LORD DARCY, Chief Investigator for the Duchy of Normandy, found himself involved in a problem that concerned more than simple murder. His friend and Chief Forensic Sorcerer, MASTER SEAN O LOCHLAINN, was across the Channel, locked up in the Tower of London on suspicion of murder. 

On the morning of Tuesday, October 25, 1966, in a cheap rooming house in Cherbourg, a man named GEORGES BARBOUR was stabbed to death in his room. The first man to see the body, COMMANDER LORD ASHLEY, a special agent of the Naval Intelligence Corps, reported the discovery to the local Armsmen and to his superior at Cherbourg Naval Base. BARBOUR was a double agent who, while pretending to work for the Secret Service of the King of Poland, Casimir IX, was actually reporting to the Anglo-French, to a man known only as ZED. 

Because of the importance of the crime, the local authorities contact LORD DARCY in Rouen via teleson. Since COMMANDER LORD ASHLEY had to go to London to carry information to the Chief of Naval Intelligence, LORD DARCY asked him to take a message to MASTER SEAN, who is attending the Sorcerers' Convention at the Royal Steward Arms in London. 

The history of LORD DARCY's world is different from that of our own. Instead of dying from a cross bow-bolt wound in 1199, King Richard the Lion-Hearted survived, and his bout with fever from the infected wound brought about a personality change which made him settle down to become a wise and good ruler. When he died in 1219, he was succeeded, not by the infamous Prince John, who had by then been dead for three years, but by his nephew, Arthur of Brittany, who at thirty-three, became King of an empire that included England, Ireland, Scotland, and more than half of France. He has gone down in history as Good King Arthur, and is often confused in the popular mind with Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, founder of the Round Table. 

Since then, the House of Plantagenet has ruled the Anglo-French Empire, which now includes the original Angevin inheritance, plus the rest of France and the New World—including both the northern continent of New England and the southern one, New France. 

Late in the Thirteenth Century, a brilliant monk discovered and formulated the Laws of Magic. Thus thatimaturgical science, rather than physical science, has become the guiding field of knowledge in LORD DARCY's world. 

The morning after the murder of BARBOUR, on Wednesday, October 26th, MASTER SEAN had an appointment with MASTER SIR JAMES ZWINGE, Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London. After brief conversations with SIR LYON GANDOLPHUS GREY, Grand Master of the Sorcerers' Guild, LORD JOHN QUETZAL, a journeyman sorcerer from Mechicoe, and MASTER EWEN MacALISTER, an oily and obnoxious specimen, MASTER SEAN went to keep his appointment. At precisely 9:30 a.m., he rapped on MASTER SIR JAMES' door. Inside, he heard SIR JAMES scream "Master Sean! Help!"—followed by the sound of a falling body. The door was locked. Help was sent for and, by chance, LORD BONTRIOMPHE, Chief Investigator for the City of London, was on hand. 

BONTRIOMPHE took an ax and cut through the door. SIR JAMES was found on the floor in the middle of the room in a fresh pool of blood. There was no one else in the room. SIR JAMES' own knife and a large brass key which was the only one capable of unlocking the door were found near the body. Investigation has shown that there is no way in or out of the room. It is a sealed room murder in the classical sense. The obvious conclusion is that the killing was done by Black Magic, and MASTER SEAN, who was known to have quarreled with SIR JAMES on the previous day, is the obvious suspect. 

COMMANDER LORD ASHLEY, who was with LORD BONTRIOMPHE at the time MASTER SIR JAMES died, delivered LORD DARCY's message to MASTER SEAN—which instructed MASTER SEAN to come to Cherbourg immediately to help solve the BARBOUR killing—and then went directly to the Admiralty Building to report to his superior. The message was of little use to MASTER SEAN; he was taken into custody and put in a comfortable cell in the Tower of London. 

LORD DARCY, notified of this development by his cousin, the MARQUIS OF LONDON, is in London by that evening. He goes directly to the Palace du Marquis where he finds the MARQUIS and LORD BONTRIOMPHE waiting for him. 

The MARQUIS is a huge man—an inch or so shorter than LORD DARCY but weighing some two hundred eighty pounds. His own brilliance as a deductive logician is on a par with LORD DARCY's, but he is lazy and rarely uses his deductive faculties unless forced to do so. LORD BONTRIOMPHE, while a competent investigator, has by no means the genius of the other two men. LORD DARCY realizes that the MARQUIS is using MASTER SEAN as a lever to force LORD DARCY to solve the case, thereby saving himself the trouble of having to do so—and, incidentally, saving himself having to pay LORD DARCY's salary, since DARCY will be forced to solve the murder on his own time in order to get MASTER SEAN out of the Tower. 

DARCY goes to the Tower of London to see MASTER SEAN. The tubby little Irish sorcerer has already, by magical means, retrieved his carpetbag of thaumaturgical tools and could at any time leave the Tower, but he is staying put in the sure knowledge that LORD DARCY will get him out legally. 

When LORD DARCY prepares to leave the Tower he sees that a dense fog has covered the City. The Warder at the gate is starting to call a cab for LORD DARCY when a carriage bearing the arms of the Duchy of Cumberland pulls into the courtyard. Inside it is an old friend, MARY, DOWAGER DUCHESS OF CUMBERLAND, a beautiful woman somewhat younger than LORD DARCY. She is also a journeyman sorceress. She offers LORD DA RCY transportation. 

As the carriage moves through the fog-shrouded streets of London, she tells LORD DARCY that she has information for him concerning the murder of MASTER SIR JAMES ZWINGE. 

Her room at the Royal Steward is directly across the hall from SIR JAMES' room. At ten minutes of eight that morning she had seen a small, very beautiful girl, wearing the dress of an apprentice sorceress, leaving SIR JAMES' room after what seemed to be a heated argument. MARY DE CUMBERLAND had thought nothing of it until after MASTER SEAN was arrested. She had then made a determined effort to discover the girl's identity. The girl, she found, was a DEMOISELLE TIA EINZIG, who had been born within the borders of the Polish Hegemony. Not long ago she had left her home and spent some time in northern Italy, and finally had come to the Duchy of Dauphine in the Anglo-French Empire. But the Italians were seeking her on a criminal charge of Black Magic and she had barely escaped extradition. 

MARY DE CUMBERLAND insists that LORD DARCY stay at her home in London, Carlyle House, which is already nearly filled with guests—Sorcerers and Healers who are attending the Convention. Each guest, of course, has a room at the Royal Steward, but it is expected that he will spend at least four nights of Convention Week at Carlyle House. Among these guests are: SIR LYON GREY, Grand Master of the Sorcerers Guild; SIR THOMAS LESEAUX, the renowned theoretical thaumaturgist; LORD JOHN QUETZAL, the journeyman sorcerer who is a younger son of the Duke of Mechicoe; FATHER PATRIQUE, a Benedictine Healer; and MASTER SEAN O LOCHLAINN, temporarily a resident at the Tower of London. 

In a conversation that evening with SIR THOMAS and LORD JOHN QUETZAL, LORD DARCY learns two sets of facts which might or might not be significant. First: SIR THOMAS LESEAUX (who does not have the Talent; he is a mathematician, not a practicing sorcerer) is acquainted with the DEMOISELLE TIA, and—an observation which strikes LORD DARCY profoundly—is apparently in love with her. Second: LORD IOHN QUETZAL is a witchsmeller—that is, he can detect the presence of a practitioner of Black Magic; further, LORD DARCY has reason to believe that LORD JOHN QUETZAL has detected a black sorcerer at the Convention, but, being uncertain of himself, refuses to make any statement about him or divulge his name. 

In spite of these interesting developments LORD DARCY goes to bed that night still firm in his resolution that as soon as he gets MASTER SEAN out of the Tower, he will go back to Normandy, to attend to his own business, and let the MARQUIS OF LONDON and LORD BONTRIOMPHE solve the Zwinge murder by themselves. 

But the next morning a King's messenger arrives at Carlyle House to inform him that His Majesty, KING JOHN IV, wishes to see him immediately at Westminster Palace. Furthermore, a secret personal message from the King tells LORD DARCY to come armed with a pistol. This is a singular and unique honor. Only the Great Lords of State are permitted to be armed in the King's Presence, and even then only with swords. 

At Westminster Palace LORD DARCY is met by COMMANDER LORD ASHLEY, the Naval Intelligence agent who reported the discovery of GEORGES BARBOUR's body in Cherbourg. This does not come as a surprise to LORD DARCY, who has already deduced that the two cases are connected. The Commander escorts LORD DARCY to a conference room in Westminster Palace. The other members of the conference have already arrived: SIR LYON GREY; PETER DE VALERA APSMITH, Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Navy; CAPTAIN PERCY SMOLLETT, Chief of Naval Intelligence; and LORD BONTRIOMPHE. The conference is presided over by no less than the King himself, His Most Dread and Sovereign Majesty, JOHN IV. 

The KING explains that a new device has been perfected—a magical device known as the "confusion projector." A demonstration of this device is given, with SIR LYON at the controls of the projector and with LORD DARCY as the subject. LORD DARCY, who is an expert with firearms, is given the simple task of loading a pistol with a single cartridge and firing it at a certain spot, but while the confusion projector is aimed at him he finds it almost impossible to load his pistol, and is unable to hit an easy target once the pistol has been loaded. 

The device has primarily been designed for use against enemy naval vessels; it will prevent Navy crews from loading and firing the big naval guns aboard a battleship. The LORD HIGH ADMIRAL explains the problem at hand. The Navy's double agent, GEORGES BARBOUR, had been dealing with an unidentified person known only as FitzJEAN, who was trying to sell the secret of the confusion projector to the Poles at a price of five thousand golden sovereigns —the equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars. BARBOUR had, however, reported this to Imperial Naval Intelligence through his immediate superior, ZED, and an attempt was made to lay a trap which would expose FitzJEAN. An agreement was made between BARBOUR and FitzJEAN that the latter would prove his ability to deliver the secret of the confusion projector and BARBOUR would pay him one hundred golden sovereigns. COMMANDER LORD ASHLEY was to deliver the money to BARBOUR, but BARBOUR had been killed before the transaction could be completed. The LORD HIGH ADMIRAL then reveals that MASTER SIR JAMES ZWINGE, who was murdered some twenty-four hours later in London, was actually BARBOUR's superior, the mysterious ZED. 

LORD DARCY, by King's Appointment, now finds himself in charge of the case. For this he needs the assistance of MASTER SEAN O LOCHLA INN—which means that MASTER SEAN must be got out of the Tower of London. He goes directly to the MARQUIS OF LONDON and shows him how evidence can be used to indicate that LORD BONTRIOMPHE himself is guilty of the murder—although LORD DARCY is well aware that BONTRIOMPHE is innocent. The MARQUIS, confronted by evidence and a theory which he knows to be as strong as that which he used to incarcerate MASTER SEAN, yields the point. He signs a paper releasing MASTER SEAN from the Tower. 

LORD DARCY, LORD BONTRIOMPHE, and MASTER SEAN go directly to the Royal Steward, and look over the scene of the crime, which has been kept static by a preservative spell. The body of SIR JAMES still lies where it fell. 

It is established that no one, not even a magician, could have killed SIR JAMES inside the room and escaped without being seen. Nor could the door have been locked from the outside and the key slipped under the door, for the heavy brass key is much too large to be pushed through the narrow clearance between the bottom of the door and the floor. The only edged instrument in the room is a knife belonging to the dead man, a knife with a blade of pure silver, a knife which is normally used for magical purposes. 

