“The French officers must have been pleased.”
“They were looking mighty smug. But you can also imagine how wild this horse was. Eyes rolling, foam flying—it was painful to watch.” Lambert frowned at the memory.
“Painful to handle him too, I suspect.”
“Painful to try, that’s for sure. Bite, kick, he did it all. While the boys from the show were deciding who would be the next to try to ride him, a stranger came up and asked if he could take a look at the roan. He wasn’t one of the officers and he wasn’t with our bunch. He was well dressed and mannerly, quite ordinary in a respectable way. Except there was a calm about that man that I had never run across before. Something special about how quiet he was. I can’t describe it any better than that. He asked if he could see to the roan. Something about the way he asked made everyone take a step back and let him. He didn’t make a sound. He hardly touched the horse. But there was true magic worked as he stood there. I’ve never been as sure of anything in my life.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“Nothing. No mumbo jumbo, no gestures. Nothing I can put into words. But there is no doubt in my mind that he did something. He took the reins away from the men who were trying to hold the roan. Then he just stood there, quiet and peaceful. At first the horse had the reins pulled tight, trying to back away from him, but little by little his head came down and his ears came forward. Pretty soon he came up square and stood there, calm as anything. Then the man ran his hand down the roan’s neck, from just behind his ears all the way down to his shoulder. The horse didn’t mind it. Didn’t mind anything. Just stood there, nice as pie.”
“Did he ride the horse himself?”
“Didn’t have to. He just patted the roan, handed the reins back to one of the officers, and walked away. That officer rode the horse around the ring a few times, just to see how he behaved. But from that moment on, that horse was tame.”
“Did your mysterious man get a reward?”
“No, and once he helped that horse, he didn’t stay around long either. Just as well, because a man with skill like that could have put our bronco busters clean out of business in under an hour.”
“My goodness. What makes you so sure he was using magic?”
“I can’t explain. It was a new kind of calmness he had. New to me. I never felt anything like it before. I never thought I’d feel anything like it again. I didn’t. Until I came to Glasscastle. Even then, it wasn’t until I heard the chanting the first time.” Lambert brought himself back to the present with a shake. “Why are we even discussing this? I’ll take your message to Fell, see what he says. If he wants to go riding around in that fancy motor car of your brother’s, I guess he will let you know.”
Jane’s scrutiny did not falter. “Robin told me a bit about how you came to be here. Glasscastle sent observers to a contest of marksmanship, looking for someone with a good eye.”
“The Sovereigns. You know, I thought it was named for royalty. More than one king, something like that,” Lambert confided. “I didn’t even know it was named after the prize money.”
“One hundred golden sovereigns for the best marksman in the country. A generous sum for an afternoon spent target shooting.”
“One afternoon of the year,” Lambert agreed, “and all it takes to win is a lifetime of preparation. Some of the finest shots in the world were there for the contest. Men who learned to shoot from their fathers, and their fathers had won the Sovereigns in their day. Made me wonder if everything isn’t handed down, father to son, the way Darwin says it is. Survival of the keenest eye.”
“Is that where yours came from? Did you inherit your keen eye from your father?”
“No, I don’t think so, for all he had a good one. I think I get it from my mother. To this day, she keeps the pests out of her garden with a Colt Peacemaker. Many is the time I remember she would look up from the laundry tub to see some foolish young jack rabbit, full of self-conceit and the neighbors’ carrots, come for a sniff round her peas or her cabbages. She’d dry her hands on her apron, take aim, and we’d have rabbit pie for dinner. One rabbit, one cartridge. That was her rule.”
“My goodness.”
“Her father was a gunner in the artillery. That’s where she had her eye from. I suppose everything is handed down, one generation to the next.”
“So you won the Sovereigns. Quite an honor.”
Lambert shrugged. “I only won because Miss Oakley doesn’t shoot any more. If she’d been there, things would have been different. I wonder what the Glasscastle men would have done then? Do you think they would have signed her up to help them with their research? I don’t.”
