The King sat at the head of the table. To his left sat, in order, the Lord High Admiral, Captain Smollett, and Lord Bontriomphe. To his right were Sir Lyon, Commander Lord Ashley, and Lord Darcy.
“My lords, gentlemen, I think we all understand the reason for this meeting, but in order to get the facts straight in our minds, I will ask My Lord High Admiral to explain what we are up against. If you will, my lord.”
“Certainly, Sire.” My Lord High Admiral’s voice was a faintly rasping baritone which, even when it was muted, sounded as though it should be bellowing orders from the quarterdeck instead of holding a quiet discussion at Westminster Palace. He looked round the table with his piercing seaman’s gaze. “This concerns a weapon,” he said bluntly. “That is, I call it a weapon. Sir Lyon doesn’t. But I’m only a Navy man, not a sorcerer. We all know that sorcery has its limitations, eh? That’s why magic can’t be used in warfare; if a sorcerer uses magic to destroy an enemy ship, he has to use Black Magic, and no sane sorcerer wants to do that. Besides, Black Magic isn’t that effective. The Polish Royal Navy tried to use it back in ‘39, and our counter-spells nullified it easily. We blasted ‘em out of the water with cannon while they were trying to make their spells work. But, as I understand it, this is not Black Magic.” He looked over at the Grand Master. “Perhaps you’d better explain, Sir Lyon.”
“Very well, my lord,” said the Master Sorcerer. “Perhaps, to begin with, I had best make it clear to you that the line between what we call ‘Black’ magic and what we call ‘White’ magic is not as clearly defined as many people suppose. We say, for instance, that the practice of the Healing Art is White Magic, and that the use of curses to cause illness or death is Black Magic. But, one may ask, is it White Magic to cure a homicidal maniac of a broken leg so that he may go out and kill again? Or, contrariwise, is it Black Magic to curse that same maniac so that he dies and kills no more? Well, in both cases—yes. It can be so proven by the symbological mathematics of the Theory of Ethics. I won’t bore you with the analogy equations themselves; suffice it to say that, in such widely diverse cases, the Theory of Ethics is quite clear.
“This is summed up in the aphorism that every first-year apprentice sorcerer knows by heart: Black Magic is a matter of symbolism and intent.”
Sir Lyon smiled and turned his right palm up in a gesture of admission. “So, of course, is White Magic—but it is the Black against which we must warn.”
“Quite understandable,” said Captain Smollett.
“I shan’t go into this further,” said Sir Lyon, “except to say that the Theory of Ethics does allow one to interfere with the actions of another, when that other is bent upon destruction. As a result, we have perfected the … er …’weapon’ which my lord the High Admiral has mentioned.” Sir Lyon glanced round the table again, his deep-set brilliant eyes looking at each man in turn. Then he bent over and took an object from beneath the table and placed it on the polished oaken surface for all to see.
“This is it, my lords and gentlemen.”
It was an odd-looking device. The main bulk was a brass cylinder eight inches in diameter and eighteen inches long. This cylinder was mounted on a short tripod which held it horizontally four inches off the table top. On one end of the cylinder, there were two handles, fitted so that the cylinder could be aimed by gripping with both hands. From the other end there projected a smaller cylinder, some three inches in diameter and ten inches long. The last four inches flared out to a diameter of six inches, making a bell-like muzzle.
Lord Bontriomphe smiled. “That’s a very oddly shaped gun, Sir Lyon.”
The Grand Master chuckled dryly. “Your lordship perceives, of course, that the device is not a gun—but, in a way, the analogy is an apt one. I cannot demonstrate its operation here, of course, but the explanation of its operation—”
“One moment, Sir Lyon.” The King’s voice cut in smoothly.
“Sire?” The Grand Master Sorcerer’s eyebrows lifted. He had not expected His Majesty to interrupt at that point.
“Can the device be operated against a single man?” His Majesty asked.
“Of course, Sire,” said Sir Lyon. “But Your Majesty must understand that it works to inhibit only a single type of operation, and we have not the facilities here to—”
“Bear with me, Sir Sorcerer,” said the King. “I think we do have the facilities you mention. Could you use Lord Darcy as your target?”