LORD DARCY also reveals that a letter which arrived for him that morning, tells him that his assistant, SIR ELIOT MEREDITH, who is working on the BARBOUR murder in Cherbourg, has shown that there was no one in the room when BARBOUR was stabbed, which indicates an apparent similarity in method between the two murders. There is one further clue which LORD DARCY apparently deems important: inside the room, on the rug just below the doorknob, and some four inches from the door itself, is a small half-moon stain with the flat edge parallel to the door. It may or may not be blood; that will have to await MASTER SEAN's analysis. 

MASTER SEAN asks LORD DARCY for his permission to use LORD JOHN QUETZEL as an assistant in searching out the thaumaturgical evidence. The permission is granted; LORD DARCY and LORD BONTRIOMPHE leave MASTER SEAN to his work. 

LORD DARCY asked MARY de CUMBERLAND to try to get as much information as she can from the DEMOISELLE TIA; then he and LORD BONTRIOMPHE go downstairs to interview the hotel's manager, GOODMAN LEWIE BOLMER. 

DARCY and BONTRIOMPHE are given an office for the use of the Armsmen and Investigators, an office normally assigned to the night manager of the hotel. Since the entire hotel is reserved for the Convention, a register has been kept of the arrival and departure of those who are not members of the Convention. LORD DARCY asks to see it. Among the entries for the previous day LORD DARCY notes that the mail was delivered at 6:30 a.m., that COMMANDER LORD ASHLEY had come in (at 8:48) with a message for MASTER SEAN, that LORD BONTRIOMPHE has arrived (at 9:02) on a personal errand for the MARQUIS—and then his eye falls on another entry: 2:54; COMMANDER LORD ASHLEY; official business with MANAGER BOLMER. 

"Official business?" LORD DARCY asks. He looks at BOLMER. "Why did they want to talk to you?" 

"Not to me, your lordship. To PAUL NICHOLS, my night manager." 

"About what?" 

"I'm not at liberty to say. Strict instructions from the Admiralty, in the King's Name." 

"I see. Thank you, GOODMAN LEWIE. Come on, BONTRIOMPHE." LORD DARCY is angry. "How far is the Admiralty Office from here?" 

"Three minutes by coach," says LORD BONTRIOMPHE. 

They get in the coach and order the driver to take them to the Admiralty Office. 

"So CAPTAIN SMOLLETT is holding out on us," says LORD BONTRIOMPHE. 

"He knows something we don't, that's for certain," says LORD DARCY. 

 

Part 3

XII

 

Lord Bontriomphe had not misjudged the time very much; it was less than four minutes later when Darcy and Bontriomphe climbed out of the coach in front of the big, bulky, old building that housed the Admiralty offices of the Imperial Navy. They went up the steps and through the wide doors into a large anteroom that was almost the size of a hotel lobby. They were heading towards a desk marked Information when Lord Darcy suddenly spotted a familiar figure. 

"There's our pigeon," he murmured to Lord Bontriomphe, then raised his voice: 

"Ah, Commander Ashley." 

Lord Ashley turned, recognized them, and gave them an affable smile. "Good afternoon, my lords. Can I do anything for you?" 

"I certainly hope so," said Lord Darcy. 

Lord Ashley's smile disappeared. "What's the trouble? Has anything happened?" 

"I don't know. That's what I want you to tell me. Why is the Navy so interested in a certain Paul Nichols, the night manager at the Royal Steward?" 

Lord Ashley blinked. "Didn't Captain Smollett tell you?" 

"Sure he did," said Lord Bontriomphe. "He told us all about it. But we forgot. That's why we're here asking questions." 

Commander Lord Ashley ignored the London investigator's sarcasm. There was a vaguely troubled look in his seaman's eyes. Abruptly he came to a decision. "That information will have to come from Captain Smollett. I'll take you to his office. May I tell him that you have come to get the information directly from him?" 

"So," said Lord Darcy with a dry smile, "Captain Smollett prefers that his subordinates keep silent, eh?" 

Lord Ashley grinned lopsidedly. "I have my orders. And there are good reasons for them. The Naval Intelligence Corps, after all, does not make a habit of broadcasting its information to the four winds." 

"I'm aware of that," said Lord Darcy, "and I am not suggesting that the corps acquire such habits. Nonetheless, His Majesty's instructions were, I think, explicit." 

"I'm certain it was merely an oversight on the captain's part. This affair has the whole Intelligence Corps in an upproar, and Captain Smollett and his staff, as I told you this morning, do not have any high hopes that the killers will be found." 

"And frankly don't much care, I presume," said Lord Darcy. 

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that, my lord; it is simply that we don't feel that the tracking down of hired Polish assassins is our job. We're not equipped for it. Our job is the impossible one of finding out everything that King Casimir's Navy is up to and keeping him from finding out anything at all about ours. You people are equipped and trained to catch murderers, and we —very rightly, I think—leave the job in your hands." 

"We can't do it without the pertinent information," said Lord Darcy, "and that's what we're here to get." 

"Well, I don't know whether the information is pertinent or not, but come along; I'll take you to Captain Smollett." 

 

The two investigators followed the commander down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and down another corridor toward the rear of the building. 

There was a middle-aged petty officer sitting behind a desk in the outer office who looked up from his work as the three men entered. He did not even bother to look at the two civilians. 

"Yes, My Lord Commander?" he said. 

"Would you tell Captain Smollett that Lord Darcy and Lord Bontriomphe are here to see him. He will know what their business is." 

"Aye, my lord." The petty officer got up from behind the desk, went into an inner office, and came out again a minute or so later. "Compliments of the Captain, my lords. He would like to see all three of you in his office immediately." 

There are three ways of doing things, Lord Darcy thought to him self, the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way. 

Captain Smollett was standing behind his desk when they went into the room, a pipe clenched firmly between his teeth, his gray-fringed bald head gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the windows at his back. 

"Good afternoon, m'luds," he said briskly. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon. Trust you have some information for me." 

"I was rather hoping you had some information for us, Captain," Lord Darcy said. 

Smollett's eyebrows lifted. "Eh? Not much, I'm afraid," he said, speaking through his teeth and around his pipestem. "Nothing new has happened since this morning. That's why I was hoping that you had some information." 

"It is not new information I want, Captain Smollett. By now, indeed, it may be rather stale. 

"Yesterday afternoon at 2:54 your agent, Commander Lord Ashley, returned to the Royal Steward Hotel. After that, several other of your agents came and went. The General Manager, Goodman Lewie Bolmer, has informed us that he is under strict instructions from the Navy, in the King's Name, to give information to no one, including, presumably, duly authorized Officers of the King's Peace, operating under a special warrant which also permits them to act and speak in the King's Name. 

"I could have forced the information from him, but he was acting in good faith and he had enough troubles as it is. I felt that you could give me all the information he has and a great deal more besides. We met My Lord Commander downstairs, but doubtless he, too, is under orders, so, as with Goodman Lewie, it would not be worth my time to pry the information out of him when I can get it from you. 

"This much we know: Goodman Paul Nichols, the night manager, failed to show up for work at midnight last night. This, apparently, is important; and yet, your agents were asking questions about him some nine hours before. What we want to know is why. I shall not ask you why we were not given this information this morning; I shall merely ask that we be given it now." 

Captain Smollett was silent for the space of several seconds, his cold gray eyes looking with unblinking directness into Darcy's own. "Um," he said finally, "I suppose I deserve that. Should have mentioned it this morning. I admit it. Thing is, it just isn't in your jurisdiction—that is, normally it wouldn't be. We have men looking everywhere for Nichols, but he hasn't done a thing we can prove." 

"What do you think he's done?" 

"Stolen something," said Captain Smollett. "Trouble is, we can't prove the thing we think he's stolen ever existed. And if it did exist, we're not certain of its value." 

"Very mysterious," said Lord Bontriomphe. "At least, to me. Does this have a beginning somewhere?" 

"Hm-m-m. Beg your pardon. Don't mean to sound mysterious. Here, will you be seated? Brandy on the table over there. Pour them some brandy, Commander. Make yourselves comfortable. It's a rather longish story." 

He sat down behind his desk, reached out toward a pile of file folders, and took an envelope out of the top one. 

 

"Here's the picture: Zwinge was a busy man. Had a great many things to keep an eye on. Being Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London would be a full-time job for an ordinary man." He looked at Lord Bontriomphe. "Be frank, m'lud. Did you ever suspect that he was working for the Naval Intelligence Corps?" 

"Never," Bontriomphe admitted, "though Heaven knows he worked hard enough. He was always busy, and he was one of those men who think that anything more than five hours sleep a night is an indication of sloth. Tell me, Captain, did My Lord Marquis know?" 

"He was never told," said Captain Smollett. "Zwinge did say that he suspected that My Lord de London was aware of his Navy work, but if so he never mentioned it." 

"He wouldn't," said Lord Bontriomphe. 

"No, of course not. At any rate, Zwinge had a great many irons in the fire. More things going on in Europe than just this one affair, I can assure you. Nonetheless, he felt it necessary to go to this Healers and Sorcerers Convention. Look odd if he didn't, he said, what with his being right here in London and all. But of course he kept right on working, even there." 

"That is undoubtedly why he put the special spell on the lock of his hotel room," said Lord Darcy. 

"No doubt, no doubt," agreed Captain Smollett. "At any rate, yesterday morning he sent this letter to me by messenger from the hotel." He handed the envelope to Lord Darcy. "You'll notice it is stamped 7:45 a.m." 

Lord Darcy looked at the outside of the envelope. It was addressed to Captain Percy Smollett and was marked "Personal." Darcy opened it and took out the single sheet of paper. "This is in code," said Lord Darcy. 

"Of course," said Captain Smollett. He took another sheet from the file and handed it over. "Here is the clear," he said. Lord Darcy read the message aloud: 

" 'Sir: I have a special packet for you containing information of the utmost importance which I have just received. It is impossible for me to leave the hotel at this time, and I do not wish to entrust this information to a common messenger. Accordingly, I have given the envelope with my seal upon it to the hotel manager, Goodman Paul Nichols. He has placed it in the hotel safe and has been instructed to hand it over to your courier.' " 

The note was signed with the single letter "Z". 

Lord Darcy handed the papers back to the captain. "I see, Captain. Pray continue." 

"As I said, the message arrived at 7:45. It was placed on my desk with the rest of my morning mail. Now—I didn't arrive here at the office until a few minutes before ten. Hadn't had time to even glance at my mail when Commander Ashley came in, bringing the news from Cherbourg that Barbour had been murdered—which was bad enough —and the further intelligence that Master Sir James had been stabbed to death only half an hour before. Since you already know of the importance we've attached to this affair, you'll understand that for the next few hours I was a very busy man. Didn't have a chance to look at my mail until well after two o'clock. When I decoded the letter, I sent Ashley, here, over to fetch the packet." He looked at the Commander. "You'd better take it from there, Commander. I'm sure Lord Darcy prefers to get his facts as directly as possible." 

 

"Aye, sir." He turned to face Lord Darcy. "I went directly to the hotel and asked to see Goodman Lewie, and told him that Sir James had left an envelope addressed to Captain Smollett in the safe, to be delivered to the Navy. 

"He said he knew nothing of it, and I told him that it had been left with Goodman Paul. 

"He informed me that Goodman Paul had made no mention of it when he went off duty at nine, but he agreed to open the safe and get the envelope out. 

