“As to the treaty’s importance,” Lord Peter said, “of itself, there is little; the Empire of the Azteques and the territories of New England and New France are in no way in contention at this time. But we fear that the hand—and right arm—of His Polish Majesty, King Casimir, is beginning to take an interest in the Western Continents.”
“Ah!” Lord Darcy said. It was really not surprising. The Polish Empire, under Casimir IX, was always looking for ways to tweak the Angevin Empire. And, if the tweak was successful, it would be followed shortly thereafter by a sharp blow. The Serka, the Polish Secret Police—the name came from a phrase meaning roughly “The King’s Right Arm”—could not be expected to allow the Angevin Empire’s hold on two entire continents to remain undisputed.
“We think we had better let you go now, Lord Darcy,” His Majesty said. “We are sure Your Lordship must have much to do before the ship leaves.”
“To whom shall I report, during the course of my investigation?” Lord Darcy asked.
“We have full confidence in our cousin the Duke of Arc, who is the Royal Governor of New England,” His Majesty said. “You may feel free to report fully to His Grace. You and Master Sean will probably be staying in the Residence in New Borkum.”
His Majesty rose, causing Lord Darcy and Lord Peter to scramble to their feet. “We also have full confidence in you, my lord, and we are certain it is well placed.” He extended his hand, and Lord Darcy took it and bowed.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.
His Majesty shook his head. “We are indeed fortunate,” he said. “We present our subjects with onerous and impossible tasks, at a moment’s notice, and they thank Us. Go with God, Lord Darcy.”
“I trust you won’t mind going back to your apartment in a covered meat-wagon?” Lord Peter asked. “It’s the best we could do on such short notice.”
CHAPTER FIVE
It was six in the evening when H.I.M. Steam Packet Aristotle drew alongside the Imperial Navy pier in the Arthur River. Lord Darcy and Master Sean waited on the main deck with the other passengers for the Nova Eboracum Port Admitting Officer to examine them before they were permitted to debark. On the pier below, all their luggage was being piled in neat rows at the foot of the gangway.
A wide wooden table had been erected beside the gangway for the Admitting Officer’s use, and several ship’s officers were waiting with the passengers.
Lady Ephram, a stout matron in her forties and the only woman passenger on the voyage, complained loudly to her husband while they waited. “I just don’t see why we have to go through this,” she said. “We are Angevin citizens, subjects of His Majesty, going from one part of His Realm to another. There are no such inspections when you go from France to England or to Belgium.”
“That’s so, my dear,” agreed her husband, a short man, even stouter than his wife. Lord Ephram was dressed in a bright scarlet tunic and green trowsers, and bore an unfortunate resemblance to a huge, overripe strawberry. “And, even if they need inspections for others, surely, as members of the nobility crossing on an Imperial Navy ship we should be exempt. Pure officiousness, I’m sure, my dear,” he said. “These colonials, you know. I shall write to The Courier about it.”
“These Imperial Navy steam packets take passengers as a courtesy, my lord, and not as a sign of status,” a tall, bearded man dressed in the powder-blue-and-gold uniform of a naval officer said mildly, taking his pipe out of his mouth and knocking it against a bulkhead-mounted ashtray. “The Admitting Officer is a New England Coast Guard officer, under the direct command of His Grace the Duke, and I’m sure they have excellent reasons for what they do.”
“You should not speak disrespectfully to the nobility, young man,” Lady Ephram told the officer, looking haughtily up at him. “I should report you to the captain.”
“I am the captain, my lady,” the officer told her, mildly puffing on his pipe.
The admitting officer, a husky little red-faced man with black hair, who wore the red-trimmed dark blue uniform of the New England Coast Guard, climbed up the gangway and strode to the group on the main deck. “Hi!” he said, waving a pouch full of forms at the passengers. “Welcome to New England. I’m Leftenant Assawatan, at your service. There are a few formalities that we must go through before you debark. Please be patient, I’ll keep you as brief a time as possible.
“First, a general speech of introduction and caution, which I must give to all who first come to these shores. While I’m giving it, why don’t you all fill out these forms. They’re self-explanatory.”
Leftenant Assawatan distributed the forms, and pencils for those without their own fountain pens, and then pushed himself up onto the table and sat there. “On the maps you see back home,” he told them, “the whole northern half of this huge continent, from the Isthmus of Von Helsing north, is labeled ‘New England,’ and the southern half, ‘New France.’ This is what we might call a polite fiction. In reality, the situation is not nearly that simple.
“‘New England’ is a group of Angevin colonies plastered haphazardly along the eastern shores of this vast continent, completely surrounded by aboriginal tribes. Most of the land around the more northern of these colonies is under the control of one or another of the Fifteen Nations, a loose confederation of native tribes. The ones in this immediate area—as a matter of fact, right on the other side of the Arthur River—are the Pequot and the Wappinger. Further inland, around the royal trading companies at FitzLeeber Land, Garretton, and Martensville, where I venture several of you are headed, you’ll meet up with the Mahican, the Mohawk, the Seneca, the Cayuga, and several lesser tribes.”
“Excuse me, Leftenant, but why this lesson in ethnography?” Lord Norman Scrivener asked, patting back his hair, which had become somewhat disarranged in the light wind.
“Because we have discovered that most of you have no idea of what it means to leave the boundaries of the Angevin Empire,” Leftenant Assawatan said bluntly. “Many heretofore useful, law-abiding citizens go into the wilderness and begin behaving like irresponsible fools. They get themselves in trouble; sometimes they get themselves killed. Well, that’s their business, if they so choose. But they also get the colony and the town they came from in trouble with the local tribes. If they have behaved like big enough fools, they give the whole Empire a black eye.”
