Master Sean’s star-tipped wand traced an intricate pattern in the air, and his voice, unexpectedly deep and sonorous, boomed across the clearing. A black-clad man popped into view, racing toward the bay. The man turned and gestured, and disappeared again, as a crack of lightning marked the clash of the two powerful spells.
Lord John Quetzal strode into view from the far end of the beach. Arms upraised, he wielded a serpent-headed wand in his left hand and a thin, silver-bladed sword in his right. He spat out two sharp words, and the beach turned dark, as though the magical light had gone out just there and nowhere else. But in the dark, the invisible man suddenly became visible, glowing with an eerie light as he raced toward the water.
The man in black stopped his flight and turned, pulling from his cloak a stubby wand tipped with a two-headed hawk. He raised it and gestured toward Lord John.
A great quiet fell over the earth, and it felt, to those who were watching, as though the two antagonists were far larger than they were, as though they somehow took up half of the night sky, and their shadows covered the world. The man in black became a huge hawk, who soared into the sky and turned to come screaming down on the giant figure that was Master Lord John Quetzal. Lord John raised his silver sword and held it ready as the hawk swooped.
What the men frozen in place watching this battle saw—a giant hawk glowing with unnatural light, a giant man gleaming in silver like his sword—was the visual symbol for the magical reality of the battle. Master Sean, watching from the edge of the forest, saw it as quite something else. He was powerless to interfere, since any spells he cast now would endanger Lord John as much as the magician in black. But he wove his spells carefully as he watched, to ensure that if Lord John faltered, he could take over and defeat this powerful adversary.
But he knew that if Lord John faltered, Master Sean’s spells would do his courageous student no good. In that second he would be dead. Master Sean could avenge but not save the young Mechicain magician.
The hawk reached Lord John, and man and bird met with a shattering blow that sounded like a mighty peal of thunder and shook the surrounding earth. In Nova Eboracum, four miles away, people awakened and peered out their windows and wondered at the noise.
The two figures separated, and the bird fluttered to the ground some distance from Lord John. It could be seen now that the silver sword in Lord John’s right hand was broken. He flung it away.
Master Sean knew that because of the weave of power, Lord John could not change hands with his serpent wand, and was now forced to wield it with his left hand—as the giant hawk leapt across the short distance between them to renew the attack.
The serpent wand enlarged, and became the serpent, which rose to meet the attack and wrapped itself in mighty coils around the bird.
With beak and talon, the bird ripped at the enveloping snake, but it was slowly beaten down—choked—strangled—enveloped in the constricting coils of the serpent; and it fell to the ground—
—as Master Sean remembered that Lord John Quetzal was left-handed!
The perspective changed: The snake and the bird receded into the depths of whatever dimension they had emerged from, and the vision became that of two men, each sitting on the beach, about ten yards apart, breathing heavily and glaring at each other.
Each of the two fighters, a powerful magician, was a match for the other, and the furious psychic battle that had just been waged left them both exhausted and neither a winner.
But Master Sean quickly stepped into the breach, and muttered the words of power that would compel his own spells into being.
The man in black threw up a previously prepared warding spell as Master Sean’s magic began its weave about him. The spell could not last more than a few seconds, but in that short time—
—the man in black drew a .40 caliber MacGregor pistol from beneath his cloak and blew his brains out.
“Well, I’ll be—” Master Sean said.
Lord Darcy stepped up to him. “You did what you could, Master Sean,” he said. “Nobody could have prevented this. And perhaps it is better this way. You’d better go see to Lord John; the lad may need your help.”
“Nay, he’s fine,” Master Sean said. “And a fine job he just did, too.” But nonetheless he hurried down to the beach, as the Legionnaires began rounding up the surviving henchmen of the man in black.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I have had many shocks in my lifetime,” Duke Charles said, “But I’ll match the past few days against any of them. First, Lord Darcy dies, and then he comes back to life; and now this!” He turned to the investigator. “You are going to have to explain, Lord Darcy. I shall have to file a report to His Majesty, and I can’t put in ‘and Lord Darcy waved his hand, and all was light.’ I must have some idea of where the light came from.”
It was the next evening, and Duke Charles had waited patiently all day, while the principals of last night’s action had gotten a few hours sleep—at his insistence—before reporting to him. But he was not prepared to wait any longer.
They were gathered around the great table in the duke’s private dining room, all who were intimately involved in the affair: Lord Darcy, Master Sean, Lord John, Father Adamsus, Lady Irene, and the duke himself.
“The power of the Serka is broken in New England, at least for now,” Duke Charles said. “And I assure you that I’ll see that it has no chance to rebuild. We have rounded up everyone of importance, based on the evidence you collected and the information from Lady Irene. Those who were not caught at the gun cache were arrested quietly in their homes. We will be some time questioning them. By the time we’re finished, with the aid of a few arcane spells that our inquisitor uses, we’ll know as much about the Serka’s New England operations as they do. I fear I have been lax, but I shall not be so again.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Lord Darcy said. “It has been building for years, and it was most cleverly done.”
