Too Many Magicians

CHAPTER 20

It took hours.

In a little pub far to the north of the river, Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal stared blankly at a mug of beer that he had no intention of drinking.

“I think I have him, my lord,” he said dully. “I think I have him.”

“Very good,” said Lord Darcy.

He dared say nothing further. During all this time he had followed Lord John Quetzal’s leads, making marks on the map as the young Mechicain witch-smeller came ever closer to the black sorcerer who was his prey.

“It’s not as easy as I thought,” said Lord John Quetzal.

Lord Darcy nodded grimly. Witch-smelling — the detection of psychic evil — was not the same as clairvoyance, but even so the privacy spells in London had dimmed the young Mechicain’s perceptions.

“Not easy, perhaps,” he said, “but just as certain, just as sure.” His lordship realized that the young journeyman had not yet perfected his innate ability to its utmost. That, of course, would come with time and further training. “Let’s go through it again. Tell me the clues as you picked them up.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the young Mechicain. After a moment he began: “He’s surrounded by those who will help him — Master Ewen is, I mean. But they will not risk their own lives for him.

“There is a tremendous amount of psychic tension surrounding him,” Lord John Quetzal continued, “but it has nothing to do with him personally. They don’t know that he exists.”

“I understand, my lord,” said Lord Darcy. “From the descriptions you have given me, it appears to me that Master Ewen is surrounded by generally un-Talented people who are attempting to use the Talent.” He spread his map of London out on the table. “Now, let’s see if we can get a fix.” He tapped a spot on the map. “From here” — he moved his finger — “in that direction, eh?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Lord John Quetzal.

“Now,” Lord Darcy moved his finger further down the map. “From here” — he moved his finger again — “to there. Eh?”

“Yes.”

Lord John Quetzal knew direction and magnitude, but he seemed unable to give any further information. Time after time Lord Darcy had gone through this same routine — so many times that it seemed monotonous, repetitive.

And yet, each time, more information came to the fore. At last, Lord Darcy was able to draw a circle on the map of London, and tap it with the point of his pencil.

“He is somewhere within that area. There is no other possible answer.” Then he reached out and put his hand on the young journeyman’s shoulder. “I know you’re tired. Fatigue is the normal condition of an Investigator for the King.”

Lord John Quetzal straightened his shoulders and looked up suddenly. “I know. But” — he tapped the spot that Lord Darcy had circled — “that’s quite a bit of area. I thought that I could locate him precisely, exactly.” He took a deep breath. “And now I find that…”

“Oh, come,” Lord Darcy said. “You give in too easily. We have him located; it is simply that you do not realize how closely we have surrounded our quarry. We know the general area, but we do not have the exact description of his immediate surroundings.”

“But there I cannot help,” Lord John Quetzal said, the dullness coming back into his voice.

“I think you can,” said Lord Darcy. “I ask you to put your attention upon the symbols surrounding Master Ewen MacAlister — not his actual physical surroundings but his symbolic surroundings.”

And then Lord Darcy waited.

Suddenly Lord John Quetzal looked up. “I have an intuition. I see…” Lord John Quetzal began again. “It is the blazon of a coat of arms, my lord: Argent, in saltire, five fusils gules.”

“Go on,” said Lord Darcy urgently, making a rapid notation on the margin of the map.

Lord John Quetzal looked out into nothing. “Argent,” he said, “in pale, three trefoils sable, the lower-most inverted.”

Lord Darcy made another note, and then put his hand very carefully on the top of the table, palm down. “I ask you to give me one more, my lord — just one more.”

“Argent,” said Lord John Quetzal, “a heart gules.”

Lord Darcy leaned back in the booth, took a deep breath and said, “We have it, my lord, we have it. Thanks to you. Come, we must get back to Carlyle House.”

Half an hour after that, Her Grace, Mary, the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland, was looking at the same map. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. She looked at the young Mechicain. “Of course. Argent, in saltire, five fusils gules.” She looked up at Lord Darcy. “The five of diamonds.”

“Right,” said Lord Darcy.

“And the second is the three of clubs. And the third, the ace of hearts.”

“Exactly. Do you doubt now that Master Ewen is hiding there?”

She looked back down at the map. “No, of course not. Of course he’s there.” She looked up at him. “You went no further, my lord?” Then she glanced at Lord John Quetzal and corrected herself. “My lords?”

