“Master Raimun DePlessis? Isn’t that the sorcerer who was murdered in a bakery? What do you mean ‘disliked’?”
“Yes, that’s the man. I’m not sure what he meant by ‘disliked.’ He just had the feeling that someone on the train didn’t like him.”
“Well, someone certainly didn’t like him!” Mary of Cumberland said.
“That is true,” Sir Darryl said, putting his glass down on the small, inlaid table that stood between their chairs. “I never made the connection until you just said that. Oh, my dear, I’m afraid I have been badly remiss. I should have told Lord Darcy this some time ago.”
“Well, you can make up for it now. Who was it that didn’t like Master Raimun?”
Sir Darryl shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Someone in his compartment, apparently. He left his compartment to come sit with me because he said he couldn’t stand the mental, ah, aura, he was getting from this person. But he said he couldn’t tell who the person was.”
“Do you remember who was in his compartment?”
“I’m afraid I never knew,” Sir Darryl told her. “We talked about...”He paused in mid-sentence and stared, stricken, at Mary of Cumberland. “Oh, my dear, my dear,” he said. “I have been remiss! Your Grace, you must take me to Lord Darcy right away. I have something to tell him. Something of the utmost importance. How silly of me not to have thought of it.” He stood up and looked around, too distracted to take note of what he was seeing. “Who would have thought,” he said. “And to think I have an appointment—That explains—Of course! Where’s my jacket? We must go right away!”
“Of course, Sir Darryl,” Mary of Cumberland said, putting her glass down and rising from her chair. “Right now. What have you remembered?”
“I believe I know who is killing those poor sorcerers,” Sir Darryl told her. “And why. And even how—or at least how he is luring them to their deaths. We must get to Lord Darcy before someone else is killed.”
“You know who the next victim will be?” Mary of Cumberland asked.
Sir Darryl paused for a second in thought. “Yes,” he said. “I believe I do.”
“We’d better do something to warn him, then,” Mary of Cumberland said. “Who is it?”
“Me,” Sir Darryl told her.
* * * * * * *
Lord Darcy and the Chevalier d’Espergnan crossed the outer bailey of Arthur Keep and knocked at the door of the Stephainite monastery. “Is Count d’Alberra here?” Lord Darcy asked the brown-robed novice who answered the door.
“This way, my lord,” the novice said, ushering them inside and down a stone-walled corridor.
Count d’Albeira’s clinic was now housed in several rooms in the monastery; a light green waiting room, a private office, and a treatment room. A white-robed nurse smiled up at them from behind her desk in the waiting room as Lord Darcy and Sir Raoul entered. “Good afternoon,” she said, “have you an appointment?”
“Good afternoon,” Lord Darcy said, smiling a wide smile back down at her. “I’m Lord Darcy, Chief Investigator for the Court of Chivalry.” He took out his black credential case and showed her the card. “I’d like to see the Count for a few minutes. I’ll be brief, I promise.”
“Gracious!” the nurse said, putting her hand to her mouth in an involuntary gesture. “Is there any trouble?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Lord Darcy assured her. “Count d’Alberra may have witnessed an event that I’m investigating. I have a few routine questions for him. The Count knows me; just tell him I’m here.”
“Well...” The nurse glanced at the large standing clock in the corner. “The Count has ten more minutes with his current patient. You’ll have to wait until after that. We have strict instructions never to interrupt the Count during a session. Not for anything!”
“Fair enough,” Lord Darcy agreed. “We’ll wait.” He gestured Sir Raoul to a seat, and dropped into the seat next to him. With one lean leg crossed over the other, he relaxed and looked around him. The waiting room was carefully and cleverly furnished and decorated to put the waiting patients at their ease. The paintings on the wall were all bright splashes of cheerful color, in the new “Balanced Masses” concept, with form a secondary consideration. The tables and chairs were light-colored and lightweight, less oppressive to a troubled mind than heavy, somber furniture. It was no doubt very modern, very well thought out, Lord Darcy reflected, but it certainly did look out of place in a monastery.