“But why were those two poor lads murdered in the temple?” Father Adamsus asked, “and why were their hearts ripped out?”
“I think we must assume,” Lord Darcy said, “that the second victim, the one found in the secret room, was an Azteque agent. He had discovered something about the hidden guns, and brought the Prince out to see it for himself. That’s the only reason I can think of that an Azteque prince would be in a secret room with an apparent Mohawk. We can get that verified by Lord Lloriquhali, who should recognize him. But, at any rate, somehow they discovered the secret room, and they were murdered for it.”
“But why was the body of the Prince put in the temple, if he was murdered below?” Father Adamsus asked.
“Well, Father,” Lord Darcy said, “it was to achieve just what was achieved: Nobody looked for a secret room. The killer couldn’t know that the Prince had told no one of his impending trip to the pyramid. If he had disappeared while supposedly at the pyramid, then a search would have been conducted for him, which would have included a magical investigation of the pyramid itself—which probably would have uncovered the secret room before the smugglers had a chance to clear it out. Therefore they couldn’t leave the Prince’s body in the room, and they couldn’t dispose of it in any way, because a search would still uncover the secret room, even if it failed to turn up the body. But leaving it on the altar certainly diverted everybody’s attention from a possible secret room within the pyramid.”
“That’s so,” the duke agreed.
“And if anyone missed the other victim, why all the better; it would leave the clear implication that he had killed the Prince, and then fled from his crime.”
“Then the ripping of the victim’s heart out was just to add verisimilitude to our finding the Prince’s body on the altar?” Duke Charles asked.
“On the contrary, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said. “The removal of the victim’s heart was the only truly essential act aside from the murder itself. Had I understood that, I would have solved the case much earlier.”
“I
t was essential?” Lord John asked, sounding puzzled. “The killer had to do it?”
“That is so,” Lord Darcy said. “To understand the crime, you must understand that.”
“If you wish us to understand, my lord,” the duke said crossly, “then you must explain.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said. “Picture the scene. The murderer is in the secret room. He is startled by the sound of footsteps coming down the staircase. Prince Ixequatle’s companion must have observed the opening of the concealed door, and learned how to do it. Perhaps he was in hiding. Perhaps he was undercover, as one of them; we may never know.”
“The missing hearts, my lord,” the duke reminded him.
“Of course. The murderer is confronted by the Azteque prince, who recognizes him. His identity and his secret are at risk all at once. Even though he is a master magician—as events turn out—he has no self-protection spells ready. Besides, using magic would leave traces that another master could detect. So he pulls his sidearm and puts a bullet into the chest of the Prince and his companion. He is an expert shot, and they each die instantly.”
“And then?” It was Lady Irene.
“And then he takes an obsidian-bladed knife—probably from the Prince’s belt—and cuts his victims’ hearts out. He has to; since the Prince’s body must be found, he has no choice.”
“Aye, my lord, of course!” Master Sean said, smacking his right fist into his left palm, “The MacGregor!”
“That’s it exactly, Master Sean,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Our killer, the secret head of the Serka in New England, the secret master magician, the brilliant Count Maximilian de Maisvin, confidant of the duke, is a holder of the King’s MacGregor. He could not allow those bullets to be found. He carried what was most probably the only .40 caliber handgun in all of New England—the King’s own presentation weapon. When the chirurgeon removed the bullet, he would instantly be found out.”
“Well, I’ll be—” the duke said. “He had to cut out the hearts. Indeed he did! Why, it’s obvious, now that you’ve pointed it out.”
“He must have been a double agent, planted many years ago,” Lord Darcy said. “He clearly received his magical education and his training in espionage in Poland before he came here. We will have to find out where the title ‘Count de Maisvin’ came from, but it is almost certainly not his original name.”
“He took the Oath of Loyalty,” the duke said, “He must have used one of his magical tricks to evade it.”
“I don’t think so, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said. “He used his magical abilities to alter the spells protecting the pyramid, but I don’t think he could affect the loyalty oath.”
“He could not, my lord,” Master Sean stated positively.
“Then—”
”It was the wording of the oath that protected him,” Lord Darcy said. “Remember, de Maisvin was a spy, not a traitor. When he swore loyalty to his sovereign, he meant it. His sovereign was Casimir the Ninth. If I were you, I would redo the oath, and be a bit more specific.”
“I see,” His Grace said thoughtfully.
“When did you suspect him?” Lady Irene asked.
“My attention was drawn to him early. He seemed too involved in the investigation for someone who was not an investigator.”
“He said he wanted to help—” His Grace said.
“I’m sure he did, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy agreed.
“But he was with us when we discovered the body,” Father Adamsus said. “How could he—”
”The killing happened that morning,” Lord Darcy said, “several hours before you arrived. De Maisvin was probably seeing to the removal of the last of the weapons. The Prince and his companion arrived, and were killed. De Maisvin cut out their hearts, placed the Prince on the altar stone, and then he and his confederates rowed back to the mainland with the last of the smuggled weapons. While his minions concealed the weapons in the clearing, de Maisvin rode to the Langert Street Ferry and crossed just in time to meet you at the cutter and head back to the island for the exorcism ceremony.”