“The Agincourt Project.” Jane nodded. “Robin told me about it. Just a bit. Enough to keep me from asking awkward questions.” At Lambert’s look of skepticism, she went on. “I’m not trying to—buffalo you into thinking he told me more than he did. They went to the Sovereigns specifically to find the best shot they could. By studying the human mechanics of accuracy, they plan to enhance the accuracy of their device. What good is a cannon, no matter the size, if you can’t trust the accuracy of its aim?”
“It’s a cannon?” Lambert let all his uncertainty about the project show. “They haven’t told me any more than they’ve told you. Not as much, maybe. But I’m starting to wonder if anything they’ve told me is just the way they say it is.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that policy,” said Jane.
“Given Robin’s love of secrecy, the device could be anything. But I suspect that whatever the weapon may resemble, the degree of accuracy is vital. After all, you’re the only outsider they’ve consulted on the whole project. The one man with a skill so vital, he can’t be permitted to drink so much as a cup of coffee lest he spoil his aim. Is it true you can shoot the center out of an ace of spades at thirty paces?”
“No.” Lambert was honest. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised to hear Miss Oakley could do so. But if I can see my target, I can try to hit it.”
“According to Robin, if you try to hit it, you do hit it.”
“Depends on the weapon. Given a decent gun sight, I can do pretty well. Archery is hard. Can’t seem to get the feel of the bow. Voysey had me try a crossbow once. That was a little better. I wasn’t too excited the time he had me try throwing knives.”
Jane looked surprised. “It isn’t just guns, then?”
Lambert suppressed a smile. “I was at my best with a slingshot when I was a kid. Did my best work ever back then. Dead-eye Sam Lambert. Wasn’t a squirrel for miles could sleep through the night for worrying about me.”
“Does Robin know that? Did they test you with that one too?”
“It seems to have slipped their minds so far. They haven’t asked me to throw a fastball, either. I used to hope I’d be the next Christy Mathewson, but that doesn’t seem to be in the cards.” Lambert took pity on Jane’s confusion and explained. “Pitcher for the New York Giants. Finest right-hander in the game. A baseball player. Never mind.”
Jane looked only slightly less confused. “Oh. Baseball. That’s rounders, isn’t it?”
“Approximately.” Lambert rose. “I’ll go back to Holythorn and see what Fell thinks about another outing in your motor car.”
“Encourage him to accept. I’ll stay well within the speed limit this time. I promise.”
Lambert’s powers of persuasion went untried, as Fell wasn’t at Holythorn. Their quarters had been tidied up. Once again, only the tick of Fell’s clock provided any sign that the rooms were actually a place of human habitation. Lambert knew the rule. If Fell wasn’t sleeping, he was working. Without a pause, Lambert emerged again and headed for the Winterset Archive.
Despite the season, there were half a dozen undergraduates gathered at the entrance of the archive. They looked underfed, underslept, and moody. One had a scale model of an aeroplane in his arms, paper and balsa, as delicate as a box kite and even less useful. Lambert brushed past them and entered.
&
nbsp; As he climbed the creaky stairs up to Fell’s study, Lambert heard a substantial crash, as of a glass-fronted bookcase falling over. He took the rest of the stairs at a run.
“What the hell?” Lambert came through the half-open door of Fell’s study. At first he couldn’t see anyone, then he saw Fell was on the floor behind his desk, grappling with the man in the bowler hat. One bookcase had been knocked over in the struggle and the cascade of fallen books and broken glass added to the difficulties involved in wrestling beneath a large wooden desk.
Fell was not a tall man but he was wiry. Fighting on the floor minimized any disparity in strength, and he held his own against the intruder with pure doggedness, bad language, and an assortment of unsportsmanlike tactics.
Lambert waded into the struggle and pried the man off Fell. The bowler hat went flying as Lambert shook the man and demanded, “What’s going on here?”
Weasel-fast, the man turned in Lambert’s arms, landed a kick and a flurry of blows that doubled Lambert over gasping, and twisted away. His quick footsteps made the wooden steps squawk as he fled. Lambert caught breath enough to swear, looked at Fell, who seemed neither seriously injured nor particularly alarmed, and gave chase.