Ten minutes later Count d’Alberra stuck his head out of the right-hand inner door. “Have I patients waiting, Demoiselle Deville?”
“Lord Batheskill is due shortly, my lord,” the nurse told him. “And his lordship would like to speak to you.” She nodded toward Lord Darcy.
“Merely some routine questions, Count d’Alberra,” Lord Darcy called cheerfully.
“Lord Darcy, isn’t it? Very well,” the Count said, looking slightly cross. “But not in the treatment room. Come into my office.”
As Count d’Alberra crossed into his office, Lord Darcy leaned over to the Chevalier d’Espergnan. “Is that him?” he whispered. “Is that the Italian fellow you saw in the hall?”
“It looks like him,” Sir Raoul whispered back, “but I can’t be sure. It’s been a month, Your Lordship. And I wasn’t paying that much attention to his appearance.
“But it could be him?”
“Yes, my lord, it could well be.”
“Thank you,” Lord Darcy said. “Wait here for me.” He got up and followed Count d’Alberra into his office.
Count d’Alberra’s office was not at all light or comforting; that was reserved for the waiting room and the treatment room. The office furniture was heavy and imposing, of dark woods and angular corners. A cluster of framed diplomas and certificates hung on the wall, professing, in their Latinate phrases, the training and expertise of the nobleman sitting behind the desk.
“And what can I do for you, my lord?” Count d’Alberra asked, his elbows on his desk and his interlaced fingers under his chin.
“You were in the Gryphon d’Or about a month ago, my lord?” Lord Darcy asked.
“The Gryphon d’Or! Oh, yes—that inn in Tournadotte. Yes, it would be about a month ago now. Why?”
“We are investigating a murder that took place there at about that time.”
Count d’Alberra’s hands dropped to the desktop. “A murder? But no! How can this be? What a dreadful thing. Who was it that was killed?”
“One of the guests,” Lord Darcy told him, “and one of the employees. We are trying to find out whether anyone who was staying at the inn at that time saw anything, ah, unusual. Something that seemed, if ever so slightly, out of the ordinary.”
Count d’Alberra looked thoughtful for a minute, stroking his beard with his right hand, and then shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot help you, my lord. It was quite an uneventful evening.”
“You were only there one night?”
“That’s correct.”
“Could you outline for me what you did and who you saw during the course of the evening?”
Count d’Alberra shrugged an expressive Italian shrug. “I did nothing of note, and I saw no one. I ate dinner. I went to bed.”
“Did you go to bed alone?”
Count d’Alberra slapped the desktop with his palm in mild astonishment. “Well!” he said. “There’s an example of your famous Norman directness.”
“I’m sorry, Count, if it seems to be a tactless or impolite question,” Lord Darcy said, leaning forward and staring intently at the Count, “but I have a reason for asking.”
“Tell me the reason,” Count d’Alberra said firmly, “and, perhaps, I’ll give you an answer.”
“You were seen, that night, retiring with a young demoiselle.”
“I see,” the Count said. “And what does the demoiselle say about it?”
“She is dead.”
“Dead?” The Count slumped in his chair briefly, and then straightened up. “You mean
she—it was she—the one who was killed?”
“If the demoiselle you took to your chamber was the one I suspect, yes, she was murdered that night.”
“Incredible. So young. So alive. Who would do a thing like that?”
“So you did take the young demoiselle to your room?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Need you ask?”
“I mean after. What happened?”
Count d’Alberra shrugged. “I gave the lass a silver sovereign and sent her on her way. There was, apparently, someone else she intended to, ah, visit that evening.”
“I see,” Lord Darcy said. “So it was a simple commercial arrangement, was it?”
“My dear Lord Darcy,” the Count said with the patience of one explaining to a small child, “I had just met the demoiselle that evening, after all. I wasn’t in love with her, nor she with me. She wanted money, and I wanted, ah, comfort. We both got what we wanted. Fair’s fair.”
“I didn’t mean to sound judgmental, Count d’Alberra,” Lord Darcy said. “It’s not that at all. You don’t know who she was going to see after she left you?”
“I do not.”
