The Sidi al-Nasir shrugged, still keeping his hands well above the table. “Whatever may have happened,” he said, “I assure you that this sorcerer is no longer in my employ. However, my information leads me to believe that you are rather eager to locate him. It is possible I may be of some assistance to you in your search. I might be in a position to inform you as to Master Ewen’s present whereabouts. After all, we are all of us reasonable men, are we not?”
“I am afraid your information is superfluous, my lord …” Lord Darcy began.
At that point the door of the office was flung open and Lord John Quetzal burst in. “Look out! He’s moving! He knows he’s being betrayed!” he shouted.
Even as he spoke, the rear door was swinging open. Master Ewen MacAlister ran out, heading for the door that led to freedom. Only Lord John Quetzal stood between him and that door. The black sorcerer gestured with one hand toward the young Mechicain.
Lord John Quetzal threw up his hand to ward off the spell that had been cast, but his journeyman’s powers were not the equal of those of a Master. His own shielding spell softened the blow, but could not completely stop it. He staggered and fell to his knees. He did not collapse, but his eyes glazed over and he remained in his kneeling position, unmoving.
But his moment of resistance, slight though it was, was enough to slow Master Ewen’s flight. The bogus Prince of Vladistov was already in action. Master Sean O Lochlainn ripped off his false beard and allowed his eyeglass to drop to the floor.
Lord Darcy did not move. It took every ounce of his self-control to keep his pistol fixed firmly on the Sidi al-Nasir. The Moor also remained motionless. He did not even glance away from the muzzle of Lord Darcy’s pistol.
The black sorcerer spun around to face Master Sean and gestured with one hand, describing an intricate symbol in the air with a flourish of his fingers, his features contorted in strained grimace.
Lord Darcy and everyone else in the room felt the psychic blast of that hastily conjured spell. Master Ewen’s hours in hiding had obviously been spent in conjuring up the spells he would need to defend himself when the time came.
Master Sean O Lochlainn, toward whom the spell was directed, seemed to freeze for perhaps half a second. But he, too, had prepared himself, and he had the further advantage of having known the identity of his prey, while Master Ewen had no way of knowing—except by conjecture—who would come after him.
Master Sean’s hand moved, creating a symbol in the air.
Master Ewen blinked, gritted his teeth and, from somewhere beneath his cloak, drew a long white wand.
No one else in the room, not even Lord Darcy, could move. They held their positions partly because of the psychic tension in the air around them, partly because they wanted to see the outcome of this duel between two master magicians, but primarily because the undirected corona effects of the spells themselves held them enthralled.
Except for Master Sean, no one there recognized the white wand that Master Ewen drew. But Master Sean saw it, recognized it as having been made from a human thigh bone, and in an instant had prepared a counterspell. The thighbone-wand was thrust out, and Master Ewen’s lips moved malevolently.
The corona effect of the spell went beyond the immediate area. Outside in the gaming rooms, the players seemed to freeze for a moment. Then, for no apparent reason, the heavy bettors put their money on odds-on bets. One young scion of a wealthy family put fifty golden sovereigns on a bet that would have netted him a single silver sovereign if he had won.
And in al-Nasir’s office, Lord John Quetzal suddenly blinked his eyes and looked away, Lord Ashley started to draw his sword, Sidi al-Nasir himself moved groggily away from his desk; and Lord Darcy’s hand quivered on the grip of the Heron .36, keeping it aligned on the Sidi, but not firing.
But Master Sean had warded off the effectiveness of even that spell, which was designed to make him take a stupid chance.
With great determination, he stalked toward Master Ewen, and his voice was hard and cold as he said, “In the Name of the Guild, Master Ewen—yield! Otherwise I shall not be responsible for what happens.”
Master Ewen’s reply contained three words—words which were furious, foul, and filthy.
Again that whitened thighbone-wand stabbed out.
And again Master Sean stood the brunt of that terrible psychic shock. Without a wand, without anything save his own hand, Master Sean made the final effective gesture of the battle.
But not the final gesture, for Master Ewen repeated himself. He stepped forward, and again jabbed with his chalk-white wand.