The steps squeaked as much for Lambert as they had for his quarry. The door at the foot of the stair was closing as Lambert reached it. Lambert emerged, elbowed past the undergraduates still loitering there, and stumbled down the stone steps outside. The bowler-hatted man had just left the gravel path to cut across Midsummer Green on his way to the great gate.
The whole world narrowed to panting breath and pounding steps as Lambert pursued the fleeing man at top speed. The yielding crunch of gravel beneath his feet gave way to the velvet softness of grass. Two strides and Lambert fell, wind knocked out of him, knees buckling beneath him. The world tilted and spun and dimmed at the edges as he fought for breath.
So this is why they warn us not to walk on the grass, Lambert thought, as he tried and failed to make his legs obey him. He couldn’t even make himself inhale. He twisted and gasped, crowing for air. From somewhere beyond the edge of his vision, footsteps neared. Strong hands braced him and helped Lambert scramble back to the gravel path.
After what seemed an endless time of choking and gasping, Lambert caught his breath and blinked up at Fell. “Thanks,” he tried to say, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper.
“Better?” Fell’s concern was clear, though his voice was as calm as ever.
“I’m not in strong convulsions yet. Whatever they are. Where did he go?” Lambert craned his neck to peer around. There was no one in sight but the huddle of undergraduates watching him, curious as a herd of steers.
“I have no idea.” Fell pushed him flat again. “Nor do I care, to be honest. Whoever he is, he seems able to come and go as he pleases. Let’s just assume he’ll be back the next time it suits him.”
“He attacked you.” Lambert decided that his ability to breathe was back to stay. He started to get up.
“Yes, I know.” Fell helped Lambert to his feet. “Extraordinary behavior.”
Lambert’s vision fogged as he stood and he lowered his head while he waited to recover. Magic was a fine thing to think about in the abstract. To experience it in person was bruising. In a few moments, his head cleared and he was able to think again. “I’ll notify the authorities.” Before he could take a step, Fell’s grip on his arm stopped him. “What is it?”
“Not now. I’ll see to all that later.” Fell turned back toward the Winterset Archive. “Come with me.”
Mystified yet obedient, Lambert trailed Fell back to his lair. There, amid the scattered debris of the attack, Fell picked up his toppled chair, dusted the seat, and offered it to Lambert. “You’ll feel better soon.”
Lambert frowned at Fell but took the offered chair. “I feel fine now,” Lambert lied. There was a headache gathering behind his eyes, the way the likelihood of thunder gathered when a summer afternoon grew hotter and more humid. He ignored it. He had his wind back, that was the important thing.
“Do you? That’s fortunate.” Fell peered under the desk. He found the bowler hat and inspected it inside and out. “Hm. Good quality.” He left the hat on his desk and started picking up papers from the floor.
“Don’t cut yourself.” Lambert looked around for something to use to clean up the broken glass. As cluttered as Fell’s study was, there was nothing remotely resembling a broom.
“Too late, I’m afraid.” Fell held up one hand for Lambert’s inspection. The scratches and cuts were minor but messy. “Nothing serious.”
“Exactly what happened, anyway?” Lambert demanded.
“I’m not quite sure. He wanted me to go with him.” Fell righted the bookcase and gingerly began to put shards of glass into the wastepaper basket. “He neglected to mention where.”
From the slight unsteadiness of Fell’s hands, Lambert could tell he was more upset than he let on. “Why? Who is he?”
“He didn’t mention that either. In fact, he hardly said a word.” More rummaging around under the desk and Fell came up with a gun in his hand. “He dropped this.”
Lambert sprang out of his chair and took the pistol away from Fell. “Watch where you point that thing.” He unloaded the weapon and put it carefully down beside the bowler hat. “Careless of him, leaving that behind.”
“It was.” Fell studied the pistol. “Careless of him to come back, for that matter.”
“But now we can be sure about what he was doing here before. He was looking for you.” Lambert rubbed his head. There was a spot over his left ear that was tender but he didn’t remember getting hit there. Already the details of the fight were beginning to blur.