“Was there any need?” Lord Darcy asked. “My Lord du Moqtessuma has assured me that if Master Ewen leaves his hiding place he shall know it. Right, my lord?”

“Right.” Then he added, “That is, I cannot guarantee his future movements, but if he should go very far from there I should know it.

“One thing I do not understand,” Her Grace said frankly, “is why My Lord John Quetzal did not immediately recognize the symbolism.” She looked at the young Mechicain nobleman with a smile. “I do not mean this as a reflection upon your abilities. You did visualize the symbols — and yet you translated them in terms of heraldry rather than in terms of playing cards. Undoubtedly you could explain why, but with your permission I should like to know how Lord Darcy knew.”

“It was information you did not have,” Lord Darcy said with a smile. “The night before last when we were discussing Mechicoe, while you were dressing, we had a short discussion of gambling and recreation in Mechicoe. I observed that not once did Lord John Quetzal mention playing cards — from which I gathered that they are very little used.”

“In Mechicoe,” said Lord John Quetzal, “a deck of cards is generally considered to be a fortune-telling device, used by unlicensed wizards and black sorcerers. I am not familiar with the card deck as a gambling device, although I have heard, of course, that it can be used as such.”

“Of course,” said Lord Darcy. “Therefore, you translated the symbols you saw in terms of heraldry, a field of knowledge with which you are familiar. But your description is quite clear.” He looked at the Duchess. “And, therefore, we came to you.” He smiled. “If anyone knows the gambling clubs of London, it is you.”

She looked back down at the map. “Yes,” she said. “There’s only one such club in that area. He must be there. It’s the Manzana de Oro.”

“Ah,” said Lord Darcy. “The Golden Apple, eh? What do you know of it?”

“It is owned by a Moor from Granada.”

“Indeed?” said Lord Darcy. “Describe him to me.”

“Oh, he’s an absolutely fascinating creature,” said Her Grace. “He’s tall — as tall as you are — and quite devilishly handsome. He has dark skin — almost black — flashing eyes, and a small pointed beard. He dresses magnificently in the Oriental fashion. There’s an enormous emerald on his left ring finger, and a great ruby — or perhaps it is a spinel — in his turban. He carries at his waist a jeweled Persian dagger that is probably worth a fortune. For all I know he is an unmitigated scoundrel, but in his manners and bearing he is unquestionably a gentleman. He calls himself the Sidi al-Nasir.”

Lord Darcy leaned back and laughed.

“May I ask,” the Duchess said acidly, “what is so funny, my lord?”

“My apologies,” said Lord Darcy, smothering his laughter. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. You must credit it to our Moorish friend. ‘Sidi al-Nasir’ indeed! How lovely. I have a feeling I shall like this gentleman.”

“Would it be too much,” Her Grace said pleasantly, “for you to let us in on the joke?”

“It is the felicitous choice of name and title,” Lord Darcy said. “Translating broadly, Sidi al-Nasir means ‘My Lord the Winner.’ How magnificently he has informed the upper class gamblers of London that the advantage is with the house. Yes, indeed, I think I shall like My Lord al-Nasir.” He looked at the Duchess. “Do you have entry into his club?”

“You know I do,” she said. “You would never have mentioned it to me otherwise.”

“True,” said Lord Darcy blandly. “But now that you are in on our little trap, I shall not deny you the further enjoyment of helping us close it solidly upon our quarry.” He looked at Lord John Quetzal. “My lord,” he said, “the quarry is cornered. We now have but to devise the trap itself.”

Lord John Quetzal nodded smilingly. “Indeed, my lord. Oh, yes indeed. Now, to begin with…”

The night was clear. Each star in the sky above shone like a separate brilliant jewel in the black velvet of the heavens. A magnificent carriage bearing the Cumberland arms pulled up in front of the Manzana de Oro, the footman opened and bowed low before the polychrome and gilt door, and four people descended. The first to alight was no less than Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. She was followed by a tall, lean, handsome man in impeccable evening clothes. The third passenger was equally tall — a dark-faced man wearing the arms of the ducal house of Moqtessuma. All three bowed low as the fourth passenger stepped out.