Father Adamsus shook his head. “It certainly was fortuitous that you came to New England at this time,” he said. “The workings of the Lord are mysterious.”
“They are,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Lady Irene gave me the two clues that made me look most closely at the idea of de Maisvin being the killer.”
“I did?” Lady Irene asked.
“Just so,” Lord Darcy said. “The first was when you told me that the head of the Serka had not asked you to find out how the investigation was going, despite the fact that your, ah, cousin, was heading it. That could only be because he had a very good source of information himself; and very few men answered that description. The second was when you were ordered to kill me.”
“What did that tell you?” the duke asked. “That you were getting too close?”
“No,” Lord Darcy said. “As far as de Maisvin knew, I wasn’t close at all. It was because I wouldn’t withdraw the guards from the temple, and incidentally the clearing where they were camping—right over forty cases of smuggled automatic rifles. As de Maisvin had asked me to do earlier that day. And as de Maisvin could do on his own authority once I was dead. I had a hint of that when I visited the area and noticed that the guards had set up their tents all around the perimeter of the clearing, and had left the center clear. There was a mild avoidance spell on the center of the clearing, beneath which the guns were concealed. De Maisvin had to get those guns out and to his restless natives before the Azteque retinue left for home.”
Lady Irene stood up. “This has all been very interesting,” she said. “I believe there is an ancient Chinese curse: ‘May you live in interesting times.’” She turned to Lord Darcy. “I’m pleased, my lord, that you are still alive,” she said. “Very pleased—Cousin. Let us speak of it later.”
“I shall look forward to it, my lady,” Lord Darcy told her.
“Well, Lord Darcy, I, for one, am glad that you and Master Sean happened to visit us when you did,” Duke Charles said. “If it wasn’t for the two of you, His Majesty’s New England Territory would have been endangered. The King shall read of my high regard for each of you, in my report.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said.
“Only did my job, Your Grace,” Master Sean said, looking embarrassed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“We are glad you are back with Us, my lord,” King John said, in the small, private interview chamber on the fifth floor of the private quarter of Winchester Palace. “It causes unrest among the criminal population of England and France when they know you’re away, and forces Our constabulary to work long hours to prove that crimes can still be detected and solved in your absence.”
Lord Darcy chuckled. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said. “I was a bit slow on that one, but de Maisvin had me fooled for a while. A very likable man.”
“He had us all fooled,” the King said. “To think that he was one of the sixty-four men who carry the MacGregor .40 caliber. For exemplary service in the Germanys. We’ll have to have someone go over those records and see just how he was serving then, and how successful he was at it.”
“Incidentally, Your Majesty, the Gemini Secret—”
”Yes?” The King said.
“Your Majesty should tell Lord Peter to be more subtle. When I meet a lad at the Residence in Nova Eboracum who has a twin brother here at the Palace, and I remember the natural telepathic affinity of many identical twins; really, Your Majesty—Gemini?”
“We see your point,” the king said. “Let Us hope, my lord, that few others are as perceptive. Now, is there anything We can do for you, my lord, in return for the inconvenience and haste with which you were thrust into this? And as a reward for your further service to the Empire?”
Lord Darcy thought for a minute. “Not for me, Your Majesty,” he said finally. “But there is something.”
“Yes? Don’t make Us fish it out of you, my
lord. What is it? As long as it doesn’t dig too deeply into the privy purse, it’s yours.”
“Not mine, Your Majesty,” Lord Darcy said. “I was just thinking—isn’t it about time that Master Sean received some tangible recognition for his services to the crown?”
“We should say so, my lord,” the king agreed. “What did you have in mind? A purse of gold? A small cottage? What could a magician use?”
“I was thinking, Your Majesty, of a knighthood.”
“Well!” the king said. “A good idea, my lord. He shall be on the next honors list. We shall make him a Knight—no, a Knight-Commander of the Golden Leopard. Master Sir Sean O Lochlainn, K.C.G.L. It rolls of the tongue, doesn’t it? We like it, my lord. We like it!”
“So do I, Your Majesty,” Lord Darcy said. “So do I.”
BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY MICHAEL KURLAND
The Princes of Earth: A Science Fiction Novel
A Study in Sorcery: A Lord Darcy Novel
Ten Little Wizards: A Lord Darcy Novel
The Trials of Quintillian: Three Stories of Rome’s Greatest Detective
Victorian Villainy: A Collection of Moriarty Stories
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The author of over thirty novels and a melange of short stories, articles, and other stuff, MICHAEL KURLAND has been writing professionally for over three decades. His stories are set in epochs and locations from Ancient Rome to the far future—anyplace where the reader won’t spot the anachronisms too easily. His works have appeared in Chinese, French, Italian, Spanish, German, Swedish, Polish, Portuguese, Japanese, Czech, and some alphabet with a lot of hooks and curlicues. They are believed to be the fragments of one great opus, a student of the Untermensch. He has been nominated for a Hugo, two Edgars, and the American Book Award, and various book clubs have picked up various of his books. More can be learned at his website: www.michaelkurland.com
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