“My lord, good to see you here.”
Lord Darcy turned around at the words. It was Goodman Harbleury, looking even more gnomelike in his lacy silken court costume.
“You surprise me, Harbleury,” Lord Darcy said. “I had imagined these sorts of functions would bore you.”
Harbleury chuckled and bobbed his head up and down. “You mean, what am I doing here when I don’t have to come? You’re right, of course. In many ways I have an enviable position. Having risen from a lowborn commoner to a position of power and trust, even though, at my own wish, still untitled, I have the best of both worlds. I can choose to go where I like, but am not forced by convention to attend boring entertainments and other occasions of nobility.”
“I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way,” Lord Darcy said, “but I suppose I meant something like that. Unless you have a secret passion for seventeenth century pageantry, or ballroom dancing, I would think that by now you had attended enough of these functions to find them totally uninteresting, and as you are not obliged to attend—”
“Ah, my lord, but in this case I am obliged,” Harbleury explained. “On two counts. One, His Majesty and Marquis Sherrinford will both be here, and either of them might need me at any time. I would rather be on hand. Two, I am the, er, designer of this affair, and I feel impelled to see at first hand how it turns out.”
“The designer?”
“Yes, my lord. The Lord Mayor of London, who, as head of the Honorable Society, was responsible for this ball, was not sure of the proper form to follow. After all, this is the first investiture of a Prince of Gaul in sixty-three years.”
“Ah!” Lord Darcy said. “Light begins to dawn. So he appealed to you, as a protocol expert.”
“That is so, my lord.”
“And you—”
“Made it up, my lord. There wasn’t anybody I could find who remembered what the Guild Halls’ Ball was like sixty-three years ago, and the newspapers of the day were exceedingly ungenerous in their descriptions of the event. They told in great detail who was there and what they wore, but not what they did, or how. So I made it up.”
Lord Darcy looked around him. The great arms-bearing shields of the one hundred fourteen guilds that comprised the Honorable Society lined three of the walls, arranged in sequential order from the date of the founding of the guild, leaning forward in their holders as if to keep watch on their members. It would have been an ominous look, but for the frivolous designs of many of the arms. There were the Honorable Bakers, 1487, for instance, with two sacks of flour rampant on a field of eggs. Or the Honorable Furriers, 1614, with a red hand coupé holding a string of mink pelts. Or the Honorable Fishmongers, 1627, with three dead herring on a white plate. All motifs, Lord Darcy was sure, that the designers of the arms and the founders of the guilds took very seriously. The colors were gay, and the effect of all of these taken together was almost overwhelming, for those few who thought to look up.
The side doors were open, and the rooms beyond were lined with tables covered with yards of white linen and strewn with a great variety of delicate foodstuffs, with the room on the left being reserved for liquid refreshment. “It looks like a larger version of the sort of entertainment the various guilds throw for themselves every year,” said Lord Darcy, who had been to dozens. “A sort of formal dress but informal dinner-dance.”
“You have no idea how difficult it was to talk the Lord Mayor and his guild-hall minions into that,” Harbleury told him. “They wanted to get all-over fancy. Outdo the peerage at their own game. They would have looked silly, and I told them so. But they didn’t believe me.”
“How did you convince them?”
Harbleury smiled a crooked smile. “I talked about their heritage,” he said. “And the strength of the guilds, and their place in the Empire, and the unending tradition of Angevin freedoms which were their strength and their joy.”
“What does that mean?” Lord Darcy asked.
“Damned if I know,” Harbleury admitted. “But it sounded exactly the right note, and we are going to have a pleasant evening out of what could have been a disaster.”
Lord Darcy took Harbleury’s hand and shook it firmly. “It is a pleasure to know such a master of the fine-sounding phrase,” he said. “Whenever I need some talking-out done, I now know the man to do it. Very good job, Harbleury.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Harbleury said, looking modestly down. “I do much the same for his lordship and His Majesty on occasion, so I was not without practice.”