“I could, Sire,” said Sir Lyon, a speculative gleam in his deep-set eyes.
“Excellent.” The King looked at Lord Darcy. “Would you consent to an experiment involving yourself, my lord?”
“Your Majesty has but to ask,” said Lord Darcy.
“Very good.” His Majesty held out his right hand. “Would you be so good as to give me the pistol you carry at your hip, my lord?”
It was as though a silent lightning bolt had struck every man at the table. Heads jerked round. Every eye focused in startled surprise on Lord Darcy’s face. The Lord High Admiral grasped the hilt of his narrow-bladed Naval dress sword and withdrew it half an inch from its scabbard.
The shock was obvious. How dare any man come into the King’s Sovereign Presence armed with a pistol?
“Peace, My Lord Admiral!” said the King. “My lord of Arcy comes armed by Our request and permission. Your pistol, Lord Darcy.”
Coolly, Lord Darcy performed an act that would have turned the stomach of every right-thinking man in the Empire. He drew a gun in the presence of His Dread and Sovereign Majesty the King.
Then he rose, leaned across the table, and presented the pistol to the King, butt first. “As Your Majesty bids,” he said calmly.
“Thank you, my lord. Ah! An excellent weapon! I have always considered the .40 caliber MacGregor to be the finest handgun yet built. Are you ready, Sir Lyon?”
Sir Lyon Grey had obviously already fathomed the King’s intentions. He smiled and swiveled the gleaming metal device around so that the bell-like muzzle pointed directly at Lord Darcy. “I am ready, Sire,” he said.
The King, meanwhile, had unloaded the MacGregor, taking all seven of the .40 caliber cartridges out and placing them on the table in front of him while five pairs of eyes watched him in fascination.
“My lord,” said the King, looking up, “I shall ask you to ignore what Sir Lyon is doing.”
“I understand, Sire,” said Lord Darcy.
“Excellent, my lord.” His Majesty’s eyes moved upwards, along the wall opposite. “Hm-m-m. Yes. My lord, I call your attention to the stained glass in yonder window—particularly to that area which depicts King Arthur holding the scroll, the scene which symbolizes the establishment of the Most Ancient and Noble Order of the Round Table.”
Lord Darcy looked at the window. “I see the section to which Your Majesty refers,” he said.
“Good. That window, my lord, is a priceless work of art. Nonetheless, it offends me.”
Lord Darcy looked back at the King. His Majesty pushed the unloaded pistol, and it slid across the polished surface to come to rest in front of Lord Darcy. Then he flipped a finger, and a single cartridge spun across the table to come to rest beside the gun. “I repeat, my lord,” said the King, “that bit of glass offends me. Would you do me the favor of putting a bullet through it?”
“As you command, Sire,” said Lord Darcy.
Had he not known that he was the subject of a scientific experiment, the scene that followed would have been one of the most humiliating in Lord Darcy’s career. It was only afterwards that he realized that a single snicker or chuckle from any of the other six men at the table would have snapped his temper. For a man who normally had such magnificent control over his emotions, such an explosion of wrath would have been almost the final humiliation. But no one laughed, for which Lord Darcy was afterward deeply thankful.
The task was a simple one. Pick up the cartridge, place it in the chamber, close the lock, aim, and fire.
Lord Darcy reached for the pistol
with his right hand and for the cartridge with his left. Somehow, he caught the handgun wrong, so that he gripped it upside down, with the muzzle facing him. At the same time, his fingers closed on the cartridge wrong, so that it slipped from his grasp and skittered across the table. He reached out again, grabbed at it, and it slid away. Then, angry, he slammed his palm down on it and finally caught it.
Then there was a loud clatter. In focusing his attention on the cartridge, he had allowed the pistol to slip from the grasp of his other hand.
He set his teeth and clenched his left hand around the wayward cartridge. Then he reached out with great determination and picked up the pistol with his right hand. Fine.
Now to open the lock. His right thumb found the stud and pushed it, but his other fingers missed their grip at that point, and the gun was suddenly hanging from his forefinger, swinging by the trigger guard. He tried to swing it round so that he could grasp the butt but it slipped from his forefinger and banged to the table top again.