"I was standing by him when he opened the safe. It's a small one and there wasn't much inside it. Certainly there was no envelope addressed to Captain Smollett, nor any sign that there had ever been one. Bolmer swore that he had not opened the safe that morning, and both of the desk clerks substantiated that. Bolmer and his two assistant managers are the only ones who know the combination, and the security spell only allows the assistant managers to open the safe during the time they are on duty, that is, from three p.m. till midnight for the afternoon manager and from midnight to nine a.m. for the night manager." 

Lord Darcy nodded. "That does rather narrow it down to Goodman Paul. Only he could have removed that packet from the safe." 

"My thought exactly," said Commander Lord Ashley. "Naturally, I insisted upon speaking to Paul Nichols immediately, and asked for his home address. It turns out that he lived there in the hotel; he has a room up on the top floor. Bolmer took me up and I knocked on Nichols' door, got no answer, and Bolmer let us in with a pass key. Nichols wasn't in. His bed was made and certainly didn't look as though it had been slept in. Bolmer said that was odd because usually Nichols goes out to have a bite to eat after he gets off work, then comes back to the hotel and sleeps until around six o'clock." 

"Did you find out whether Nichols took advantage of the hotel's maid service?" Lord Darcy asked. 

The Commander nodded. "He did. Nichols quite often went out of an evening, and the maid had orders to make up his room between 7:30 and 8:30. I looked the room over and checked through his things. He didn't seem to have packed anything. His suitcase, empty, was in the closet, and Bolmer said that as far as he knew it was the only suitcase Nichols owned." 

"That's the advantage of being a counterspy," said Lord Bontriomphe with a sigh. "If an Officer of the King's Peace tried searching a man's room without a warrant he'd find himself in the Court of the King's Bench trying to explain to My Lord Justice how he had come to make such a mistake." 

"Well, I didn't really search the place," Ashley said. "I was just taking a look around." 

"So," said Lord Darcy, "you found that Nichols was not there and apparently had not been to bed since the bed was made on the previous evening." 

"Right. I questioned some of the hotel servants. No one had seen him come back from his breakfast—or perhaps for him it was supper—so I instructed Bolmer to say nothing but to let us know as soon as Nichols returned. Then I came back here and reported to Captain Smollett." 

Lord Darcy nodded and looked back at the captain. 

"Been looking for him ever since. Sent men over to the hotel, to wait for him to come to work at midnight; he didn't show up. Still no sign of him. Not a trace." 

"You suspect then," said Lord Darcy, "that the disappearance of the packet and the disappearance of Nichols are linked. I agree with you. The contents of that envelope would have been in code, would they not, Captain?" 

"Yes indeed. And not the simple code used for that note, either. Furthermore, Zwinge always used ink and paper with a special spell on it. If an unauthorized person broke the seal, the writing would vanish before he could get the paper out of the envelope." 

"Obviously, then, Nichols did not remove it from the safe, read it over, and decide that it was valuable on the spur of the moment." 

"Obviously not," agreed Captain Smollett. "Furthermore, Zwinge was no fool. Wouldn't have given it to Nichols unless he trusted him. Also, since the envelope had that protective spell on it, the only way to read the contents would be to get it to a magician who is clever enough and powerful enough to analyze and nullify Master Sir James Zwinge's spell." 

"Do you have any idea what sort of information might have been in that envelope, Captain Smollett?" Lord Darcy asked. 

"None. None whatsoever. Can't have been terribly urgent—that is, not requiring immediate action—or Zwinge would have brought it here himself, in spite of everything. But it was certainly important enough to drive King Casimir's agents to murder to get it." 

"How do you think this ties in with the murder of Barbour, then? And with the Navy's new secret weapon?" 

 

The captain scowled and puffed at his pipe for a few seconds."Now there we're on shaky ground. Obviously it was discovered that Barbour was a double agent; otherwise he wouldn't have been killed." 

"I agree with you there," said Lord Darcy. 

"Very well. But that leaves us several possible speculations about FitzJean and about the Poles' knowledge of the confusion projector. 

"If, as we hope, they know nothing of the device, then they knew nothing about FitzJean except the purely mendacious material which Barbour had passed on to them. 

When they discovered he was a double agent, they simply killed him and ignored FitzJean. Information on fleet disposition isn't worth taking any great pains over. 

"However, I am afraid that we would be unrealistically optimistic to put any faith in the notion that the Polish Government is entirely unaware of the existence of the confusion projector. 

"Much more likely, they are sparing no effort to find out what it is and how it works—which would still indicate that they know nothing whatever about FitzJean. If they did, they would certainly not have killed Barbour until they could get their hands on FitzJean, which, of course, they may have done. Or again they may already have the secret and not give two hoots in Hell about FitzJean. 

"And finally, there is the possibility that FitzJean was himself a Polish agent sent in to test Barbour. When they discovered that Barbour's output to them differed drastically from what they knew the input to be, his death warrant was sealed." 

Captain Smollett spread his hands. "But these are mere speculations; they tell us nothing. Important thing right now's to get our hands on Paul Nichols. Would have given you this before, but, as I said, there's actually nothing we can hold Nichols on. Can't prove that envelope ever existed, much less that he stole it. So how could we turn the matter over to Officers of the King's Peace?" 

"My dear Captain, you should study something besides Admiralty law. Fleeing the scene of a crime is always enough evidence to warrant asking for a man's arrest and detention for questioning. Now the first question any investigator asks himself is: Where would the suspect go? To the Polish Embassy?" 

Smollett shook his head. "No. There's a twenty-four hour watch on everyone entering or leaving the Polish Embassy." 

"Exactly. I know that. So do the Poles. But the local headquarters for this Polish espionage ring is somewhere in the City. Where?" 

"Wish I knew," said the captain. "Give half a year's pay for that information. We have reason to believe that there are at least three separate rings operating here in London, each unknown to the others, or at least known only to a select few. We know some of the agents, of course. We keep an eye on 'em; I've had my men watching every known agent in London for the past eighteen hours. So far, no news. But what we do not know is where any of their headquarters might be. Hate to admit it, but it's true. We have no hint, no suggestion, no clue of any kind." 

"Then the only way to find Nichols," Lord Darcy said, "is to comb London for him. And that requires legwork. While your men are searching for him covertly, Lord Bontriomphe and the Armsmen of London can be looking for him for questioning on the charge of fleeing the scene of a crime." 

Bontriomphe nodded. "We can have a net out for him within an hour. If we find anything, Captain, I'll let you know immediately." 

"Very good, m'lud." 

"I'd better get started on it," Bontriomphe said, getting to his feet. "The quicker the better. If you need to contact me for any reason, Captain, send word to the Royal Steward. We have set up our headquarters there; there will be a Sergeant-at-Arms on duty at all times, and I shall be checking in there regularly." 

"Excellent. Thank you, m'lud." 

"I shall see you later, gentlemen. Good day." Lord Bontriomphe walked out the door as if he were pleased at the prospect of finally having something he could sink his teeth into. 

 

"As for me, Captain," said Lord Darcy, "I should like to ask your indulgence in what I know may be a touchy matter." 

"What might that be?" 

"I should like to have a look at your secret files, most especially at the letters from Barbour concerning FitzJean and the confusion projector." 

"M'lud," said Captain Smollet with a wintery smile, "any Intelligence organization is justly jealous of its secret files and our Corps is no exception. Until now, these files have been classified Most Secret. Barbour's existence as a double agent was known only to the high echelons of the Admiralty. But you've taken me to task once for withholding information. Won't happen again. I shall have the pertinent files brought in so that both you and Commander Ashley can study them. And may I ask your indulgence?" 

"Certainly, Captain, what is it?" 

"With your permission, I'd like to make Commander Lord Ashley the liaison officer between the civilian investigators and the Navy. To be more specific, between you and me. He knows the Navy, he knows Intelligence work, and he knows something about criminal investigation. He was in the Naval C.I.D. before he was transferred to this Corps. His orders will be to assist you in every possible way. You agree, m'lud?" 

"Of course, Captain. A splendid idea." 

"Very well, Commander; those are your orders then." 

"Aye, aye, Captain." He smiled at Lord Darcy. "I'll keep out from underfoot as much as possible, my lord." 

"That's settled, then," said Captain Smollett, getting to his feet. "Now I'll go get those files." 

 

Master Sean O Lochlainn stood near the closed door of the murder room and surveyed its entire contents. Then he turned to Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal who stood next to him. "Now, d'ye understand what we have to be careful of? We are not yet ready to take the preservative spell off the body, so we have to be careful that none of the spells that we're working with inside the room interfere with it. D'ye understand?" 

Lord John Quetzal nodded. "Yes, Master, I think I do." 

Master Sean smiled at him. "I think you do, too, my lad. You followed through on the blood tests beautifully." He paused. "By the bye, d'ye think you could do them by yourself next time, should you happen to be called upon to perform them?" 

Lord John Quetzal glanced sideways at the little sorcerer. "The blood tests? Yes, Master Sorcerer, I think I could," he said firmly. 

"Ah, good." Master Sean nodded with satisfaction. "But"— he raised a warning finger—"this next one's a little tougher. 

"We're dealing here with psychic shock. Now, whenever a man's hurt, or when he dies, there's psychic shock—unless, of course, he just fades away in his sleep or something like that. 

"But here we're talking about violence." 

"I understand," said Lord John Quetzal. 

"All right. Now, you're going to be my thurifer. The ingredients are laid out on the table. Now I'll ask you to prepare the thurible, seeing as how it's you that's got to use it." 

"Very well, Master," said the young Mechicain nobleman, with the tiniest trace of uneasiness in his voice. 

On the table near the door sat the instrument which Master Sean had taken from his symbol-decorated carpetbag. It was a brazen pot with a perforated brazen cap, which, when assembled, would swing from the end of a clutch of chains some three feet long. Now, it was open, on the table. 

Lord John Quetzal took several tools from his own carpetbag. Under the watchful eye and sharp ear of Master Sean O Lochlainn, the young sorcerer prepared the contents of the thurible. 

After placing the brazen pot on an iron tripod, he fired up several lumps of charcoal in the bottom of it. Then, from the row of jars and bottles which had been lined up on the table, he took various ingredients and put them into his special golden mixing bowl, using a small golden spoon. With his own pencil-sized golden wand, he cast a spell over each ingredient as he added it, stirring it into the mixture. 

There was frankincense and sweet balsam, samonyl and fenogreek, turmeric and taelesin, sandalwood and cedarwood, and four other lesser known but even more powerful ingredients—added in a precise order, each with its unique and individual spell. 

And when he had finished the mixing, and cast the final spell, the journeyman sorcerer lifted his head and turned his dark eyes to the tubby little Master. 

Sean O Lochlainn nodded his head. "Very well done. Very well done." He smiled. "Now I'll not ask you if you know what you've done. It's a habit of mine to assume that a student lacks knowledge. Being, as it were, a student meself, I know how much knowledge I lack. And besides," he chuckled, "as Lord Darcy would tell you, I'm a man who's fond of lecturing. 

"The spell we're about to perform is a dynamic spell, and must be warded off by a dynamic spell —which means that in order to protect the body I'll have to be working while you are censing the room. D'ye understand, my lad?" 

"I do, Master." 

"Very well. Now, when you place that mixture into the thurible, there will be given off a smoke, which is composed of many different kinds of small particles. Because of the spell you've cast on them, these particles will tend to be walls and the furniture in this room attracted to, and adhere to, the in a particular manner. 