Then he stepped forward once more.
Another jab.
Another step.
Another jab.
Another step.
Master Sean moved to one side, watching Master Ewen.
The jabs of the black sorcerer’s wand were no longer directed toward the tubby little Irish sorcerer but toward the point in space where he had been.
Master Sean took a deep breath. “I’d better catch him before he runs into the wall.”
Lord Darcy did not move the muzzle of his weapon from Sidi al-Nasir. “What is he doing?” he asked.
“He’s trapped in a time cycle, my lord. I’ve tied his thought processes in a knot. They go round and round through their contortions and end up where they started. He’ll keep repeating the same useless notions again and again until I pull him out of it.”
In spite of Master Ewen MacAlister’s apparently thaumaturgical gestures, everyone could feel that the corona effect was gone. Whatever was going on in the repeating cycle inside Master Ewen’s mind, it had no magical effect.
“How is Lord John Quetzal?” Lord Darcy asked.
“Oh, he’ll be all right as soon as I release him from that daze spell.”
“Magnificently done, Master Sean,” said Lord Darcy. “My Lord Ashley,” he said to the Naval Commander, “will you be so good as to go to the nearest window, identify yourself, and shout for help? The place is completely surrounded by the Armsmen of London.”
21
Sir Frederique Bruleur, the seneschal of the Palace du Marquis, brought three cups of caffe into My Lord de London’s office. The first was placed on the center of My Lord Marquis’ desk, the second on the center of Lord Bontriomphe’s desk, the third on the corner of Lord Bontriomphe’s desk near the red leather chair where Lord Darcy was seated. Then Sir Frederique withdrew silently.
My Lord Marquis sipped at his cup, then glowered at Lord Darcy. “You insist upon this confrontation, my lord cousin?”
“Can you see any other way of getting the evidence we need?” Lord Darcy asked blandly. He had wanted to discuss the problem earlier with the Marquis of London, but the Marquis insisted that no business should be discussed during dinner.
The Marquis took another sip at his cup. “No, I suppose not,” he agreed. He focused his gaze upon Lord Bontriomphe. “You now have Master Ewen locked up. Securely, I presume?”
“We have three Master Sorcerers keeping an eye on him,” Lord Bontriomphe said. “Master Sean has put a spell on him that will keep him in a total daze until we get around to taking it off. I don’t know what more you want.”
The Marquis of London snorted. “I want to make certain he doesn’t get away, of course.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It has now been three hours since you made your arrests at the Manzana de Oro. If Master Ewen is still in his cell I will concede that you have him properly guarded. Now: What information did you get?”
Lord Bontriomphe turned a hand palm up. “Master Ewen admits almost everything. He knows we have him on an espionage charge; he knows that we have him on a charge of Black Magic; he knows that we have him on a charge of thaumaturgical assault and attempted murder against the person of the Damoselle Tia Einzig.
“He admits to all that, but refuses to admit to a charge of murder. Until Master Sean put him under a quieting spell, he was talking his head off—admitting everything, as long as it would not
put his neck in a noose.”
“Pah! Naturally he would attempt to save his miserable skin. Very well. What happened? I have your reports and Lord Darcy’s reports. From the facts, the conclusions are obvious. What do you say?” He looked straight into Bontriomphe’s eyes.
Lord Bontriomphe shrugged. “I’m not the genius around here. I’ll tell you what Chief Hennely thinks. I’ll give you his theory for what it’s worth. But mind you, I don’t consider that it is accurate in every detail. But Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely has discussed this with Commander Lord Ashley and with Captain Smollett, so I give you their theory for what it’s worth.”
The Marquis glanced at Lord Darcy, then looked back at Lord Bontriomphe. “Very well. Proceed.”
“All right. To begin with, we needn’t worry about the murder in Cherbourg. It was committed by a Polish agent detailed for the purpose, simply because they discovered that Barbour was a double agent—and our chances of finding the killer are small.
“The killer of Master Sir James is another matter. Here, we know who the killer is, and we know the tool he used.