Lord Darcy took a deep breath. Then, with calm deliberation, he reached out and picked up the gun. This time, he used his left thumb to open the lock, but in doing so he dropped the cartridge again.
The next few minutes were a nightmare. The cartridge persisted in slipping from his grasp when he tried to pick it up, and when he did manage to pick it up it refused to go into the chamber. And just as it seemed about to slide in properly, he would drop the gun again.
Lord Darcy set his teeth; the muscles in the sides of his jaw stood out in hard relief. Moving his hands slowly and carefully, he finally managed—after many fumbles, slips, and errors—to get the cartridge into the chamber and close the lock.
His feeling of relief at having achieved this was so great that his fingers relaxed and the gun fell to the table again. Angry, he reached out, snatched it up, aimed in the general direction of the window, and—
The gun went off with a crash, long before he had intended it to.
King Arthur and his scroll remained serenely undamaged while the slug slammed into the stone wall two feet away, chipping off a large flake of stone and ricocheting up to the ceiling, where it buried itself in an oak beam.
After what seemed like an interminably long silence, Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey said softly: “Magnificent! Your Majesty, in all our tests, no one has ever managed to load the gun, much less come that close to hitting the target. We are fortunate in knowing that we shall not find many minds so superbly disciplined—especially in the ranks of the Polish Royal Navy.”
His Majesty spun the remaining six cartridges down the table. “Reload and reholster your weapon, my lord. Please accept my apologies for any … ah … inconveniences this experiment may have caused.”
“Not at all, Sire. It has been a most educational experience.” He scooped up the six cartridges and reloaded his MacGregor with expert ease. Although the belled muzzle of the device was still pointed in his direction, Sir Lyon’s hands were no longer upon the grips.
“I congratulate you, my lord,” said the King. “All of us here, with the exception of Lord Bontriomphe and yourself, have seen this device in operation before. As Sir Lyon says, you are the first ever to succeed in loading a weapon while under its spell.” Then he looked at Sir Lyon. “Have you anything further to add, Sir Sorcerer?”
“Nothing, Sire … unless there are any questions.”
Lord Bontriomphe raised a hand. “One question, Sir Lyon.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Lord Bontriomphe gestured toward the device. “Is this gadget one that can be operated by anyone—by any layman, I mean—or does it require a sorcerer as operator?”
Sir Lyon smiled. “Fortunately, my lord, the device cannot be operated by one without a trained Talent. It does not, however, require the services of a Master; an apprentice of three years standing can operate the device.”
“Then, Sir Lyon,” said Lord Darcy, cutting off whatever it was that Lord Bontriomphe had to say, “the secret of its operation is divided into two parts. Am I correct?”
“My lord,” said Sir Lyon after a moment, “your lack of the Talent is a great loss to the Sorcerers Guild. As you have correctly deduced, there are two parts to the spell. The first—and most important—part is built into this device here.” He pointed toward the golden-gleaming brass instrument. “The symbolism built into this … er …’gadget’ I think you called it, Lord Bontriomphe—is most important. Within this brass cylinder are the invariables—what we call the ‘hardware’ of the spell. But this, by itself, is of no use. It can only be used by a sorcerer who can use the proper verbal spells to activate it. These spells we call the ‘software’—if you follow me, my lord.”
Lord Bontriomphe nodded, grinning. “Between the two of you,” he said, “you and Lord Darcy have answered my question. Do proceed, Sir Lyon.”
“I think there is no need to,” said Sir Lyon. “I shall turn the rest of the discussion over to the Lord High Admiral.”
“I think we can all see,” said the Lord High Admiral without waiting for Sir Lyon to sit down, “what this device could do to an enemy ship in the hands of a sorcerer who knew the spells. It does not prevent them from steering the ship—that, as I understand it, would be Black Magic—but any attempt to load and fire their batteries would result in chaos. We have seen what happens when one man attempts it. You should see what it does to a team! Each man is not only fumbling his own job, but is continually getting in the way of others. As I said—chaos.
“With this device, my lords and gentlemen, the Imperial Navy can keep the Slavonic Royal Navy bottled up in the Baltic for as long as necessary. Provided, of course, that we have it and they don’t.
“And that, sirs, is the crux of our problem. The secret of this device must not be allowed to fall into Polish hands!”