Lord Darcy parted with Harbleury and almost immediately ran into his master, the Marquis Sherrinford, who was in earnest conversation with a short, dapper man with a spade beard. “Ah, Lord Darcy!” Marquis Sherrinford called out. “Stop for a second. Someone here I want you to meet.”
Lord Darcy paused, greeted Marquis Sherrinford, and was introduced to his companion, the Count d’Alberra. “Ah, yes,” Lord Darcy said, shaking hands with the short count. “You are the gentleman who is curing my lord marquis’s headaches.” Lord Darcy noted that although small in stature, the count was powerfully built, with massive shoulders and a barrel chest. He was also one of those men who regards shaking hands as a contest, and he squeezed Lord Darcy’s hand unmercifully for a long moment before letting go.
“Thank you for the compliment, my lord,” Count d’Alberra said. “But my friend here, the Marquis Sherrinford, is actually healing himself. I am pleased and delighted that my method is enabling him to do so. It is my hope that someday many of those ills that cannot be reached by conventional magic, that are today beyond the scope of either the healer or the chirurgeon, will be reached by the techniques I am developing.”
“I know nothing of your methods, Count d’Alberra, I’m sorry to say. Is there any way you could describe them so that I could get some idea of what you do?”
“He talks to you,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “And he makes you talk. All about your childhood.”
“Childhood?”
“It is my belief,” Count d’Alberra explained, “that the body is controlled by the mind. And that many illnesses that cannot be cured externally, by the Laying On of Hands, can be treated by the body’s own defenses, activated by the mind. The problem is one of how to get these defenses turned on—how to get the mind to work.”
“I see,” Lord Darcy said politely. “And you do this by discussing your patient’s childhood?”
“It works, my lord,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “At least in my case it has. However strange the theory behind it—excuse me, Count—it does work.”
“I cannot argue with success,” Lord Darcy said.
“The childhood seems to be the key,” Count d’Alberra said. “I was surprised myself to discover this.”
The triple rap of the majordomo’s staff sounded, and he bellowed, “His Majesty, the Crown Prince Stanislaw of Poland, King of Courlandt, Duke of Krakau, Knight-Commander of the Most Holy Order of the Bloody Sheep. Her Highness, the Crown Princess Yetta.”
“Ah, His Polish Majesty and wife are here,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “I’d better go over and greet him. Would either of you like to make the acquaintance of the future King of Poland?”
“I’d be fascinated to, my lord marquis,” Lord Darcy replied.
“You’ll excuse me,” Count d’Alberra said, “but I can’t stand the Polish!” And he bowed to the marquis and Lord Darcy, turned on his heels and walked away.
“Well!” Marquis Sherrinford said. “You’d think a healer would have his emotions under better control. I mean, none of us love the Polish. Come along with me, Lord Darcy, and meet His Majesty. Who knows, someday you may have dealings with him.”
“That’s so, my lord,” Lord Darcy said, and followed the Marquis across the ballroom floor.
Crown Prince Stanislaw was a short, muscular man, somewhere around fifty years old, with a round head and close-cropped, graying blond hair. “It is a pleasure, Lord Darcy, to meet you,” he said with a heavy German acce
nt, reminding Lord Darcy that High German was the language of the Polish court. “Your fame of detection has crossed even into Warsaw. Perhaps someday we will call upon your many talents, eh? Would you do that? Would you help the Poles?”
“It would be an honor, Your Majesty,” Lord Darcy said, bowing.
“Dat is good,” Crown Prince Stanislaw said. “Whatever is between our countries, people is still people, ja?”
“That’s so, Your Majesty,” Lord Darcy agreed.
“I go now,” the Crown Prince said, “and dance with my wife. That will help convince these Angevin people that I am no monster, ja?” And with that he nodded to Marquis Sherrinford and Lord Darcy, and holding his arm for the statuesque, blond Princess Yetta, he stalked off to the dance floor.