His Highness the Prince of Vladistov was a short, round gentleman, with a dark, bushy, heavy beard and an eyeglass screwed into his right eye. He descended from the coach in silence with great dignity, and acknowledged his companions’ bows with a patronizing tilt of his head.

Her Grace of Cumberland nodded to the brace of doormen who stood at rigid attention at either side of the entrance to the Manzana de Oro, and the four of them marched inside. At the inner door, Her Grace’s escort spoke to the majordomo. “You may announce to My Lord al-Nasir — Her Grace, Mary, Dowager Duchess of Cumberland; Lord John Quetzal du Moqtessuma de Mechicoe; His Most Serene Highness, Jehan, Prince of Vladistov; and myself, the Lord of Arcy.”

The majordomo bowed low before this magnificent company and said, “His lordship shall be so informed.” Then he glanced at the Dowager Duchess. “Your pardon… uh… Your Grace vouches for these gentlemen?”

“Of course, Goodman Abdul,” said Her Grace imperiously, and the party of four swept across the threshold.

Lord Darcy held back and, as Lord John Quetzal caught up with him, whispered, “Is he here?”

“He’s here,” said Lord John Quetzal. “I can place him within ten feet now.”

“Good. Keep smiling and follow my lead. But if he moves, let me know immediately.”

They followed Her Grace and the magnificently attired Prince of Vladistov into the interior.

The anteroom was large — some thirty feet broad by twenty feet deep — and gave no hint that the Manzana de Oro was a gambling club. The decor was Moorish, and — to Lord Darcy, who had seen Southern Spain, North Africa, and Arabia — far too Moorish. The decor was not that of a public place in the Islamic countries, but that of the hareem. The walls were hung with cloth-of-gold — or what passed for it; the archways which led off it were — embroidered was the only word — embroidered with quotations from the Qu’ran — quotations which, while very decorative because of the Arabic script, were essentially meaningless in the context.

The floor was inlaid with Moorish tile, and exotic flowers set in brazen pots of earth were tastefully placed around the walls. In the center of the room, a golden fountain played. The water moved in fantastic patterns, always shifting, never repeating, forming weird and unusual shapes in the air. The fountain was lined with lights whose colors changed and moved with the waving patterns. The water flowed down over a series of baffles that produced a shifting musical note in the air.

Well-dressed people in evening clothes stood around exchanging pleasantries.

Her Grace turned and smiled. “Shall we go to the gaming rooms, gentle sirs?”

The Prince of Vladistov glanced at Lord Darcy. Lord Darcy said, “Of course, Your Grace.”

She gestured toward one of the side doors that led off the anteroom and said, “Will you accompany me?” and led them through the arched doorway to their right. The gaming room was even more flamboyant than the anteroom. The hangings were of gold, embroidered with purple and red, decorated with scenes from ancient Islamic myth. But their beauty formed only a background to the Oriental magnificence of the room itself, and the brilliant evening dress of the people who played at the gaming tables stood out glitteringly against that background.

A number of sharp-eyed men moved unobtrusively among the gaming tables, observing the play. Lord Darcy knew they were journeymen sorcerers hired to spot any player’s attempt to use a trained Talent to affect his chances. Their job was not to overcome any such magic, but merely to report it and expel the offender. The effect of any untrained Talent present in the players could be expected to cancel out.

The Prince of Vladistov smiled broadly at Lord Darcy and said, in a very low tone, “I’ve twigged to Master Ewen meself, my lord — thanks to Lord John Quetzal’s aid. Sure and we have him now. He’s in the room to the right, just beyond that arch with the purple scribblings about it.”

Lord Darcy bowed. “Your Highness is most astute,” he said. “But where the Devil is Sidi al-Nasir?” It was a rhetorical question to which he did not expect an answer. Mary of Cumberland had assured him that al-Nasir invariably greeted members of the nobility when they came to his club, and yet there had been no sign of the Moor.

The Prince of Vladistov answered Lord Darcy’s rhetorical question. “He seems to be in his office. We can’t be sure, Lord John Quetzal and I, but we both agree that that’s where he seems to be.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “All right, we’ll work it that way.” He moved up and smiled at the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. “Your Grace,” he said very softly, “I observe that the gentleman who was at the door has followed us in.”

She did not turn her head. “Goodman Abdul? Yes. By this time he is probably wondering why we have not gone to the gaming tables.”