"They will form what we call holograph patterns upon the surfaces they touch. Each of the different kinds of smoke particles, forms its own pattern according to the psychic influences which have been impressed upon those surfaces. And by understanding the totality of those patterns we may identify definitely those psychic impressions." 

He folded his arms on his chest, looked up at the tall young Mechicain, and gave him his best Irish grin. "Ah, lad, you're the kind of student a man looks for. You listen when the old master talks, and you don't get bored by what you already know, because you're waiting for more information." 

Again, that almost invisible flush colored John Quetzal's dark skin. "Yes, Master Sean," he said carefully, "I have learned pattern theory." 

"Aye—pattern theory you've learned. But you're wise enough to admit that you know only theory, not practice." He nodded his head in satisfaction. "You'll make a fine forensic sorcerer, lad. A fine forensic sorcerer!" Then his smile twisted slightly. "That is, you have the right attitude, me lad. Now we'll see if you have the technique." 

 

He turned away from Lord John Quetzal and looked again at the walls. "If you do this thing right, Lord John Quetzal, there will be, upon those walls, patterns in smoke particles, each individual pattern distinguished by the spell cast on the various substances, and the holograph patterns distinguished by the combination of those spells. No man without the Talent will see anything but slightly smudgy walls—if that. You and I will see the patterns, and I'll do my best to show you how to interpret them." 

He turned again. 

"Are you ready, my lad?" 

Lord John Quetzal set his lips. "I'm ready, Master." 

"Very well, then." 

Master Sean took two wands from his symbol-decorated carpetbag, walked over to the corpse which lay near the edge of the desk, and stood over it. "I'm ready, lad. Go ahead. Watch your spells. 

The young Mechicain blew gently on the lumps of charcoal in the bottom of the thurible until they flared red-orange, then, his lips muttering a special spell, he poured the aromatic contents of the golden cup over the glowing coals. Immediately a dense cloud of white smoke rose toward the ceiling. Lord John Quetzal quickly fitted the perforated cap down over the bowl, locked it in place, and picked up the thurible by its clutch of chains. His left hand held the end of the chains, his right hand held them about halfway down, allowing the thurible to swing free. He moved over to the nearest wall, swinging the censer in a long arc, allowing the dense smoke to drift toward it. 

He moved along the wall step by step, swinging the thurible rhythmically, his lips moving in time with it, and the dense smoke drifted along the walls and billowed upwards, spreading a clinging, heavy fragrance through the room. 

While his assistant performed the censing, the Master Sorcerer stood immobile over the body, a long wand of glittering crystal in each hand, his arms flung wide to provide the psychic umbrella which would protect the corpse from being affected by the magical ritual that John Quetzal was enacting. 

The Irish sorcerer's pose did not seem strained. There was an aura of strength about him; he seemed taller,' somehow; and his thick torso had an appearance of hardness about it. The light from the gas lamp glittered and flickered in the depths of the two crystal wands, flashing sparkling rainbows about the room. 

The smoke from the censer avoided the area under Master Sean's control. It billowed in great clouds, but there seemed to be an invisible force that kept that portion of the room totally clear of the tiny particles. Those microscopic bits of fragrant ash moved toward walls, furniture and ceiling, each clinging in its individual way—but none came near the powerful figure of the Master Sorcerer who shielded one area of evidence from their effect. 

Three times, the young sorcerer made the circuit of the room with his swinging thurible, and except for that one specially protected area, the air grew dimly blue with smoke. 

Then, while Master Sean still remained unmoving, he went back to the table, placed the hot, smoking thurible on the iron tripod, removed the perforated cap, and replaced it with a solid cap which cut off the flow of smoke and smothered the burning coals. 

From his own symbol-decorated carpetbag, he took a silver wand with a knoblike thickening at one end. Grasping it by the other end, he turned and traced symbols in the air toward each wall in turn. 

As he did so, the fog of smoke moved even more strongly toward the walls, and the air quickly cleared. 

 

After a moment, Lord John Quetzal softly said: "It is finished, Master." 

Master Sean looked around the room, lowered his arms, walked over and put the two crystal wands back in his carpetbag. Then he surveyed the room once more. 

"A fine job, my lad," he said. "Indeed a fine job. Now, can you tell me what happened here?" 

Lord John Quetzal looked. Although both sorcerers were using their eyes, it was not their eyes with which they saw. To a man without the Talent, the psychic patterns wrought by the acts which had taken place within the room, and brought out by the censing process, would have been totally invisible. To a man with the Talent they were quite clear. 

But while Lord John Quetzal could perceive the patterns, he had not yet had enough training to interpret them. Master Sean sensed his hesitation. "Go ahead, lad," he said. "Rely on your hunches. Make a guess. 'Tis the only way you can check on your perceptions, and thereby progress from supposition to certainty." 

"Well," Lord John Quetzal began uncertainly, "it looks like—" He stopped, then said: "But of course that's ridiculous. It just couldn't be that way." 

Master Sean let out his breath in an exasperated manner. "Oh, lad, lad! You're trying to second-guess yourself. You're trying to make a logical interpretation before you've subjectively absorbed the data. Now I'll ask you again. What does it seem to you happened?" 

Lord John Quetzal took another look. This time he pivoted slowly, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in every bit of his surroundings. Then, carefully, he said: "There was no one else in this room but Sir James . . ." He hesitated. 

"That's correct, absolutely correct," said Master Sean. "Go on. You still haven't said what it is that looks paradoxical." 

Lord John Quetzal said, in a faintly puzzled voice, "Master, it looks to me as though Sir James Zwinge were killed twice. Several minutes—perhaps as much as half an hour—intervened between the murders." 

Master Sean smiled and nodded. 

"You almost have it, lad. I think the results of the autopsy will bear you out. But you haven't analyzed the full significance of what is there." He made a broad sweeping gesture with his arm. "Take a good look at what the patterns show. There are two strong patterns superimposed chronologically. Two successive psychic shocks occurred while our late colleague was alone in this room. And, as you've pointed out, they were separated in time by half an hour. The first, d'you see, was when he was killed; the second occurred when he died." 

 

XIII

 

The broad doors that led from the lobby of the Royal Steward Hotel to the main ballroom were closed but not locked. There was no sign upon the door that said Convention Members Only; at a Sorcerers Convention such signs were unnecessary. The spell on those doors was such that none of the lay visitors who were so eagerly thronging to the displays in the lobby would ever have thought of entering them—or, if the thought did occur to them, it would be dismissed in a matter of seconds. 

Sir Thomas Leseaux and the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland pushed through the swinging doors. A few feet inside the ballroom Lady de Cumberland stopped and took a deep breath. 

"Trouble, Your Grace?" 

"Good Heavens, what a mob!" said Mary de Cumberland. "I feel as though they're breathing up all the fresh air in London." 

The ballroom presented a picture that was both peaceful and relaxed in comparison with the lobby. The room was almost the same size but contained only a tenth as many people. And instead of the kaleidoscopic variety of color in the costumes displayed in the lobby, the costumes in the ballroom were of a few basic colors. There was the dominating pale blue of the Sorcerers, modified by the stark black-and-white of the priestly Healers, and the additional touch of episcopal purple. The dark rabbinical dress of the occasional Jewish Healer was hardly distinguishable from that of a priest, but an occasional flash of bright color showed the presence of a very few Hakime, Healers who were part of the entourages of various Ambassadors from the Islamic countries. 

"Visitors Day," said Sir Thomas, "is simply something we must put up with, Your Grace. The people have a right to know what the Guild is doing; the Guild has the duty to inform the people." 

Mary turned her bright blue eyes up to Sir Thomas' face. "My dear Sir Thomas, there are many acts that human beings must perform which are utterly necessary. That does not necessarily mean that they are enjoyable. Now, where is this lovely creature of yours?" 

"A moment, Your Grace, let me look." Sir Thomas, who was a good two inches taller than the average, surveyed the ballroom. "Ah, there she is. Come, Your Grace." 

The Dowager Duchess followed Sir Thomas across the floor. The Demoiselle Tia was surrounded by a group of young, handsome journeymen. Mary of Cumberland smiled to herself. It was obvious that the young journeymen were not discussing the Art with the beautiful apprentice. Her ‘prentice's smock was plain pale blue, and was not designed to be alluring, but on the Demoiselle Tia . . . 

And then the Dowager Duchess noticed something that had escaped her attention before: the Demoiselle Tia was wearing arms which declared her to be an apprentice of His Grace, Charles Archbishop of York. 

To Mary of Cumberland, the Demoiselle Tia appeared somewhat taller than she had when the Duchess saw her leaving Master Sir James' room on the previous morning. Then she saw the reason. Tia was wearing shoes of fashion that had arisen in the southern part of the Polish Hegemony and had not yet been accepted in the fashion centers either of Poland or of the Empire. They were like ordinary slippers except that the toes came to a point and the heels were lifted above the floor by a spike some two-and-a-half inches long. Good Heavens, thought Mary to herself, how can a woman wear such high heels without ruining her feet? 

Was it, she wondered, some psychological quirk? Tia was a tiny girl, a good inch less than five feet tall without those outer heels, and a good foot shorter than the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. Did she wear those heels simply to increase her physical height? 

No. Mary decided; Tia had too much self-assurance, too much confidence in her own abilities, to need the false prop of those little stilts. She wore them simply because they were the fashion she had become used to. They were "native costume," nothing more. 

"Excuse me," said Sir Thomas Leseaux, pushing his way through the crowd that surrounded Tia. Every one of the journeymen looked thrice at Sir Thomas. Their first look told them that he did not wear the blue of a sorcerer. A layman, then? Their second look encompassed the ribbons on his left breast which proclaimed him a Doctor of Thaumaturgy and a Fellow of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society. No, not a layman. Their third look took in his unmistakable features, which identified him immediately as the brilliant theoretical sorcerer whose portrait was known to every apprentice of a week's standing. They stepped back, fading away from Tia in awe at the appearance of Sir Thomas. 

Tia had noticed that the handsome young sorcerers who were paying court to her seemed to be vanishing, and she looked up to discover the cause of the dispersion. Mary de Cumberland noticed that Tia's eyes lit up and a smile came to her pixieish face when she saw the tall figure of Sir Thomas Leseaux. 

Well, well, she thought, so Tia reciprocates Sir Thomas' feelings. She remembered that Lord Darcy had said "Sir Thomas is in love with the girl—or thinks he is." But Lord Darcy was not a Sensitive. Since she herself was sensitive to a minor degree, she knew that there was no question about the feeling between the two. 

Before Sir Thomas could speak the Demoiselle Tia bowed her head. "Good afternoon, Sir Thomas." 

"Good afternoon, Tia. I'm sorry to have dispersed your court. 

"Your Grace," continued Sir Thomas, "may I present to you the Demoiselle Tia. Tia, I should like you to know my friend, Mary, Duchess of Cumberland." 

Tia curtsied. "It is an honor to meet Your Grace." 

Then Sir Thomas looked at his watch and said, "Good Heavens! It's time for the meeting of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society." He gave both women a quick, brief smile. "I trust you ladies will forgive me. I shall see you later on." 

Mary de Cumberland's smile was only partly directed towards Tia. The rest of it was self-congratulatory. Lord Darcy, she thought, would approve of her timing; by carefully checking the meeting time of the R.T.S., she had obtained an introduction by Sir Thomas and his immediate disappearance thereafter. 

"Tia," she said, "have you tasted our English beer? Or our French wines?" 

The girl's eyes sparkled. "The wines, yes, Your Grace. English beer? No." She hesitated. "I have heard they compare well with German beers." 