Mary of Cumberland, Lord Darcy judged, had been alone long enough, so he bid the Marquis Sherrinford adieu and went to find her amid the throng. When he did, it turned out she was not alone, but one of two women in the midst of a gaggle of admiring men. Which was, he decided, as it should be. The other was a small, dark-haired woman with an intent, intelligent expression who Lord Darcy could not remember ever seeing before. The gaggle was about eight men deep, standing around, drinks in hand, trying to look casual. A tall, heavyset, broad-shouldered man with a ruddy complexion and an overly elaborate dress uniform was holding forth about something as Lord Darcy approached.
“Come join us, my lord,” the Duchess said, catching sight of Lord Darcy as he approached. “Lord Darcy, may I introduce Lady Marta de Verre, and this is Lord Brummel, General Lord Halifax, Sir Felix Chaimberment, Master Sorcerer Dandro Bittman, Major von Jonn of the New England Legion, and I believe you know Master Sorcerer Darryl Longuert. The Major is telling us all what life is like on the New England frontier. It’s absolutely fascinating.”
“I imagine it must be, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said, joining the group after bowing slightly to each person as they were introduced. “The New England territory has always fascinated me.”
The stentorian bellow of the majordomo suddenly silenced the hall. “His Most Serene Majesty, John the Fourth,” the majordomo announced, “by the Grace of God King of England, Ireland, Scotland, and France; Emperor of the Romans and Germans; Premier Chief of the Moqtessumid Clan; Son of the Sun; Count of Anjou and Maine; Donator of the Sovereign Order of Saint John of Jerusalem; Sovereign of the Most Ancient Order of the Round Table, of the Order of the Leopard, of the Order of the Lily, of the Order of the Three Crowns, and of the Order of Saint Andrew; Lord and Protector of the Western Continents of New England and New France; Defender of the Faith. God save the King!”
“God save the King!” three hundred voices echoed.
“Her Most Gracious and Noble Majesty Marie,” the majordomo went on, “Queen Consort of John the Fourth, Princess of Roumania, Duchess of Sark and Guernsey, and Lady Commander of His Majesty’s Winchester Guards. All Stand.”
Any who were not already standing rose as the King and Queen entered the ballroom. By tradition they were an hour late in arriving, and by tradition the ball proper would shortly begin.
“Major von Jonn,” Mary of Cumberland said, picking up the thread where it had been dropped, “my lords, Lady Marta, may I present Lord Darcy, the Chief Investigator for the Court of Chivalry.”
“A pleasure,” von Jonn said, coming to an exaggerated posture of attention and bowing stiffly in a distinctly Germanic military greeting. “A true and distinct pleasure, it is. I have heard of your exploits, my lord, and have been desirous of meeting you for some time. Particularly since I returned from the northern continent of the New World. I was planning to look,you up in London after the coronation.”
“And why is that, Major?” Lord Darcy asked.
Mary of Cumberland was staring at Lord Darcy and mouthing the words “on the list!” behind the Major’s back, Lord Darcy caught her eye and nodded slightly to show that he knew. He had memorized the list of names forwarded by Chief Henri, and Major von Jonn was among them. As was Lady Marta’s name, and Sir Darryl Longuert. Her Grace of Cumberland had indeed been busy in the few minutes she had been at the ball.
“I have always admired criminal investigation,” the Major explained. “It strikes me as something that is important to do—that is worth doing for itself. I have been thinking of trying to go into that field, if it can be determined that I have the ability. If you assume any sort of structured society, whether this one or one drastically different, it must have laws to define and protect itself. And the men who enforce those laws are the men who hold the society together.”
“Well, you have the philosophy, if not the ability,” Lord Darcy said, chuckling.
Master Dandro, a plump little sorcerer in his mid-forties, with protruding teeth and a slight chin, raised a protesting finger. “It is the Church that holds society together,” he pronounced. “Religion and magic—faith and practice—the two cornerstones of Angevin society. And the Crown, of course, is the key block in the arch, if I may be permitted to extend my metaphor.”
The Duchess of Cumberland smiled at the little sorcerer. “Really, Master Dandro,” she said. “That’s certainly an orthodox view.”
