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 attracted to, and adhere to, the walls and the furniture in this room in a particular manner.
“They will form what we call hologram 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 hologram 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.”
13
The br
oad 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 Damoselle 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 Damoselle Tia …
And then the Dowager Duchess noticed something that had escaped her attention before: the Damoselle Tia was wearing arms which declared her to be an apprentice of His Grace, Charles Archbishop of York.
To Mary of Cumberland, the Damoselle 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 outré 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 Damoselle 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 Damoselle 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 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.
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