Her Grace sniffed. "My dear Tia, that is like saying that claret compares well with vinegar." She grinned. "Come on, let's get out of this solemn conclave and I'll introduce you to English beer." 

The Sword Room of the Royal Steward was, like the lobby, thronged with visitors. In one of its booths, the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland lifted the chilled pewter mug. 

"Tia, my dear," she said, "there are many drinks in this world. There are wines for the gourmet, there are whiskies and brandies for the men, there are sweet cordials for the women, and there are milk and lemonade for children—but for good friendly drinking, there is nothing that can compare with the honest beer of England."

 



 

Tia picked up her own mug and touched it to Mary's. "Your Grace," she said, "with an introduction like that, the brew of England shall be given its every opportunity." 

She drank, draining half the mug. Then she looked at Mary with her sparkling pixie eyes. "It is good, Your Grace!" 

"Better than our French wines?" asked Mary, setting down her own mug half empty. 

Tia laughed. "Right now, much better, Your Grace; I was thirsty." 

Mary smiled back at her. "You're quite right, my dear. Wine is for the palate—beer is for the thirst." 

Tia drank again from her mug. "You know, Your Grace, where I come from, it would be terribly presumptuous for a girl of my class even to sit down in the presence of a duchess, much less to sit down and have a beer with her in a public house." 

"Fiddle!" said Mary de Cumberland. "I'm not a Peer of the Realm; I'm as much a commoner as you are." 

Tia shook her head with a soft laugh. "It would make no difference, Your Grace. Anyone with a title is considered infinitely far above a common person like myself—at least, in the province of Banat, which, I confess, is all of the Polish Hegemony I have ever seen. So when I hear the title 'Duchess', I automatically give a start." 

"I noticed," said Mary, "and I point out to you that anyone who aspires to a degree in Sorcery had better learn to handle symbols better than that." 

"I know," the girl said softly. "I intend to try very hard, Your Grace." 

"I'm sure you will, my dear." Then, changing the subject quickly: "Tell me, where did you learn Anglo-French? You speak it beautifully." 

"My accent is terrible," Tia objected. 

"Not at all! If you want to hear how the language can be butchered, you should hear some of our Londoners. Whoever taught you did very well." 

"My Uncle Neapeler, my father's brother, taught me," Tia said. "He is a merchant who spent a part of his youth in the Angevin Empire. And Sir Thomas has been helping me a great deal—correcting my speech and teaching me the proper manners, according to the way things are done here." 

The Duchess nodded and then gave Tia a quick smile. "Speaking of Sir Thomas—I hope his title doesn't make you frightened of him." 

The sparkle returned to Tia's eyes. "Frightened of Sir Thomas? Oh, Your Grace, no! He's been so good to me. Much better than I deserve, I'm sure. 

"But, then, everyone has been so good to me since I came here. Everyone. Nowhere does one find the friendliness, the goodness that one finds in the realm of His Majesty King John." 

"Not even in Italy?" The Dowager Duchess asked casually. 

Tia's expression darkened. "They might have hanged me in Italy." 

"Hanged you? My dear, what on earth for?" 

After a moment's silence, the girl said: "It's no secret, I suppose. I was charged with practicing the Black Art in Italy." 

The Dowager Duchess of Cumberland nodded gravely. "Yes. Go on. What happened?" 

"Your Grace, I have never been able to stand by and watch people suffer. I think it is because I watched both my parents die when I was very young—within a few months of each other. I wanted so very much for them both to live, and there was nothing I could do. I was—helpless to do anything for them. All children experience that terrible feeling of helplessness at times, Your Grace—but this was a very special thing." There was a heavy somberness in her dark eyes. 

Mary de Cumberland said nothing, but her sympathy was apparent. 

"I was brought up by Uncle Neapeler—a kind and wondrous man. He has the Healing Talent, too, you see, but it is untrained." Tia was looking back down at her beer mug, running one tiny, dainty finger around and around its rim. "He had no opportunity to train it. He might never have known that he possessed it if he had not spent so many years of his life in the Angevin Empire, where such things are searched out. He found that I had it, and taught me all he knew—which was small enough. 

"In the Slavonic States, a man's right to become a Healer is judged by his political connections and by his ability to pay. And the right to have the services of a trained Healer is judged in the same way. Uncle Neapeler is—was—a merchant, a hard man of business. But he was never rich except in comparison to the villagers, and he was politically suspect because of the time he had spent in the Imperial domains. 

"He used his Talent, untrained as it was, to help the villagers and the peasants when they were ill. They all knew they could rely on him for help, no matter who they were, and they loved him for it. He brought me up in that tradition, Your Grace." 

She stopped, compressed her lips, and took another drink from her mug. "Then—something happened. The Count's officers . . ." She stopped again. "I don't want to talk about that," she said after a moment. "I . . . I got away. To Italy. And there were sick people there. People who needed help. I helped them, and they gave me food and shelter. I had no money to support myself. I had nothing after . . . but never mind. The poor helped me, for the help I could give them. For the children. 

"But those who did not know called it Black Magic. 

"First in Belluno. Then in Milano. Then in Torino. Each time, the whisper went around that I was practicing the Black Art. And each time, I had to go on. Finally, I had to flee the Italian States altogether. 

"I got across the Imperial border and went to Grenoble. I thought I would be safe. I thought I could get a job of some kind—apprentice myself as a lady's personal maid, perhaps, since it is an honored profession. But the Grand Duke of Piemonte had sent word ahead, and I was arrested by the Armsmen in Grenoble. 

"I was frightened. I had broken no Imperial law, but the Piemontese wanted to extradite me. I was brought before my lord the Marquis of Grenoble, who heard my plea and turned the case over to the Court of Justice of His Grace the Duke of Dauphine. I was afraid they would just hand me over to the Piemontese authorities as soon as they heard the charge. Why should anyone listen to a nobody?" 

"Things just aren't done that way under the King's Justice," said the Dowager Duchess. 

"I know," said Tia. "I found that out. I was turned over to a special ecclesiastical commission for examination." She drank again from the mug and then looked straight into Mary of Cumberland's eyes. "The commission cleared me," she said. "I had practiced magic without a license, that was true. But they said that that was not an extraditable offense under the law. And the Sensitives of the commission found that I had not practiced Black Magic in my healing. They warned me, however, that I must not practice magic in the Empire without a license to do so. 

"Father Dominique, the head of the commission, told me that a Talent such as mine should be trained. He introduced me to Sir Thomas, who was lecturing at a seminar for Master Sorcerers in Grenoble, and Sir Thomas brought me to England and introduced me to His Grace the Archbishop of York. 

"Do you know the Archbishop, Your Grace? He is a saint, a perfect saint." 

"I'm sure he'd be embarrassed to hear you say so," said the Duchess with a smile, "but just between us, I agree with you. He is a marvelous Sensitive. And obviously"—she gestured toward the archiepiscopal arms on Tia's shoulder—"His Grace's decision was favorable. Quite favorable, I should say." 

Tia noded. "Yes. It was through the recommendation of His Grace that I was accepted as an apprentice of the Guild." 

Mary de Cumberland could sense the aura of dark foreboding that hung like a pall around the girl. "Well, now that your future is assured," she said warmly, "you have nothing to worry about." 

"No," said Tia with a little smile. "No. Nothing to worry about." But there was bleakness in her eyes, and the pall of darkness did not dissipate. 

At that moment, the waiter reappeared and coughed politely. "Your pardon, Your Grace." He looked at Tia. "Your pardon, Demoiselle. Are you Apprentice Sorcerer Tia . . . uh . . . Einzig?" He hit the final g a little too hard. 

Tia smiled up at him. "Yes, I am. What is it?" 

"Well, Demoiselle, there's a man at the bar who would like to speak to you. He says you'll know him." 

"Really?" Tia did not turn to look. She raised an eyebrow. "Which one?" 

The waiter did not turn, either. He kept his voice low. "The chap at the bar, Demoiselle, on the third stool from the right; the merchant in the mauve jacket." 

Casually, Tia shifted her eyes toward the bar. So did the Dowager Duchess. She saw a dark man with bristling eyebrows, a heavy drooping moustache, and deep-set eyes that darted about like a ferret's. The jacket he wore was of the oddly-cut "Douglas style," which was a strong indication that he was a Manxman, since the style was very little favored except on the Isle of Man. 

She heard Tia gasp, "I . . . I'll speak to him. Would you excuse me, Your Grace?" 

"Of course, my dear. Waiter, would you refill our mugs?" 

Mary watched as Tia rose and walked over to the bar. She could see the stranger's face and Tia's back, but in the hash of emotion that was washing back and forth through the room, it was impossible to interpret Tia's emotions. As for the stranger, there was no way for her to catch his words. His face seemed immobile, his lips seemed hardly to move, and what movements they did make were covered by the heavy moustache. The entire conversation took less than two minutes. Then the stranger bowed his head to Tia, rose, and walked out of the Sword Room. 

 

Tia stood where she was for perhaps another thirty seconds. Then she turned and came back to the booth where the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland waited. On her face was a look which Mary could only interpret as grim joy. 

"Excuse me, Your Grace," she said. "A friend. We had not seen each other for some time." She sat down and picked up her tankard. 

Then she said suddenly, "Pardon me, Your Grace. What o'clock is it?" 

Mary looked at the watch on her wrist. "Twelve after six." 

"Oh, dear," said Tia, "Sir Thomas told me specifically that I should wear evening costume after six." 

Mary laughed. "He's right, of course. We should both have changed before this." 

Tia leaned forward. "Your Grace," she said confidingly, "I must admit something. I'm not used to Angevin styles. Sir Thomas was good enough to buy me some evening dresses, and there is one in particular I have never worn before. I should like to wear it tonight, but" —her voice sank even lower—"I don't know how to wear the thing properly. Would Your Grace be so good as to come up and help me with it?" 

"Surely, my dear," Mary said with a laugh, "under one condition." 

"What's that, Your Grace?" 

"The dress I have to wear normally requires a battalion of assistants to get it on. Do you think you can substitute for a battalion?" 

The statement was untrue; the Duchess was perfectly capable of dressing herself, but Lord Darcy had asked her to keep an eye on this girl and, even though she was not certain that it was still necessary, she would obey his orders. 

"I can certainly try, Your Grace," said Tia, smiling. "My room is two flights up." 

"Good, we'll go up and strap you into your finery, then go down one flight and strap me into mine. Between the two of us we'll have every sorcerer in the place groveling at our feet." 

The Duchess signed the bill that the waiter presented, and the two women left the Sword Room. 

Tia turned the key in the door to her room. She pushed open the door and stopped. On the floor, just beyond the door, was an envelope. She picked it up and smiled at the Duchess. "Excuse me, Your Grace," she said. "The dress I was telling you about is in the closet over there. I would like Your Grace to give me your opinion on it. It's the blue one." 

Mary walked over to the closet, opened it, and looked at the array of dresses, but before she could say anything she heard Tia's voice behind her. She could not understand the words of the girl's short expletive, but she could feel the anger in them. Slowly she turned around and said, "What seems to be the trouble?" 

"Trouble?" the girl's eyes flashed fire. Her right hand crumpled the envelope and then with a convulsive gesture threw it into the wastebasket nearby. "No trouble, Your Grace, no trouble at all." Her smile was forced. She walked over to the closet and looked at the dress. She stared at it without saying anything. 