“A good question, from his point of view. We shall take advantage of it. Go over and ask him where Sidi al-Nasir is. Insist upon speaking to the Sidi. You have brought, after all, a most important guest, the Prince of the distant Russian principality of Vladistov, and you see no reason why el Sidi should not greet him as he deserves. Pour it on thick. But make sure his back is toward us.”

She nodded and moved across the room toward el Sidi’s minion, leaving her three companions clustered in a group around the door that was their target.

As soon as the Duchess had distracted Abdul’s attention, Lord Darcy whispered, “All right. This is it. Move in.”

Lord John Quetzal turned and faced the crowd, watching every movement. Lord Darcy and the Prince of Vladistov moved toward the door.

“No spell on the lock,” said the short, round man with the beard. “Too many people moving in and out.”

“Very good.” Lord Darcy reached out, turned the knob, pulled open the door, and within the space of half a second he and his companion were inside, the door closed behind them.

Sidi al-Nasir conformed precisely to the description that the Duchess had given them. When he saw the two strangers enter his office, one hand reached for a drawer — then stopped. His black eyes looked down the equally black muzzle of the Heron .36 that stared at him. Then they lifted to the face of the man who carried the weapon. “With your permission, my lord,” he said coolly, “I shall put my empty hand back on top of my desk.”

“I suggest that you do so,” said Lord Darcy. He glanced at the man who sat across from Sidi al-Nasir’s desk. “Good evening, my lord. I see that you are here before me.”

Commander Lord Ashley smiled calmly. “It was inevitable,” he said in a cool, constrained voice. “I am glad to see you.” He looked toward Sidi al-Nasir. “My Lord al-Nasir,” he said, “has just proposed that I go to work for the Government of Poland.”

Lord Darcy looked at the dark-complexioned man. “Have you now, My Lord the Winner?”

Sidi al-Nasir spread his hands on the surface of the desk and smiled. “Ah, then you understand Arabic, most noble lord?” he said in that language.

“While I do not, perhaps, have your liquid fluency in the Tongue of Tongues,” Lord Darcy said in return, “my poor knowledge of the language of the Prophet is adequate for most purposes.”

Sidi al-Nasir’s finely-chiseled lips wreathed in a smile. “I am not one to contradict, most noble,” he said. “But, except that your enunciation betrays the fact that your mentor was a subject of the Shah of Shahs, your command of the speech of the Qu’ran is most flowing.”

Lord Darcy allowed a half-smile to touch his lips. “It is true that my instructor in the noble language of the Prophet of Islam came from the Court of the Shadow of God on Earth, the Shah of Persia, but — would you prefer that I spoke in the debased fashion of Northwest Africa and Southern Spain?”

The sudden shift in Lord Darcy’s accent made Sidi al-Nasir blink. Then he raised his eyebrows and his smile broadened even further. “Ah, most wise one, your knowledge betrays you. But few people of your Frankish Empire have such a command of the Tongue of Tongues. You are, then, the renowned Sidi of Arcy. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

“I hope that events may prove that it was a pleasure to meet you, my lord,” said Lord Darcy. Then, shifting, “But you have guests, my lord. Shall we continue in Anglo-French?”

“Of course,” said Sidi al-Nasir. He glanced at Lord Ashley. “So it was all a trap then?”

Lord Ashley nodded. “All a trap, my dear al-Nasir.”

“A poor one, I think,” said Sidi al-Nasir with a smile. “Poorly planned and poorly executed.” He chuckled softly. “I need not even deny the truth.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Lord Darcy. “What is the truth?”

Sidi al-Nasir’s smile did not vanish. He merely looked at Commander Lord Ashley.

Lord Ashley gave him one glance and then looked up at Lord Darcy with a smile. “Sorry to have pulled this on you. Didn’t know you’d be here. We have long suspected that the Manzana de Oro was the headquarters of a spy ring working for His Slavonic Majesty. In order to prove our case I ran up a debt here of…” He looked at Sidi al-Nasir.

The Moor, still smiling, sighed. “Of some one hundred and fifty golden sovereigns, my lord. More than you could earn in a year.”

Lord Ashley nodded calmly. “Exactly. And tonight you offered me two alternatives. You would either report my debt to the Admiralty, in which case — so you assumed — I would be ruined, or I could become a spy for His Slavonic Majesty.”