“We know that the Damoselle Tia was being blackmailed, that Master Ewen threatened to have her uncle tortured and killed if she did not obey orders. Defying those orders, she went to Sir James Zwinge, and told him everything—including everything she knew about Master Ewen. Naturally, MacAlister had to dispose of Sir James, even though that would mean that a new head of European Intelligence network would be appointed, and that the Poles would have to repeat all the work of discovering the identity of his successor as soon as the Navy appointed one.”
He looked over at Lord Darcy. “As to how it was done, the important clue was that half-moon bloodstain that you pointed out to me.” He looked back at the Marquis. “You see that, don’t you? It was a heel print. And there was only one pair of shoes in the hotel that could have made such a print—the high-heeled shoes of Tia Einzig.
“Look at the evidence. We know, from Master Sean O Lochlainn’s report, that Master Sir James was stabbed—not at 9:30 when he screamed—but at approximately nine o’clock, half an hour before. The wound was not immediately fatal.”
He glanced back at Lord Darcy. “Sir James lay there, unconscious, for half an hour—and then, when he heard Master Sean’s knock, he came out of his coma long enough to shout to Master Sean for help. He lifted himself up, but this last effort finished him. He dropped and died. Do you agree?”
“Most certainly,” said Lord Darcy. “It could not have happened in any other way. He was stabbed at nine—or thereabouts—but did not die until half past.
“The chirurgical evidence of the blood, and the thaumaturgical evidence of the time of psychic shock demonstrate that clearly.
“But you have yet to explain how he was stabbed inside a locked room at nine o’clock—or at any other time. The evidence shows that there was no one else in that room when he was stabbed. What is your explanation for that?”
“I hate to say it,” said Lord Bontriomphe, “but it appears to me that Master Sean’s testimony is faulty. With another master sorcerer at work here, the evidence could have been fudged. Here’s what happened: Master Ewen, knowing that he had to get rid of the Damoselle Tia, decided to use her to get rid of Master Sir James at the same time. He put her under a spell. She talked her way into Master Sir James’s room, used his own knife on him when he least suspected it, and walked out, leaving that half-moon heel print near the door.”
Lord Bontriomphe leaned back in his chair. “As a matter of cold fact, if it were not for that heel print, I would say that Master Ewen put Master Sir James under a spell which forced him to stab himself with that contact cutter.
“Naturally, he would fumble the job. Even under the most powerful magic spell it is difficult to force anyone to commit suicide.”
He glanced at Lord Darcy. “As you yourself noticed with the Damoselle Tia, my Lord; although she was induced to jump off the bridge, she nevertheless fought to keep herself afloat after she struck the water.”
“Yes, she did,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Go on.”
“As I said,” Lord Bontriomphe continued, “if it weren’t for that heel print, I would say that Sir James was forced to suicide by Black Magic.” He shrugged. “That still may be possible, but I’d like to account for that heel print. So, I say that the Damoselle Tia stabbed him and walked out, and that Master Ewen used sorcery to relock the door from the room above. I don’t say that she is technically guilty of murder, but certainly she was a tool in Master Ewen’s hands.”
The Marquis of London snorted loudly and opened his mouth to say something, but Lord Darcy held up a warning hand. “Please, my lord cousin,” he said mildly. “I think it incumbent upon us to listen to the rest of Lord Bontriomphe’s theories. Pray continue, my lord,” he said, addressing the London investigator.
Lord Bontriomphe looked at him bitterly. “All right; so you two geniuses have worked everything out. I am just a legman; I’ve never claimed to be anything else. But—if you don’t like those theories, here’s another.”
He took a deep breath and went on. “We arrested Master Sean in the first place on the rather flimsy evidence that he and Sir James had both worked out a way to manipulate a knife by thaumaturgical means. Now suppose that was done? Suppose that is the way Sir James was killed? Who could have done it?” He spread a hand.
“I won’t say Sir James did—although he could have. But, to assume that he took such a roundabout way of committing suicide would be, in the words of my lord the Marquis, fatuous. To think that it happened by accident would be even more fatuous.