Mary of Cumberland stepped back. "It's a lovely dress, Tia," she said quietly. "You'll look magnificent in it." With one lightning-like movement she reached out to the wastebasket, grabbed the piece of paper Tia had thrown away, and slipped it into her pocket. "Yes," she said, "a very beautiful dress." 

Mary could sense the girl's hesitation and confusion. Something in that note had upset her, had changed her plans, and now she was trying to think of what to do next. 

Tia turned, a pained look on her face. "Your Grace, I don't . . . I don't feel well. I should like to lie down for a few minutes." For a moment, Mary de Cumberland thought she should offer her services as a Healer. Then she realized that that would simply add to the confusion. Tia had no headache. She simply wanted to get rid of her guest. There was nothing Mary could do. 

"Of course, my dear. I understand. I shall," she smiled, realizing she was repeating Sir Thomas's words, "see you later on, then. Good evening, my dear." 

She went out into the hall and heard the door close behind her. What now? she thought. There was no way of intruding on Tia without making her intrusion obvious. What to do next? 

She went down the stairs. Halfway down she took out the note that had been under Tia's door, the note she had retrieved from the wastebasket. She opened it and looked at it. 

It was in a language she could not identify. Not a single word of it was understandable. The only thing that stood out was a number that was easily recognizable. 

7:00. 

Nothing else was comprehensible. 

 

XIV

 

Lord Darcy leaned back in the hard, straight-backed chair that apparently epitomized Admiralty furniture and stretched his back muscles. "Ahhh-h-h . . ." he exhaled audibly. He felt as though weariness had settled into every cell of his body. 

Then he leaned forward again, closed the folder on the table in front of him, and looked across the table at Lord Ashley. 

"Doesn't tell us much, does it, my lord?" 

Lord Ashley shook his head. "No, my lord. None of them do. The mysterious FitzJean remains as mysterious as ever." 

Lord Darcy pushed the folder away from him. "Agreed." He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "We have no clue from Barbour as to FitzJean's identity. The Admiralty staff at Cherbourg Naval Base did not even know of Barbour's existence. Unless something unexpected turns up, we will get no further information about FitzJean from that end." 

"Do you see any clues at this end, my lord?" 

"Well, look at the data." Lord Darcy gestured toward the pile of folders. "Only three men, presumably, know how to build and how to activate the confusion projector: Sir Lyon Grey, Sir Thomas Leseaux, and the late Sir James Zwinge. Of course, it is possible that that information was stolen from them, but let us explore the first possibility that suggests itself: Could it have been one of them?" 

The Commander frowned. "It's hard to imagine that such respected and trusted men could betray the Empire." 

"Indeed," said Lord Darcy. "It is difficult to imagine why any highly-placed officer could betray the Empire. But it has happened before, and we must consider the possibility. 

"What about Sir Thomas, for instance? He worked out the theory and the mathematics for this device. What about Sir Lyon, or Sir James? They collaborated on working out the thaumaturgical engineering technique which made the device a working reality. 

"If you had to pick one of the three, my lord, which would it be?" The Commander leaned back in his chair and looked up, away from the low-hanging gas lamp, at the shadowed beams of the high ceiling. 

"Well," he said after a moment, "first off, I'd eliminate Sir Thomas. Since the basic discovery was his, it would have been much simpler all around for him to have sold it directly to His Slavonic Majesty's Government in the first place, if he needed money that badly." 

"Agreed," said Lord Darcy tonelessly. 

"Sir Lyon," Commander Ashley continued, "has plenty of money in his own right. I don't say that a quarter of a million silver sovereigns would mean nothing to him, but it hardly seems enough to entice a man in his position to commit treason." 

"Agreed," Lord Darcy repeated again. 

"Sir James?" Ashley paused. "I don't know. Certainly he was not a wealthy man." 

He stared at the ceiling for another twenty seconds, then lowered his head and looked at Darcy. "Here's a suggestion for you, my lord. I don't know how good it is, but we can try it for size." 

"Proceed," said Lord Darcy. "I should be grateful for any light you may shed upon the subject." 

"All right; suppose that Zwinge and Barbour were in this together. Naturally, to cover themselves, they would have to invent the mysterious FitzJean. No one ever saw FitzJean and Barbour together. Our agents saw him enter Barbour's place, and they saw him leave it. He came from nowhere and vanished into nowhere. What could be simpler than for Barbour himself to personate this mysterious being? Barbour, after all, actually did have contacts with Polish agents." 

"Barbour wasn't Zwinge's only contact," Lord Darcy pointed out. "Why not use one of the others, and quietly sell the secret without all this play-acting?" 

The Commander put his hand on the table, palm up. "What would happen if he did? As soon as the Royal Polish Navy was equipped with this device, we would find it out. We would know that one of those three men had sold it. Our first suspicion would naturally fall on Zwinge, because, of the three, only he was known to have had any contacts with Polish agents. 

"After all, an ordinary man with a secret to sell can't simply say to himself, 'Well, I guess I'll just dot out and peddle it to a Polish agent.' Polish agents aren't that easy to find." 

"True," Lord Darcy said thoughtfully. "It is difficult to sell something if you don't know how to get in contact with your customers. Pray continue." 

"Very well then. In order to divert suspicion from himself, he sets up this little playlet with Barbour. Everyone is looking for the mysterious FitzJean. A trap is laid for him. Meanwhile, Barbour is actually dealing with the Poles, giving them the same story about FitzJean." 

"How was the playlet to end, then?" Lord Darcy asked. 

"Well, let's see. The secret is given to the Poles. The Poles pay off Barbour. I. imagine Zwinge would have found some excuse to be there at the same time. I doubt if he would have trusted Barbour with five thousand golden sovereigns. 

"The trap for the mysterious FitzJean fails, of course, since there is no FitzJean, and—after we find that the Polish Navy has the confusion projector—Zwinge's excuse is: 'FitzJean must have become suspicious of Barbour and peddled the secret elsewhere.' 

"Zwinge may have intended to pay off Barbour, to split the money with him, or he may have intended to kill him. We can't know which." 

"Interesting," said Lord Darcy. "There is certainly nothing impossible about just such a plan having been conceived, but, if so, the plan did not come off. What, then, are your theories as to what actually did happen?" 

"Personally," said the Commander, "I believe that the Poles discovered that Barbour was working for Zed, and that Zed was Sir James. Now then, if my hypothesis is anywhere close to the truth, there are at least two possible explanations for what happened. 

"One: The Poles decided that the whole business about the confusion projector was mere bait for some kind of trap, a hoax cooked up for some reason by Sir James; so they sent out agents to eliminate both. 

"Or, two: They had reason to believe that Sir James actually was a traitor and was ready to negotiate with them. They would know that Sir James wouldn't give the plans and specifications for the device to Barbour unless all the arrangements were made. But they would also know that he would have had to have those plans in a place where he could lay his hands on them quickly. He must have had them already drawn up and hidden somewhere; he could hardly have expected to be able to sit down and draw them from memory at the snap of a finger. 

"So, while one group of agents is dealing with Barbour in Cherbourg, another is watching Zwinge in London. Arrangements for the payoff are made in Cherbourg, and Barbour sends this information to Zwinge. Zwinge, not knowing he is being watched by Polish agents, fetches the plans to send them to Barbour. But now, the Poles know where those plans are because Zwinge has taken them from their hiding place. They send orders to Cherbourg to dispose of Barbour, and the agents here kill Zwinge and grab the plans, thereby saving themselves five thousand golden sovereigns." 

"I must admit," said Lord Darcy slowly, "that my lack of knowledge of international intelligence networks has hampered me. That theory would never have occurred to me. What about the actual mechanism of Sir James' murder? How did the Polish agents actually go about killing him?" 

Commander Lord Ashley shrugged eloquently. "Now there you have me, my lord. My knowledge of black magic is nil, and, in spite of Captain Smollett's statement of my qualifications, I am forced to admit that my experience in the Naval C.I.D. never included a murder investigation." 

Lord Darcy laughed. "Well, that is honest enough, anyway. I hope this investigation will allow you to see how we poor benighted civilians go about it. What o'clock is it?" He looked at the watch at his wrist. "Heavens! It's after six. I thought the Admiralty closed at six o'clock." 

The Commander grinned. "I daresay Captain Smollett left word for us not to be disturbed." 

"Of course," said Lord Darcy. "All right. Let's put these folders back in their files and go to the hotel. I want to ask Sir Lyon Grey some questions if we can get hold of him, and also I should like to speak to His Grace the Archbishop of York. We need to know more about a girl named Tia Einzig." 

"Tia Einzig?" Lord Ashley blinked. The name was totally new to him. 

"I'll tell you what little I know about her on the way over to the hotel. Will the Admiralty have transportation for us? Or will we have to find a cab?" 

"I'm afraid the Admiralty coaches are all locked up at six, my lord," said the Commander. "We'll have to take a cab—if we can find one." 

"If not, we can walk," said Lord Darcy. "It's not as if the Royal Steward were halfway across the city." 

A few minutes later, they walked down the darkened corridors of the Admiralty offices. In the lobby, an armed Petty Officer let them out through the front door. "Awfully foggy out tonight, my lords," he said. "Trust you have a good ride. Captain Smollett left orders that a coach be waiting for you." 

"Let us thank God for small favors," said Lord Darcy. 

The fog was even heavier than it had been the night before. At the curb, barely visible in the dim glow of the gas lamp above the doors of the Admiralty Building, stood a coach bearing the Admiralty arms. The two men went down the steps to the curb. Commander Lord Ashley said: 

"Petty Officer Hosquins, is that you?" 

"Yes, My Lord Commander," came a voice from the driver's seat, 

"Captain Smollett told us to wait for you." 

"Excellent. Take us to the Royal Steward, then." And the two men climbed into the coach. 

 

It took longer to make the trip than it had earlier that afternoon. Most of the visitors, anticipating the fog, had gone home. Lord Darcy and Lord Ashley found the lobby almost deserted. A man wearing the silver-slashed blue of a Master Sorcerer was looking at one of the displays. Lord Darcy and Lord Ashley went over to him and Lord Darcy tapped him on the shoulder. 

"Your pardon, Master Sorcerer," he said formally. "I am Lord Darcy, special investigator under a King's Warrant, and I would appreciate it if you could tell me where I might find Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey." 

The master sorcerer turned, an obsequious smile on his face. "Ah, Lord Darcy," he said. "It is indeed a pleasure to meet your lordship. I am Master Ewen MacAlister. My very good friend Master Sean O Lochlainn has told me a great deal about you, your lordship." Then his face fell in sudden gloom. "I am sorry to say, your lordship, that Grand Master Sir Lyon is unavailable at the moment. He is attending a Special Executive Session of the top officers of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society and the Sorcerers Guild. Can I do anything else to help your lordships?" 

Lord Darcy refrained from pointing out that thus far he had done nothing at all to help their lordships. "Ah, that is too bad. But no matter. Tell me, is His Grace the Archbishop of York also attending that meeting?" 

"Oh no, your lordship. His Grace is not a member of the Executive Committee. His ecclesiastical ties are much too onerous to permit him to take on the added burden. As a matter of fact, I saw His Grace only a few moments ago. He is taking his evening tea in the restaurant—in the Buckler Room, your lordship." 

He lifted his hand and took a quick glance at his wristwatch. "Yes, that was only a few minutes ago, your lordships. His Grace should still be there. 