“I see. Well, thank you very much.” Lord Darcy got up and walked to the door. “There may be a few more questions,” he said, turning around in the doorway. “Thank you for your time.”
“I only wish I could have told you more,” Count d’Alberra said. “That poor girl!”
The Count came to the door of his office behind Lord Darcy. His next patient was in the waiting room when Lord Darcy came out, staring at a painting of what appeared to be a large red cloud being attacked by smaller green and purple pieces of fruit. Count d’Alberra called him into the treatment room, and nodded good-bye to Lord Darcy.
* * * * * * *
“If you will keep trying to locate Lord Darcy,” Sir Darryl Longuert said to Mary of Cumberland, “have him meet me in, let me see, in Marquis Sherrinford’s office. I will have news for him. Perhaps more than that.”
“Where are you going?” Mary of Cumberland asked. They had traced Lord Darcy as far as the Sword in the Stone, and were just finishing cups of caffe they had ordered when they found that the trail ended there.
“I have an appointment,” Sir Darryl said.
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
“Oh no, my dear, it’s quite unsafe actually. But I rather think I’m not the one who will be surprised.”
“Perhaps I should go with you,” Mary of Cumberland offered. “Or we could get a guard, if you think I’d be in the way.”
“It’s not that, my dear. But I really am quite capable of taking care of myself—now that I know that care need be taken. And what I am hoping will happen won’t happen if you’re along.”
“If you say so, Sir Darryl,” Mary of Cumberland agreed grudgingly. “I will go in search of Lord Darcy. But please—take care of yourself.”
“I promise,” Sir Darryl assured her. “Now you go along. I have some overdue business to attend to.” He watched her walk away for long enough to assure himself that she was walking away, and then, after glancing at his watch, headed off in the opposite direction.
The herb garden was in a little courtyard flanked on one side of the Arthur Keep kitchens and on the other by the windows of the Offices of State—the Lord Chamberlain’s office and the seneschal’s office, and on the floor above them, the private offices of the King-Emperor.
Sir Darryl arrived for his appointment in the cloistered walk by the herb garden right on time. One should not be late for destiny. He looked around. There was no one else in sight, which was not surprising. People were not encouraged to rest in the herb garden; first, the herbs were actually used by the kitchens, and second, neither the Lord Chamberlain nor His Majesty were particularly fond of noises outside their windows.
A minute later he heard a rustling behind him. “Afternoon Sir Darryl,” a thin, whiny voice said close to his ear. “Don’t turn around.”
“And why not?” Sir Darryl asked without turning around. Mastering all of his considerable self-control, he held himself in check.
A hand was laid on his shoulder, and a coil of something cold was at his neck. After a moment he felt a slight tugging at his jacket lapel. “I’m going to kill you,” the voice said, “and I’m going to watch you die. You deserve death. I got what I deserved, Sir Darryl, and now it’s time for you to get what you deserve.”
“I don’t think—”
“Run, Sir Darryl!” the voice commanded. “Run! Maybe you can save yourself.”
“I think I’ll continue to stand here,” Sir Darryl said calmly.
“You won’t run,” the voice yelled, rising in inflection until it was almost a screech. “Then I’ll have to kill you as you stand here!”
Sir Darryl wheeled around, to face a medium-sized, stocky man with very bright eyes, who had just pulled a large knife from his belt. “Die, damned wizard,” the man yelled, thrusting savagely at the sorcerer’s chest.
Sir Darryl made a slight gesture, and the knife flew into the air. The man screamed, a long, animal scream, and lunged at Sir Darryl’s throat with outstretched hands.
Sir Darryl made another gesture.
Sir Darryl stepped aside. The man, frozen in position, his arms outstretched, his face fixed in a feral grin, fell into the basil.
“I think you’ll be that way for a while, my man,” Sir Darryl said to the living statue with a satisfied smile. “And let this be proof to you that a warned sorcerer is an armed sorcerer. I’ll send someone for you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They were in the inner room of Marquis Sherrinford’s offices; Lord Darcy, Lord Peter, and a masked man. The man across from Lord Darcy wore his domino mask with easy grace, although it looked particularly out of place on his square, stocky face.