“Or my lord may think of another adjective; I won’t quibble.
“We know that Master Sean did not do it, because it would have taken at least three quarters of an hour to prepare the spell, and, according to Grand Master Sir Lyon, there could not be more than one wall, or other material barrier, between the socerer and his victim—and certainly Master Sean could not have stood out in that hall, going through an intricate spell like that for half an hour or more, without being noticed. Besides, he wasn’t even in that hall at that time.” He waved a hand. “Forget Master Sean.”
“Good of you,” murmured Lord Darcy.
“Who is left? Nobody that we know of. But couldn’t Master Ewen have figured out the process? After all, if two Master magicians can figure it out separately, why not a third? Or maybe he stole it; I don’t know. But isn’t it possible that Master Ewen forced the weapon into Master Sir James’s chest?”
Lord Darcy started to say something, but this time it was the Marquis of London who interrupted.
“Great God!” he rumbled. “And it was I who trained this man!” He swiveled his massive head and looked at Lord Bontriomphe. “And pray, would you explain what happened to the weapon? Where did it disappear to?”
Lord Bontriomphe blinked, said nothing, and turned his eyes to Lord Darcy.
“Surely you see,” said Lord Darcy calmly, “that the contact cutter which lay beside Sir James’s body—and which, by the by, was the only edged weapon in the room—could not possibly have been the murder weapon. You did read the autopsy report, did you not?”
“Why, yes, but—”
“Then surely you see that a blade in the shape of an isosceles triangle—two inches wide at the base, and five inches long—could not have made a stab wound five inches deep if the cut it made was less than an inch wide.
“Even more important—as I pointed out to Master Sean earlier today—a knife of pure silver, while harder than pure gold, is softer than pure lead. Its edges would certainly have been noticeably blunted if it had cut into two ribs. And yet, the knife retained its razor edge.
“It follows that Master Sir James was not killed by his own contact cutter—further, that the weapon which killed him was not in the room in which he died.”
Lord Bontriomphe stared at Lord Darcy for a long second, then he turned and looked at the Marquis of London. “All right. As I said, I didn’t
like those hypotheses, because they don’t explain away the heel print—and now they don’t explain the missing knife. So I’ll stick to my original theory, with one small change: Tia brought her own knife and took it away with her.”
The Marquis of London did not even bother to look up from his desk. “Most unsatisfactory, my lord,” he said, “most unsatisfactory.” Then he glanced at Lord Bontriomphe. “And you intend to put the blame on the Damoselle Tia? Hah! Upon what evidence?”
“Why—upon the evidence of her heel print.” Lord Bontriomphe leaned forward. “It was Master Sir James’s blood, wasn’t it? And how could she have got it on her heel except after Master Sir James bled all over the middle of the floor?”
The Marquis of London looked up toward the ceiling. “Were I a lesser man,” he said ponderously, “this would be more than I could bear. Your deductions would be perfectly correct, Bontriomphe—if that were the Damoselle Tia’s heel print. But, of course, it was not.”
“Whose else could it have been?” Bontriomphe snapped. “Who else could have made a half-moon print in blood like that?”
My lord the Marquis closed his eyes and, obviously addressing Lord Darcy, said: “I intend to discuss this no further. I shall be perfectly happy to preside over this evening’s discussion—especially since we have obtained official permission for it. I shall return when our guests arrive.” He rose and headed toward the rear door, then he stopped and turned. “In the meantime, would you be so good as to dispel Lord Bontriomphe’s fantasy about the Damoselle Tia’s heel print?” And then he was gone.
Lord Bontriomphe took a deep breath and held it. It seemed a good three minutes before he let it out again—slowly.
“All right,” he said at last, “I told you I wasn’t the genius around here. Obviously you have observed a great deal more in this case than I have. We’ll do as my lord of London has agreed. We’ll get them all up here and talk to them.”
Then, abruptly, he slammed the flat of his hand down upon the top of his desk. “But—by Heaven, there’s one thing I want to know before we go on with this! Why do you say that that heel print did not belong to Damoselle Tia?”
Too Many Magicians Page 24