"Tell me, is there anything else I can do to help your lordships?" Before either of them could answer, he went on, "Can I do anything that will aid you in apprehending the fiendish criminal who perpetrated the heinous murder of"—he suddenly looked very sad— "our good friend Master Sir James? A deplorable thing. Is your lordship prepared to make an arrest?" 

"We shall do our best, Master Ewen," said Lord Darcy briskly. "We thank you for your information. Good evening, Master Ewen, and thank you again." 

He and Lord Ashley turned and walked toward the restaurant, leaving Master Ewen MacAlister looking blankly after them. 

"Master Ewen MacAlister, eh?" said Lord Ashley. 

"I should have known him, from Master Sean's description, even if he had not introduced himself." 

"Is there any possibility, my lord," Lord Ashley said thoughtfully, "that Master Ewen is involved in the matter?" 

Lord Darcy took two more steps before he answered the question. "I shall be honest with you," he said then. "Although I have no evidence, I feel it highly probable that Master Ewen MacAlister is one of the prime movers in the mystery which surrounds Sir James' death." 

Lord Ashley looked surprised. "You didn't seem disposed to question him any further." 

"I have read the statement he made to Lord Bontriomphe yesterday. He was in his room all that morning until ten or fifteen minutes after nine. He is not sure of the time. After that, he was down in the lobby. Master Sean corroborates a part of his testimony. The interesting thing, however, is that Master Ewen's room is on the floor above, and directly over, the room in which Sir James was killed." 

"That is food for thought," said Ashley as they approached the door of the Buckler Room. 

Lord Darcy pushed the door open and the two men went in. The courtyard outside, which had been visible that morning from Sir James' room, was now shrouded in fog, but the gas lamps gave bright illumina tion to the restaurant itself. The two men stopped and surveyed the room. At one table an elderly man in episcopal purple sat by himself, sipping tea. 

Lord Darcy said, "That, I believe, is His Grace of York." They walked toward the table. 

The Archbishop appeared to be deep in thought. He had a notebook on the table and was carefully marking down symbols upon its open pages. 

 

"My apologies for this interruption, Your Grace," said Lord Darcy politely. "I would not willingly disturb your cogitations, but I come upon the King's Business." 

The old man looked up with a smile, the light from the gas lamps making a halo of the silver hair that surrounded his purple skullcap. Without rising he extended his hand. "You do not interrupt, my lord," he said gently. "My time is yours. You are Lord Darcy from Rouen, I believe?" 

"I am., Your Grace," said Lord Darcy, "and this is Commander Lord Ashley of the Imperial Naval Intelligence Corps." 

"Very good," said the wise old Sensitive. "Please be seated, my lords. Thank you. You come then to discuss the problem propounded by the death of Sir James Zwinge." 

"We do, Your Grace," said Lord Darcy, settling himself in his chair. His Grace of York folded his hands upon the table. 

"I am at your service. Anything that may be done to clear this matter up . . ." 

"Your Grace is most kind," said Lord Darcy. "I am not, as you know, a Talented man," he began, "and there are, therefore, certain data which you may possess that I do not." 

"Very probably. Such as what?" 

"As I understand it, it would be difficult for a sorcerer to perform a rite of Black Magic within this hotel without giving himself away. Furthermore, every sorcerer here has been examined for orthodoxy of practice and carries a license signed by his diocesan bishop attesting to that examination." 

"And so your question is," the Archbishop interjected smoothly, "how is it such a person could have escaped our notice." 

"Precisely." 

"Very well, I shall attempt an explanation. Let us begin with the license to practice. This license is given to an individual sorcerer when, upon completing his apprenticeship, he becomes qualified, according to the rules of the Guild, to practice his Art. Each three years thereafter he is reexamined and his license renewed if he passes the qualifications. You are aware of this?" 

Lord Darcy nodded. "Yes, Your Grace." 

"Very well," said the Archbishop, "but what would disqualify a sorcerer? What would prevent the 

Church from renewing his license? Well, there are many things, but chief among them would certainly be the practice of Black Magic. Unfortunately, except for a very few peculiarly qualified Sensitives it is not possible to detect when a man has practiced what is technically known as Black Magic if the spells are minor, if the harm they have done is relatively small, if the practitioner has not been too greatly corrupted by the practice. Do you follow?" 

"I think so," said Lord Darcy. 

"Then," continued the Archbishop, raising a finger, "you will see how it is that a man may get away with practicing Black Magic for some time before it has such an effect upon his psyche that it becomes obvious to a Board of Examiners that he can no longer be certified as practicing orthodox sorcery. 

"Now, a major crime, such as murder, would, of course, instantly be detectable to a certifying commission assembled for the purpose. The sorcerer in question would be required to undergo certain tests which he would automatically fail if he had used his Art to commit so heinous a crime as murder." 

He turned a hand palm upward. "But you can see that it would be impossible to give every sorcerer here such a test. The Guild must assume that a member is orthodox unless there is sufficient evidence to warrant testing his orthodoxy." 

"I quite understand that," said Lord Darcy, "but I also know that you are one of the most delicate Sensitives and one of the most powerful Healers in Christendom." He looked directly into the Archbishop's eyes. "I know Lord Seiger of Yorkshire." 

His Grace's eyes showed sadness. "Ah, yes, poor Seiger. A troubled soul. I did for him what I could, and yet I knew . . . yes, I knew . . . that in spite of everything he would not live long." 

"Your Grace recognized him as a psychopathic killer," said Lord Darcy. "If we have such a killer in our midst now, would he not be as easily recognizable as was Lord Seiger?" 

The Archbishop's troubled eyes looked first at Lord Darcy and then at Lord Ashley. "My lords," he said carefully, "the realm of magic is not that easily divisible into stark white and deadly black, nor can human souls be so easily judged. Lord Seiger was an extreme case, and, therefore, easily perceived and easily isolated, even though he was difficult to treat. But one cannot say 'this man is capable of killing,' and 'this man has killed,' and for that reason alone isolate him from society. For these traits are not necessarily evil. The ability to kill is a necessary survival characteristic of the human animal. To do away with it by fiat would be in essence to destroy our humanity. For instance, as a Sensitive I can detect that both of you are capable of killing; further, that both of you have killed other human beings. But that does not tell me whether or not these killings were justified. We Sensitives are not angels, my lords. We do not presume to the powers of God Himself. Only when there is true, deep-seated evil intent does it become so blatantly obvious that it is instantly detectable. I find, for instance, no such evil in either of you." 

 

There was a long moment of silence and finally Lord Darcy said, "I believe I understand. Am I correct, however, in saying that, if every sorcerer here were to be given the standard tests for orthodoxy, anyone who had committed a murder by Black Magic would be detectable through these tests?" 

"Oh, indeed," said the Archbishop, "indeed. Rest assured that if the secular arm cannot discover the culprit these tests will be given. But" —he emphasized his point with a long, thin finger—"as yet neither the Church nor the Guild has any evidence whatever that such black sorcery has been practiced. That is why we hold off." 

"I see," said Lord Darcy. "One other thing, with Your Grace's permission. What do you know of a Demoiselle Tia Einzig?" 

"Demoiselle Tia?" the saintly old man chuckled. "Ah, there is one, my lord, whom you may dismiss immediately from your mind if you suspect her of any complicity in this affair. In the past few months she has been examined twice by competent Boards and Examiners. She has never in her life practiced Black Magic." 

"I disagree with you that that alone absolves her of complicity," said Lord Darcy. "A person could certainly be involved in a murder without having been the actual practitioner of Black Magic. Correct me if I am wrong." 

The Archbishop looked thoughtful. "Well, you are right, of course. It would be possible . . . yes, yes, it would be possible . . . for Mistress Tia to have committed a crime, so long as it was not the crime of Black Magic we would not necessarily have detected it." He smiled. "I assure you there is no harm in her, no harm at all." 

His attention was distracted by someone who was approaching the table. Lord Darcy looked up. Mary of Cumberland was excited, but she was doing her best to keep from showing it. 

"Your Grace," she said. She curtsied quickly, and then looked at Lord Darcy. "I"—she stopped and glanced at Lord Ashley and then at the Archbishop before looking back at Lord Darcy—"Is it all right to talk, my lord?" 

"About your assignment?" Lord Darcy asked. 

"Yes." 

"We have just been discussing Tia. What new intelligence do you have for us?" 

"Pray be seated, Your Grace," said the Archbishop. "I should like to hear anything you have to say about Tia." 

In a low voice the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland told of her conversation with Tia Einzig, of Tia's short meeting with the man in the bar, and of the incident concerning the note in Tia's room, with an attention to detail and accuracy that not even Lord Bontriomphe could have surpassed. 

"I have been looking all over for you," she finished up. "I went to the office; the Sergeant-at-Arms said he hadn't seen you. It was just lucky that I walked in here." 

Lord Darcy held out his hand. "Let me see that piece of paper," he snapped. She handed it to him. 

"That's why I was in such a hurry to find you. All I can read on it are the numbers." 

"It is in Polish," said Lord Darcy. " 'Be at the Dog and Hare at seven o'clock,' " he translated. "There is no signature." 

He glanced at his watch. "Three minutes of seven! Where the Devil is the Dog and Hare?" 

"Could that be 'Hound and Hare'?" said Lord Ashley. "That's a pub on Upper Swandham Lane. We can just make it." 

"You know of no 'Dog and Hare'? No? Then we'll have to take a chance," Lord Darcy said. He turned to the Dowager Duchess. "Mary, you've done a magnificent job. I haven't time to thank you further just now. I must leave you in the company of the Archbishop. Your Graces must excuse us. Come on, Ashley. Where is this Hound and Hare?" 

They walked out of the Buckler Room into the lobby of the hotel. Lord Ashley gestured. "There's a corridor that runs off the lobby here and opens into Potsmoke Alley. A turn to our right puts us on Upper Swandham Lane. No more than a minute and a half." 

The two men pulled their cloaks about them and put up their hoods to guard against the chill of the fog outside. Ignoring the looks of several sorcerers who wondered why two men were charging across the lobby at high speed, they went down the corridor to the rear door. A Man-at-Arms was standing by the door. 

"I'm Lord Darcy," snapped the investigator. "Tell Lord Bontriomphe that we are going to the Hound and Hare; that we shall return as soon as possible." 

 

XV

 

In Potsmoke Alley the fog closed about the two men, and when the rear door to the Royal Steward was closed behind them they were surrounded by darkness. 

"This way," said Ashley. They turned right, feeling their way down Potsmoke Alley to the end of the block of buildings to where St. Swithin's Street crossed the narrow alley and widened it to become Upper Swandham Lane. Here there were a few gas lanterns glowing dimly in the fog, but even so it was difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. 

As he and Ashley emerged from Potsmoke Alley, Lord Darcy could hear a distant click! . . . click! . . . click! . . . approaching through the fog to their right, on St. Swithin's Street. It sounded like someone wearing shoes with steel taps. To the left he could hear two pairs of leather-shod boots retreating, one fairly close by, the other farther down the street. Somewhere ahead, far down Upper Swandham Lane, he could hear a coach and pair clattering slowly across the cobblestones. 

The two men crossed St. Swithin's Street and went down Upper Swandham Lane. "I think that's it ahead," said Lord Ashley, after a minute. "Yes. Yes, that's it." 

The sign underneath the gas lantern depicted a bright blue gaze-hound in hot pursuit of an equally blue hare. 

"All right, let's go in," said Lord Darcy. "Keep your hood up and your cloak closed. I shouldn't want anyone to see that Naval uniform. This way, we might be ordinary middle-class merchants." 