Sidi al-Nasir’s smile broadened. “That was why I said the trap was poorly laid, My Lord Commander. I deny that I made you any such offer, and you have no witnesses to prove it.”

Lord Darcy, still holding his pistol level, allowed a smile to come over his own face. “My Lord al-Nasir,” he said, “for your information, I shall say that I am quite confident that you have just made such an offer to my lord the Commander.”

Sidi al-Nasir showed his white teeth in a broad smile. “Ah, my lord, you may be certain.” He laughed. “Perhaps even I am certain, no? And of course Commander Lord Ashley is certain. But” — he spread his hands — “is this evidence? Would it stand up in court?” He looked suddenly very sad. “Ah, you might, of course, deport me. The evidence of My Lord Ashley may be strong enough for that. There is, certainly, enough suspicion here to force me to return to my native Spain. I must close down the Manzana de Oro. What a pity it will be to leave the chill and fog of London for the warmth, the color, the beauty of Granada…” Then he directed his smile at Lord Darcy. “But I am afraid that you cannot imprison me.”

“As to that,” said Lord Darcy, “possibly you are right. But we shall see.”

“Is it necessary, my lord, that you keep the muzzle of that weapon pointing at me?” said Sidi al-Nasir. “I find it distinctly ungentlemanly.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Lord Darcy, not deviating the aim of his weapon one iota. “If you would be so good as to remove — no! no!… not just the gun… the whole drawer from your desk. There may be more than one gun in it.”

Sidi al-Nasir very carefully pulled out the drawer and placed it on the desk top. “Only one, my lord, and I shouldn’t think of touching it in your presence.”

Lord Darcy looked at the weapon that lay by itself in the drawer. “Ah,” he said, “a Toledo .39. A very good weapon, my lord. I shall see to it that it is returned to you, if the law so allows.”

The Sidi al-Nasir’s obsidian eyes suddenly flickered as his gaze moved across Lord Darcy’s face. In that instant he realized that Darcy’s information covered a great deal more territory than a mere suspicion of espionage. The Sidi knew that this trap was more dangerous than it had at first appeared.

“It is possible, my lord,” he said smoothly, “that Lord Ashley’s losses were due to the machinations of a certain Master Sorcerer, whom I have decided to release from my employ. The Commander’s winnings up until a short time ago were considerable. The Master Sorcerer of whom I spoke may have decided to correct that. If so, of course, I am not personally responsible…”

“Ah,” said Lord Darcy. “So Commander Lord Ashley’s slight precognitive ability was overcome by Master Ewen.” He addressed the Commander without taking his eyes off Sidi al-Nasir. “What did you usually play, Ashley?”

“Rouge-et-Or,” said the Commander.

“I see. Then the precognition would be of little use at that game if a Master Sorcerer were working against you. If you made a bet on any given number, the sorcerer could almost always make certain that the little ivory ball did not land in the proper slot — even if he were operating from another room.”

His eyes gazed directly at those of Sidi al-Nasir. “A deliberate plot, then,” he said. “You tried to enlist the Commander by having your sorcerer force the game to go against him.”

“We suspected something of the sort,” Lord Ashley said cheerfully, “so we decided to let Sidi al-Nasir run it as he would and see what developed.”

The Sidi al-Nasir shrugged, still keeping his hands well above the table. “Whatever may have happened,” he said, “I assure you that this sorcerer is no longer in my employ. However, my information leads me to believe that you are rather eager to locate him. It is possible I may be of some assistance to you in your search. I might be in a position to inform you as to Master Ewen’s present whereabouts. After all, we are all of us reasonable men, are we not?”

“I am afraid your information is superfluous, my lord…” Lord Darcy began.

At that point the door of the office was flung open and Lord John Quetzal burst in. “Look out! He’s moving! He knows he’s being betrayed!” he shouted.

Even as he spoke, the rear door was swinging open. Master Ewen MacAlister ran out, heading for the door that led to freedom. Only Lord John Quetzal stood between him and that door. The black sorcerer gestured with one hand toward the young Mechicain.

Lord John Quetzal threw up his hand to ward off the spell that had been cast, but his journeyman’s powers were not the equal of those of a Master. His own shielding spell softened the blow, but could not completely stop it. He staggered and fell to his knees. He did not collapse, but his eyes glazed over and he remained in his kneeling position, unmoving.