Master Dandro turned to her and smiled a rabbity smile. “Orthodoxy is my only doxy,” he said. He bowed slightly, chuckling at his own wit, and swiveled to face Master Sir Darryl Longuert. “I must congratulate you on your ascension to the laureateship, Sir Darryl,” he said. “Who would have thought—But then, you always did have the knack for being at the right place at the right time.”
“That must have been it,” Sir Darryl agreed mildly.
“The last time we met—was it two years ago?—such a thing was furthest from your mind, as I recall. You remember, Sir Darryl; it was at the thrumming.”
“Thrumming?” Lady Marta asked. “Is that an event?”
“In some places,” Lord Darcy said.
“It is a sorcerer’s term,” Sir Darryl explained. “It’s our expression for the ceremony of removing a sorcerer’s, ah, powers. It is done very rarely, and then only for extreme cause.”
“I know of what you speak,” Lord Darcy told him.
“It’s the aristocracy that holds society together,” said Lord Brummel, an old man with too much white hair and a high rasping voice. He looked around for approval, and not getting it, went “hah, hum,” and stared at the floor.
“Isn’t that what you were doing out there in the wilderness?” Lord Darcy asked Major von Jonn. “Enforcing the rules of society in a place where they’re still new?”
Major von Jonn shook his head. “The Twelve Nations, which is what the confederation of tribes around the northeast coast calls itself, has a civilization as old and as, ah, civilized as our own. We merely have superior guns and superior magic. Were it the other way around, they would have their colonies here, and call them ‘New Seneca’ or ‘East Iroquois.’”
“An interesting observation,” interjected a short, haughty-looking noble in a bright green court costume, who had just walked over and was standing to the left of Mary of Cumberland. He lifted his chin and peered through his quizzing-glass at the Major. “You think the savage aborigines of New England to be our cultural equals? I understand they paint their skins red and white and scalp their enemies.”
“Some do,” Major von Jonn agreed. “And in the principality of Hesse, where I come from, we cut the heads off thieves and hang them on pike staves in the village square. But we don’t paint ourselves red and white. Therein must lie the civilizing difference.”
“But they are immoral heathens, sir!” the nobleman snapped, looking annoyed.
“Not according to His Holiness, Pope Charles the Fourth,” Major von Jonn reminded him. “The Papal Inquisition of the New Lands determined that the natives have a well-defined religion, whose moral boundaries are acceptable to Christianity. Heathens, yes; immoral, no.”
Lord Darcy nodded. In the middle of the last century the Papal Inquiry had been set in motion over the question of the
morality of the native religions of New England—the northern continent of the New World—and New France, the southern. After twenty years of study it had decided that, while certainly heathen—that is, un-Christian—most of the religions of the New World were clearly morally sound. The study was mostly of the quality of the magic practiced by the various peoples and religions. While in some cases—notably the war gods of the southern continent and up through the Duchy of Mechicoe—the reek of ancient evil was so strong that sensitives could not approach within a hundred yards of those temples, in most cases the rituals were as untainted with black magic as anything a Christian sorcerer or priest could ask for. And, of course, one of the tenets of modern religion was that the use of white magic was God’s gift to mankind, just as black magic came from the Devil. Therefore it must follow that if a religion could use white magic, it must be at least moral, even if misled in matters of faith.
Of course, this did not mean that, as it became possible, the natives would not be converted to the True Faith, it just meant that there wasn’t a dreadful hurry about it.
“Well!” said the nobleman, twirling his quizzing-glass at the end of its ribbon and glaring at the Major. “If you choose to make no distinction between the habits of a bunch of savages and the behavior of civilized men, so be it, sir.”
“Major von Jonn, may I present Baron Hepplethong,” the Duchess of Cumberland said smoothly.
“Ah!” Major von Jonn said. “A pleasure, Baron. That’s a British name, isn’t it? From the Pict, I believe. It was only a few hundred years ago when your ancestors were painting themselves blue, wasn’t it?”
“Humph!” Baron Hepplethong said, and turned away.
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