"Right," said Lord Ashley, "I hope we can spot the girl. Do you know her when you see her?" 

"I think so. Her Grace's description was quite detailed; there can't be many girls of her size and appearance wandering about London." He pushed open the door. 

There was a long bar stretching along the full length of the wall to Darcy's left. Along the wall to his right was a series of booths that also stretched to the back of the room. In the rear there were several tables in the center of the floor, between the bar and the booths. Some men at one were playing cards, and a dart board on the back wall was responding with the thunk! . . . thunk! . . . thunk! . . . of darts thrown by a patron whose arm was as strong as his aim was weak. 

Darcy and Ashley moved quickly to an empty spot at the bar. In spite of the number of customers the big room was not crowded. 

"See anybody we know?" murmured Lord Ashley. 

"Not from here," Lord Darcy said. "She could be in one of those rear booths. Or possibly she hasn't arrived yet." 

"I think your second guess was correct," Ashley said. "Take a look in the mirror behind the bar." 

The mirror reflected the front door perfectly, and Lord Darcy easily recognized the tiny figure and beautiful face of Tia Einzig. As she walked across the room toward the back the identification was complete in Darcy's mind. "That's the girl," he said. "Notice the high heels that Her Grace mentioned." 

And, he realized, those heels also explained those clicking footsteps he had heard on St. Swithin's Street. She hadn't been more than thirty seconds behind Ashley and himself. 

 

Tia did not look around. She walked straight toward the rear as if she knew exactly where the person she was to meet would be waiting. She went directly to the last booth, near the back door of the pub, and slid in on the far side, facing the front door. 

"I wonder," said Lord Darcy, "is there somebody already in that booth? Or is she waiting for the person who sent her the note?" 

"Let's just stroll back and see," said Lord Ashley. 

"Good, but don't get too close. I don't want either of them to see our faces." 

"We could watch the dart game," said Lord Ashley, "that might be interesting." 

"Yes, let's," said Lord Darcy. They walked slowly back to the far end of the bar. 

There was someone in the booth, seated directly across from Tia Einzig. It was obviously a man, but the hood of the cloak completely concealed his face, and he kept his head bent low over the table. 

Lord Darcy said: "Let's move over to that table. I want to see if I can hear their conversation. But move carefully. Keep your face concealed without being obvious about it." 

The nearest table was further toward the front of the room than the booth that the two men were watching. They could no longer see the hooded man at all. His back was to them now and he kept his voice low, so that, while it was audible, it was not intelligible. Tia, however, was facing them, and, as Mary de Cumberland had told Lord Darcy the previous evening, the girl's voice had abnormal carrying power, even when she did not speak loudly. 

For several seconds all they could hear was the low mutter of the man's voice, then Tia said, "If you didn't want him dead, why did you kill him?" Her expression was hard and cold, with an undertone of anger. 

More muttering, then Tia again: "You discovered that Zed, the much-feared head of Imperial Naval Intelligence in Europe, was actually Master Sir James Zwinge, and you mean to sit there and tell me that King Casimir's Secret Service didn't want him dead?" 

A couple of angry words from the hooded man. 

"I'll talk any way I please," said Tia. "You keep a civil tongue in your head." 

She said nothing more for nearly a minute, as she listened to the hooded man with that unchanging stony expression of cold anger on her beautiful face. Then an icy smile came across her lips. 

"No, I will not," she said. "I won't ask him. Not for you, not for Po land, not for King Casimir's whole damned army!" 

A short phrase from the hooded man. Tia's cold smile widened just a trifle. "No, damn you, not for him either. And do you know why? Because I know now that you lied to me! Because I know now that he's safe from the torture chambers of the Polish Secret Service!" 

The hooded man said something more. "Signing his death warrant?" She laughed sharply, without humor. "Oh no. You've harassed me long enough. You've tried to force me to betray a country that has been good to me, and a man who loves me. I've lived in constant fear and terror because of you, but no longer. Oh, I'm going to sign a death warrant all 'right—yours! I'm going to blow this whole plot sky high. I'm going to tell the Imperial authorities everything I know, and I hope they hang you, you vicious, miserable little . . ." 

She stopped suddenly and blinked. "What?" She blinked again. 

Lord Darcy, watching Tia's face covertly from beneath his hood, saw her expression change. Where before it had been stony, now it became wooden. The cold expression became no expression at all. 

The Commander suddenly reached over and grabbed Darcy's wrist. 

"Watch it!" he whispered harshly. "They're going to leave by the back door!" 

Lord Darcy smiled inwardly. Lord Bontriomphe had mentioned that Ashley had occasional flashes of precognition, and here was an example of it. Such flashes came to an untrained Talent in moments of personal stress. 

As Ashley had predicted, Tia rose to her feet, as did the hooded man, his back still toward the watchers. The hooded man did not turn. Tia did, and the two of them walked directly out the back door, only a few feet away. 

Darcy and the Commander were on their feet, heading toward the back door. Then Lord Darcy stopped, his hand on the doorknob. 

"What are you waiting for?" Ashley asked. 

"I want them to get far enough ahead so that they won't notice the light when I open this door." 

"But we'll lose them in this fog!" 

"Not with those high heels of hers. You can hear them ten yards away." 

He eased the door open a trifle. "Hear that? They're moving away toward our right. What street is this?" 

"That would be Old Barnegat Road," said Lord Ashley. 

"All right, let's go." Lord Darcy swung open the door and the two men stepped out into the billowing fog. The steady clicking of Tia's heels was still clearly audible. 

"Let's close up the distance," Lord Darcy said as they walked steadily through the shrouded dark ness. "If we walk quietly, they won't notice our footsteps over the sound of hers." 

The two men said nothing for several minutes as they followed the beacon of sound that came from Tia's heels. Then, in a low voice, Lord Ashley said, "You know, I didn't understand much of that conversation back at the pub—but I guess I should be thankful I could understand any of it at all." 

"Why?" asked Lord Darcy. 

"I had rather assumed it would be in Polish. We know the Einzig girl speaks Polish and the note indicates that the man does, too." 

"Quite the contrary," said Lord Darcy. "The note indicates that the man has a slight acquaintance with the Polish tongue, but hardly enough to carry on a lengthy conversation in it. The Poles differentiate between a 'hound' and a 'dog' just as we do. Yet in translating `Hound and Hare' into Polish, he used the Polish word for 'dog,' which no one who was conversant with the language would have done. And that tells us a great deal more about the man we are following."

"In what way, my lord?" 

"That he is vain, pretentious, and has an overdeveloped sense of the melodramatic. He could quite as easily have written the note in Anglo-French, yet he did not. Why?" 

"Perhaps because he felt that it would not be understood by anyone else who happened to see it." 

"Precisely; and you have fallen into the same error he did. Only a man who is unfamiliar with a language thinks of it as a kind of secret writing. Do you think of Anglo-French as a cryptic language with which to conceal your thoughts from others?" 

"Hardly," said Lord Ashley with a smile. 

"But even so," Lord Darcy said softly, "only a vain, pretentious man would attempt to show off his patently poor knowledge of a language to a person whose native tongue it is." 

At a corner ahead of them, the sound of Tia's heels turned again to the right. "Where are we now?" Lord Darcy asked. 

"If I haven't lost my bearings, we just passed Great Harlow House; that means they turned on Thames Street, heading roughly south." 

Lord Darcy wished, not for the first time, that he knew more about the geography of London. "Have you any idea where they're going?" he asked. 

"Well, if we keep on this way," said Lord Ashley, "we'll pass St. Martin's Church and end up smack in the middle of Westminster Palace." 

"Don't tell me they're going to see the King," said Lord Darcy. "I really don't believe I could swallow that." 

"Wait, they're turning left." "Where would that be?" "Somerset Bridge," Lord Ashley said. "They're crossing the river. We'd better drop back a little. There are lights on the bridge." 

"I think not," said Lord Darcy. "We'll take our chances." 

"How much longer are they going to keep walking?" Lord Ashley muttered. "Are they out on a pleasant evening stroll to Croydon or something?" 

The lights on the bridge did not hamper them in any way. They were widely spaced, and the fog was so dense, especially here over the Thames, that someone standing directly under a gas lamp could not be seen from fifteen feet away. They kept walking at a steady pace. 

Suddenly the clicking stopped, somewhere near the middle of the bridge. Automatically the two men also stopped. Then they heard a single sentence, muffled but clearly intelligible: "Now climb up on the balustrade." 

"Good God!" said Darcy. "Let's go!" 

The two men broke into a run. Caution now was out of the question. The hooded man came suddenly into sight, through the veil of fog. He was standing near one of the gas lamps. Tia Einzig was nowhere to be seen. From the river below came the sound of a muffled splash. 

At the sound of footsteps the hooded man turned, his face still hidden, shadowed from the overhead light by the hood of his cloak. He froze for a second as if deciding whether or not to run. Then he realized it was too late, that his pursuers were too close for him to escape. His right hand dived beneath his cloak and came out again with a small sword. Its needlelike blade gleamed in the foggy light. 

The Imperial Navy's training was such that Commander Lord Ashley's reaction was almost instinctive. His own narrow-bladed rapier came from its scabbard and into position before the hooded man could attack. 

"Take care of him!" Lord Darcy shouted. "I'll get the girl!" He was already racing across the bridge to the downstream side, opening his cloak and dropping it behind him as he ran. He vaulted to the top of the broad stone balustrade, stood for a moment, then took a long clean dive into the impenetrable blackness below. 

 

XVI

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Lord Darcy! 

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

Black as pitch down there. He could see nothing. 

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

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

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

MacAlister returning? It couldn't be! And yet . . . 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's right," said Lord Ashley. 

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

"The same," Lord Ashley said wearily. 

"And he's gone and jumped in the river?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right away, Sergeant." Arms-man Arthur disappeared into the fog. 

"I'd like to ask a favor if I may, Sergeant," said Lord Ashley. 

"What might that be, My Lord Commander?" 

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

"Very good, My Lord Commander. I'll send a man right along." 

 

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

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

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

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

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

Which left the Duchess with nothing to do. 

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

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

"Not a thing, Your Grace," said the sergeant-at-arms, rising to his feet. "Lord Bontriomphe's not back yet and neither is Lord Darcy." 

"You look as though you're as bored as I am, Sergeant. Do you mind if I sit down?" 

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

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

"Until Lord Bontriomphe or Lord Darcy gets back, I am. Sergeant Peter 0 Sechnaill." 

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

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

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

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

"I beg your pardon, mum?" said Sergeant Michael. 

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

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

"That's . . . that's very good of Your Grace, I'm sure," said Sergeant Michael. 

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

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

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

"But Your Grace," he began. "Lord Ashley," the Duchess cut in coldly, "said 'immediately.' This is an emergency. Now, dammit, get a move on, man." 

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

TO BE CONCLUDED

 

IN TIMES TO COME

 

Murray Leinster—who did the lead story in Vol. 1, No. 1 issue of Astounding Stories of Super Science back in 1930 is back again in the November 1966 issue with a new Med Service story, "Quarantine World". 

Now normally, you'd think that a world with severe medical problems would be most happy to have a Med Service doctor drop in. But this time Calhoun and his invaluable medical assistant, Murgatroyd—who was very inhuman, and, therefore, incomparably helpful usually—ran up against the weirdo situation of a planet so diseased it didn't know it was, and another that knew it was, and didn't want Med Service to cure it! 

And both most fanatically uncooperative with Med Service's Dr. Calhoun! 

The Editor