“Has Lord Peter had a chance to explain what we need from you?” Lord Darcy asked.
“He has not, my lord,” the man answered in a gruff voice, which Lord Darcy suspected was not his natural one.
“He only arrived a moment before Your Lordship,” Lord Peter explained. “And he can only stay for a few minutes, lest they get suspicious.”
“There is small chance of that,” the masked man said. “But in this business small chances have a way of being cumulative, and even small mistakes are often fatal.”
“In that case, ah, Sir...”
“You may, without error, call me ‘my lord,’ My Lord Darcy,” the masked man said.
“Well, my lord, there are a few questions I would like to put to you.”
“So I understand,” the masked man said dryly, “else I would not be here.”
“Are you aware of any threat against the person of His Majesty?” Lord Darcy asked.
“His Majesty?” The man looked surprised. “To which ‘His Majesty’ do you refer?”
“John of England.”
“I feared that you meant that. No, I am not aware of any such threat. And since clearly you are, I can only hope and pray you are wrong.”
“Would you know if there were a Polish plot against the Angevin Empire?” Lord Darcy asked.
“There are always Polish plots against the Angevin Empire,” the masked man said. “Were it not so, I could return to my little home in Kent and raise lilacs. But a plot against the life of John the Fourth, I might not hear about.”
Lord Peter poured out three glasses of a heavily spiced wine of Picardy which was supposed to ward off chill, and passed them out. “His lordship’s sources are limited,” he told Lord Darcy, “being with the retinue of His Majesty of Courlandt. What the King, his father, does or orders done is not always related to the son.”
“That is so,” the masked man agreed. “The Crown Prince is regarded as something of a liberal, and is viewed with distrust by the Crown Council, and the Serka ruling committee.”
“Do you know anything about the Serka?’ Lord Darcy asked.
“Oh, yes,” the masked man
said. “You see, I am a Serka agent planted in the staff of His Majesty the Crown Prince. Not that they tell me anything I don’t have to know.”
Lord Darcy stared curiously at the man. The raw courage that lay behind that mask must be considerable, he reflected. And it was not for him to risk it unnecessarily. “One final question,” he said. “Does the Serka have any magical devices designed for laymen to use? Things where the spell is operable by someone without the Talent?”
“Oh, yes,” the masked man said. “There are all sorts of magical devices for Serka agents to use in the field, although we come equipped with plenty of our own sorcerers. There are two with us now, just to redo all the Angevin spells and make sure it is impossible to sneak up upon His Majesty. And, I suspect, to test the quality of the Angevin spells and write a report for the Serka.”
“Does the Serka possess a device—like a blanket—with an avoidance spell woven into it?”
The man nodded. “It’s used for assassination,” he said. “If you bury a body with one of those over it, it will decompose very thoroughly before it is found.”
“Unless a dog happens to chase a rabbit over it,” Lord Darcy commented. “Thank you, my lord. You have been a great help.”
The man bowed slightly. “I don’t see how, but I’m glad,” he said.
“What have you learned?” Lord Peter asked, aware that Lord Darcy’s words were accurate, and that something in this brief conversation had given Lord Darcy a key to the puzzle.
“I’ve learned that the dying words of Goodman Albert Chall were not the rambling nonsense that they sounded,” Lord Darcy said. “And I’ve learned that there really is a threat. But—”
“My lords! My lords!” came the sudden call from the main office outside.
“That’s the Duchess of Cumberland,” Lord Darcy said. “She was doing some investigative work for me.” He rose. “She wouldn’t be so insistent were it not important.”
Lord Peter nodded to the masked man, who disappeared through a side door. “Ask her in, my lord,” he said.
Lord Darcy opened the door. “Your Grace,” he said. “What is it?”
“Oh, my lord, I’m glad I’ve found you,” Mary of Cumberland said, panting to catch her breath. “I’ve been looking everywhere. I think Sir Darryl Longuert has gone off to meet the killer!”
Ten Little Wizards: A Lord Darcy Novel Page 20