh, yes. I read your write-up of it in the Journal. That was in connection with the mysterious death of the late Count D’Evreux. I should have liked to have been there when Lord Darcy solved that one!” There was a light in his obsidian eyes.

“What has your interest in forensic sorcery got to do with black magic?” asked the Irish sorcerer.

“Well, as I said, there is a lot of Huitsilopochtelie worship in the remoter parts of the Duchy — in fact, it gets worse farther south; my noble cousin, the Duke of Eucatanne, is constantly troubled by it. If it were just peasant superstition, it wouldn’t be so bad, but some of those people have genuine Talent, and some of the better educated among them have found ways of applying the Laws of Magic to the rites and ceremonies of Huitsilopochtelie. And always for evil purposes. It’s black magic of the worst kind, and I intend to do what I can to stamp it out. They don’t confine their activities to the remote places where their temples are hidden; their agents come into the villages and terrorize the peasants and into the cities to try to disrupt the Government itself. That sort of thing must be stopped, and I will see that it is stopped!”

“A formidable ambition — and a laudable one. Do you—”

“Ah! Master Sean!” said an oily voice from just to the left and behind Lord John Quetzal.

Master Sean had noticed the approach of Master Ewen MacAlister, hoping — in vain, as it turned out — that Master Ewen would not notice him. He had enough troubles as it was.

“Master Ewen,” said Master Sean with a forced smile. Before he could introduce Lord John Quetzal, Master Ewen, who totally ignored the journeyman sorcerer, began talking.

“Heard you had a bit of a set-to with Sir James yesterday, Sean, eh? Heheh.”

“Hardly a set-to. We—”

“Oh, I didn’t mean a quarrel. What were you arguing about, though? Nobody seems to know.”

“Because it is nobody’s business,” snapped Master Sean.

“Of course not, heheh. Of course not. Still, it must have been something hot, or the Grand Master wouldn’t have broken it up.”

“He didn’t ‘break it up’, as you put it,” Master Sean said through set teeth that were wreathed in a false smile. “He merely arbitrated our discussion.”

“Yes. Heheh. Naturally.” The lanky, sandy-haired Scot smiled toothily. “But I don’t blame you for being angry at Sir James. He can be pretty stiff at times. Heheh. Cutting, I mean. Sharp-tongued, he is.”

“Quite sharp-tongued,” said Lord John Quetzal in agreement. “I’ve felt the bite of it, myself.”

Master Ewen MacAlister turned and looked at the young Mechicain as if seeing him for the first time. “It is not proper,” he said chillingly, “for a Journeyman to interrupt the conversation of Masters, nor for a Journeyman to criticize a Master. And one would be wise in any case not to criticize the Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London.”

Lord John Quetzal’s face became wooden, mask-like. He gave a courteous bow. “I beg your pardon, Master. I have erred. If you will excuse me, Masters, I have an appointment. I trust I may see you again, Master Sean.”

“Certainly. How about lunch? I have some things I’d like to talk over with you.”

“Excellent. When?”

“Noon, sharp. In the dining room.”

“I shall be there. Good day, Master Sean, Master Ewen.” He turned and walked away, proudly, even a little stiffly.

“Good day, your lordship,” Master Sean said to his retreating back.

Master Ewen blinked. “ ‘Your lordship,’ you said? Who is the boy?”

“Lord John Quetzal,” said Master Sean with a malicious smile, “is the son of His Gracious Highness, Netsualcoyotle, Duke of Mechicoe.”

Master Ewen paled visibly. “Dear me,” he said in a low voice, “I do hope he wasn’t offended.”

“Your ingratiating ways will eventually make you many friends in high places, Master Ewen. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I, too, have an appointment.” He walked away, leaving MacAlister staring after the Mechicain lad and worrying his lower lip with his long horsey upper teeth.

Master Ewen’s snobbery, Sean thought, would keep him from ever getting anywhere, no matter how good a magician he was. A Master had a perfect right to tick off a Journeyman, but for important things, not trivial ones. On the other hand, if one does exercise that right, one shouldn’t go all puddingy just because the one ticked off happens to have high-ranking relatives. Master Sean decided he needed something to take the bad taste out of his mouth.

He looked at his wrist watch. Nine twenty-two. He still had time for a cool, foamy beer before his appointment. He headed for the private saloon bar that had been reserved for the Convention members and their guests. Five minutes later, with a pint of good English beer firmly ensconced in his round Irish belly, Sean was climbing the stairs to the upper floor. Then he walked down the hall toward the room that had been assigned to Master Sir James Zwinge, Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London.

At precisely half past nine, Sean rapped on the door. There was no answer, but he fancied he could hear someone moving about inside so he rapped again, more loudly.

This time, he got an answer, but certainly not the one he had been expecting.

The scream was hoarse and reverberating, and yet the words were clear enough. “Master Sean! Help!”

And then came another sound which Sean recognized as that of someone — or something — heavy falling to the floor of the room.

Sean grabbed the door handle and twisted. To no avail; the door was locked firmly.

Other doors, up and down the corridor, were popping open.