“Yes. He wants me, specifically. I wonder why.” Fell was intent on the objects left behind. “Perhaps I should have played along until I found out more.”
“Bad idea.” Lambert felt his headache diversify to add a deep throb at the base of his skull.
“Perhaps.” Fell didn’t seem to be listening.
Lambert asked, “If that’s what happens when you walk on it, how do you ever mow the grass here?”
Fell gave Lambert a sharp look. “Are you quite certain you’re all right?”
“I am. Honest. I just wondered, that’s all.” Lambert felt sheepish. He hadn’t meant to blurt out his question that way. He hadn’t meant to say anything.
“The Fellows of Glasscastle take it in turns to tend the greens. It’s all part of the egalitarian nature of the place. Undergraduates chant to sustain the wards while the Fellows keep the gates and tend the grounds. It keeps us humble.” Fell seemed to believe every word of it.
To his own consternation, Lambert chortled. Humble? Fell? He bit the laughter back with difficulty. “Well, I don’t know about that, but the place does look nice.”
“Perhaps I should help you to the infirmary. We should have a doctor take a proper look at you,” said Fell. “It’s not a good idea, breaking the rules of Glasscastle.”
“I’m fine. I won’t do it again. I didn’t mean to do it in the first place. I got carried away. Hot pursuit and all that.”
Fell went back to studying the bowler and pistol, tugging at his mustache in concentration. “Strange that only you were affected.”
“Same as last time, the way he cut across the grass. Didn’t seem to bother the sidewinder at all.” Lambert wished he’d done more than grab the man’s collar and give him a shake when he had pulled him off Fell. A solid punch in the bread basket, for starters.
“Yet only a Fellow of Glasscastle may walk alone on the grass of Midsummer Green, or any other college quadrangle.”
“He didn’t look much like a Fellow of Glasscastle to me. More like a weasel.”
Fell arched an eyebrow. “That fellow was no Fellow of Glasscastle.” He scooped the cartridges up and put them in one pocket, stowed the pistol in another, and tucked the bowler under his arm. “Come along.”
Lambert winced as he got to his feet. His
muscles had begun to stiffen even in the short time he’d been seated. “Where are we going?”
“London,” said Fell. “It’s a good deal easier to hide in a big place than a small one. If you need me to explain why I want to hide, I will take you to the infirmary after all.”
“Oh, thank you for such concern.” Lambert didn’t bother to conceal his irritation. He reached in his breast pocket for Jane’s note. “Before we leave, you’d better read this.”
Fell read it and frowned. “I’ll wire her from town.”
“She’ll be disappointed.” Privately, Lambert thought Jane would be furious, but he knew the idea of Jane’s anger would neither impress Fell nor deter him.
“Unfortunate but unavoidable.” Fell dropped the note on his desk. “There’s a train in half an hour. Pack quickly.” As an afterthought, he retrieved the note and put it in his pocket, the one with the cartridges. “And do be sure to travel light.”
At a discreet distance, Jane followed Lambert from the Brailsford house back to the great gate. Wettest summer in years or not, it was a pleasant day, with a breeze out of the north to moderate the heat, and Jane had no difficulty in giving the impression she was merely out for a morning stroll.
At the gate, of necessity, Jane waited. If her guess was correct, Fell would try to elude her. If he chose to leave Glasscastle through Pembroke gate, he would succeed. But if, as was his apparent wont, Fell chose the great gate, she would have a chance to pounce upon him, and once she treated him to a brief scold on good manners, to pass along Faris’s message to him.
There were other possibilities. Lots. Lambert might persuade Fell to see her, even to accept her invitation. Fell might listen to Faris’s message with attentive courtesy. Pigs might actually fly. Jane was willing to keep an open mind. Or Lambert might fail to find Nicholas Fell at all. Fell might have gone to ground somewhere overnight. Or Fell might have seen the error of his ways and taken up the wardenship of his own free will.
A Scholar of Magics Page 13