The crux indeed! thought Lord Darcy, suppressing a smile of satisfaction. The King had already taken out his pipe and was filling it; Lord Darcy, the Lord High Admiral, and Captain Smollett had immediately reached for their own smoking equipment. But Lord Darcy was watching Captain Smollett. He could have predicted almost to the word what the Lord High Admiral’s next words would be.
“We are faced, then,” said my lord the High Admiral, “with a problem of espionage. Captain Smollett, the details, if you please.”
“Aye, aye, my lord.” The Chief of Naval Intelligence puffed solemnly on his pipe for a second. Then: “Problem’s very simple, m’luds. Answer’s difficult. Someone’s been tryin’ to sell the secret of this device to the Poles, d’you see. Here’s what’s happened:
“We had a double agent in Cherbourg—name’s Barbour, Georges Barbour. Not Anglo-French, actually. Pole. Did damn’ good work for us, though. Trustworthiness high.”
Smollett took his pipe from his mouth and gestured with the stem. “Now”—he stabbed the air with the pipestem—“a few weeks ago, Barbour got a letter—anonymous, untraceable—saying that the secret of the device was for sale. Description of exterior and of effect of device quite accurate, you understand, m’luds. Very well. Barbour contacted his superior—chap known to him only by code name ‘Zed’—and asked for instructions. Zed came to me; I went to My Lord High Admiral. Amongst the three of us, we set a trap.”
“Your pardon, Captain Smollett,” said Lord Darcy, taking advantage of a pause in the captain’s narrative.
“Certainly, m’lud.”
“No one knew of this trap save yourself, my lord the High Admiral, and Zed?”
“No one, m’lud,” Captain Smollett said emphatically. “Absolutely no one.”
“Thank you. Pardon the interruption, Captain.”
“Certainly, m’lud. At any rate.” He took a puff from his pipe. “At any rate, we set it up. Barbour was to make further contact. Asking price for details of secret—five thousand golden sovereigns.”
And worth it, too, Lord Darcy thought to himself. One golden sovereign was worth fifty silver sovereigns, and a “twelfth-bit”—one twelfth of a silver so
vereign—would buy a cup of caffe in a public house. One can buy an awesome amount of caffe for a quarter of a million silver sovereigns.
“Negotiations took time,” Captain Smollett continued. “Barbour couldn’t appear too eager. Look suspicious, eh? Yes. Well, ‘t’any rate, negotiations went on. Barbour, you must understand, was not working through Intelligence in Cherbourg. Worked through Zed. Had to be careful of contacts with us, you see. Always watched by Polish agents in Cherbourg.” Captain Smollett gave a short, sharp, barking laugh. “While we watched Poles, of course. Devilish job.
“Didn’t dare break Barbour’s cover, d’you see; too damn’ valuable a man. Now—during the negotiations, the man who was trying to sell the secret came twice to see Barbour. Barbour described him. Black hair, black beard and moustache, straight nose, fairly tall. Wore blue-tinted glasses, spoke with a hoarse, whispery voice in a Provence accent. Fairly tall. Dressed like a member of the well-to-do merchant class.”
Lord Darcy caught Lord Bontriomphe’s eyes, and the two investigators exchanged quick grins. The description was such that neither of the two men needed Captain Smollett’s next statement.
“Obviously a disguise,” said Captain Smollett.
“A question, Captain,” said Lord Bontriomphe.
“Yes, m’lud?”
“This bloke made two appointments with Barbour. Since you must have known about ‘em before hand, why didn’t you grab him then—when he kept the appointments?”
“Couldn’t, m’lud,” Captain Smollett said firmly. “Not without breaking Barbour’s cover. Too many Polish agents in Cherbourg keeping an eye on Barbour. They knew Barbour was dealing with this chap—called himself Goodman FitzJean, by the way. Any attempt to grab FitzJean would have meant that we’d’ve had to grab Barbour, too, d’you see. If we didn’t, the Polish agents would’ve known that we knew about Barbour. Not, p’raps, that he was a double agent, but—at least—that we knew of ‘im, eh? Would’ve broken his cover, rendered him useless to His Slavonic Majesty. Couldn’t afford that, d’you see.”
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