But his moment of resistance, slight though it was, was enough to slow Master Ewen’s flight. The bogus Prince of Vladistov was already in action. Master Sean O Lochlainn ripped off his false beard and allowed his eyeglass to drop to the floor.

Lord Darcy did not move. It took every ounce of his self-control to keep his pistol fixed firmly on the Sidi al-Nasir. The Moor also remained motionless. He did not even glance away from the muzzle of Lord Darcy’s pistol.

The black sorcerer spun around to face Master Sean and gestured with one hand, describing an intricate symbol in the air with a flourish of his fingers, his features contorted in a strained grimace.

Lord Darcy and everyone else in the room felt the psychic blast of that hastily conjured spell. Master Ewen’s hours in hiding had obviously been spent in conjuring up the spells he would need to defend himself when the time came.

Master Sean O Lochlainn, toward whom the spell was directed, seemed to freeze for perhaps half a second. But he, too, had prepared himself, and he had the further advantage of having known the identity of his prey, while Master Ewen had no way of knowing — except by conjecture — who would come after him.

Master Sean’s hand moved, creating a symbol in the air.

Master Ewen blinked, gritted his teeth and, from somewhere beneath his cloak, drew a long white wand.

No one else in the room, not even Lord Darcy, could move. They held their positions partly because of the psychic tension in the air around them, partly because they wanted to see the outcome of this duel between two master magicians, but primarily because the undirected corona effects of the spells themselves held them enthralled.

Except for Master Sean, no one there recognized the white wand that Master Ewen drew. But Master Sean saw it, recognized it as having been made from a human thigh bone, and in an instant had prepared a counterspell. The thighbone-wand was thrust out, and Master Ewen’s lips moved malevolently.

The corona effect of the spell went beyond the immediate area. Outside in the gaming rooms, the players seemed to freeze for a moment. Then, for no apparent reason, the heavy bettors put their money on odds-on bets. One young scion of a wealthy family put fifty golden sovereigns on a bet that would have netted him a single silver sovereign if he had won.

And in al-Nasir’s office, Lord John Quetzal suddenly blinked his eyes and looked away, Lord Ashley started to draw his sword, Sidi al-Nasir himself moved groggily away from his desk; and Lord Darcy’s hand quivered on the grip of the Heron .36, keeping it aligned on the Sidi, but not firing.

But Master Sean had warded off the effectiveness of even that spell, which was designed to make him take a stupid chance.

With great determination, he stalked toward Master Ewen, and his voice was hard and cold as he said, “In the Name of the Guild, Master Ewen — yield! Otherwise I shall not be responsible for what happens.”

Master Ewen’s reply contained three words — words which were furious, foul, and filthy.

Again that whitened thighbone-wand stabbed out.

And again Master Sean stood the brunt of that terrible psychic shock. Without a wand, without anything save his own hand, Master Sean made the final effective gesture of the battle.

But not the final gesture, for Master Ewen repeated himself. He stepped forward, and again jabbed with his chalk-white wand.

Then he stepped forward once more.

Another jab.

Another step.

Another jab.

Another step.

Master Sean moved to one side, watching Master Ewen.

The jabs of the black sorcerer’s wand were no longer directed toward the tubby little Irish sorcerer but toward the point in space where he had been.

Master Sean took a deep breath. “I’d better catch him before he runs into the wall.”

Lord Darcy did not move the muzzle of his weapon from Sidi al-Nasir. “What is he doing?” he asked.

“He’s trapped in a time cycle, my lord. I’ve tied his thought processes in a knot. They go round and round through their contortions and end up where they started. He’ll keep repeating the same useless motions again and again until I pull him out of it.”

In spite of Master Ewen MacAlister’s apparently thaumaturgical gestures, everyone could feel that the corona effect was gone. Whatever was going on in the repeating cycle inside Master Ewen’s mind, it had no magical effect.

“How is Lord John Quetzal?” Lord Darcy asked.

“Oh, he’ll be all right as soon as I release him from that daze spell.”

“Magnificently done, Master Sean,” said Lord Darcy. “My Lord Ashley,” he said to the Naval Commander, “will you be so good as to go to the nearest window, identify yourself, and shout for help? The place is completely surrounded by the Armsmen of London.”