Too Many Magicians

by Randall Garrett

  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. “Oily little bastard, isn’t he?”

  “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 illumination 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 knew 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 Damoselle Tia Einzig?”

  “Damoselle 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 Damoselle 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 Swandhan 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 Grace 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.”

  15

  In Potsmoke Alley the f
og 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 a 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.