Leftenant Assawatan looked around at his audience. Some were regarding him with an amused, tolerant stare; others appeared mildly frightened; the rest, including Lord Darcy and Master Sean, listened impassively but closely to his words. “Our job is to prevent that,” he continued. “So I should warn you; you are accountable for your actions even when out of the boundaries of the Imperial colonies. We are at peace with the Fifteen Nations, sort of, and will not look kindly on anyone who breaks that peace. And the other tribes, not part of the Fifteen Nations; well, the best that can be said of them is they’re unpredictable. If you get in trouble with one of them, there is little we can do to help you, no matter the right or wrong of the case.”
“You’re a native yourself, aren’t you?” Lady Ephram asked loudly.
“I am by ancestry,” Leftenant Assawatan affirmed. “Tuskegee. They live down by Nova Burgundia. My grandfather converted to Catholicism, and sent my father to school at St. Thomas’ Academy in London, and then on to Oxford. He, in turn, sent me when I was of age. But I’m the first to join the Coast Guard. At any rate, it is a good idea not to get into trouble with any of the native tribes; they are not all Catholic, and some of the native religions encourage practices that you don’t even want to know about.”
“You said the Government couldn’t protect us. Well, what about the Imperial Legion?” one of the passengers asked. “Are they not stationed over here?”
“Twelve companies of Legionnaires for the entire coast, from Nova Centium to Nova Hebridia,” the leftenant said, “and they are kept busy, believe me. Now—” he took out a card and read from it, “—the following items are forbidden by Imp
erial regulations, as you should have been informed before you left England: Firearms, aside from one sidearm and one hunting piece for personal use—which you will be asked to show when you leave, so you’d better not lose them; living plants; uncooked fruit or grain; animals, except dogs or licensed familiars; stonewort; magical paraphernalia, apparatus, goods or supplies, unless under the seal of a bishop and consigned to a licensed user or dealer, or in the personal possession or under the personal control of a properly licensed master or journeyman magician, wizard, or thaumaturge.
“If you have any of the proscribed items, please indicate them on the form, and state any special circumstance which would allow you to keep them in your possession. Otherwise, they will be confiscated and kept in bond here at the Coast Guard warehouse, and you can retrieve them as you leave. If the item in question is a living animal, you will be charged a reasonable board fee.”
“Stonewort?” Lord Darcy muttered.
“I’ll explain it to you later, my lord,” Master Sean whispered to him.
“Ah!” Lord Darcy said. “If it’s magical, don’t bother, Master Sean. I wouldn’t understand.”
The group filled out the forms, which merely asked for names, titles, professions, addresses, destination, expected length of stay, and next of kin. Leftenant Assawatan collected them all, and nodded. “That’s it,” he said. “Your luggage will be checked as you pick it up on the pier.”
“Excuse me, Leftenant, but what college?” Lord Norman Scrivener asked.
The leftenant turned to face him. “College?”
“At Oxford,” Lord Norman explained. “What college were you? I’m St. David, myself.”
“Magog,” the leftenant said. “Seventy-seven.”
“Ah!” Lord Norman said.
“You may all leave now, and I wish you a pleasant and successful stay. Enjoy New Borkum. Master Sean O Lochlainn, would you step over here for a second? There are a couple of additional forms you have to fill out in regard to your magical bag.”
As the rest of the passengers filed down the gangplank, Master Sean and Lord Darcy went over to the young officer. “Sorry to inconvenience you, Master Sean,” Leftenant Assawatan said. “And you must be Lord Darcy. I understand you were a Magog man yourself, my lord.”
“Fifty-four,” Lord Darcy said.
“And we still heard stories about you when I was there,” the leftenant said.
“The forms, Leftenant?” Master Sean asked.
“Ah, yes.” Leftenant Assawatan watched the last passenger descend the gangplank. “Actually, I was just sort of segregating you and Lord Darcy out of the herd, if you see what I mean. I have orders to take you two to the Residence, but not to make a fuss about it So, if you’ll please come with me . . .”
“As soon as we pick up our luggage,” Lord Darcy said.
“My men will have already loaded your luggage onto my launch,” Leftenant Assawatan told them.
“There’s a dozen people down there who will see us leaving with you,” Lord Darcy objected.
“I’m taking you to see the Bishop,” Leftenant Assawatan told him, “to get your—Master Sean’s—magical apparatus permit signed.”
“I see you’ve thought of everything,” Lord Darcy said.
“We try,” the leftenant said. “Actually, Master Sean will have to get his permit signed; something about verifying that he understands the different type of magic practiced here—I’m sure you know better than I what that’s all about, Master Sean—but ordinarily we would have trusted him to go by himself. Besides, your visit to the Residence will soon be known all over the island anyway. My instructions were only not to make a fuss about it, and so we won’t.”
“I see,” Lord Darcy said. “Tell me, Leftenant, do you have any idea of what this is about?”
“None at all, my lord,” Leftenant Assawatan said cheerfully. “When they want me to know, they’ll tell me.”
He escorted them down the gangway and over to the Coast Guard steam launch, which was across the pier. “Have either of you ever been here before?” he asked. “No? Well, the Residence is about two miles upriver. It’s one of the three largest structures on the island: the Residence, the Cathedral, and Fort St. Michael.”
“‘The Residence,’” Master Sean said, musingly. “That’d be your name for the Ducal Palace, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s so,” Leftenant Assawatan agreed. He gave the order to cast off, and shouted some hurried instructions to his small crew, then turned back to his guests. “I hope I have a chance to speak with you while you’re here, Lord Darcy,” he said. “Fellow alumni, and all that. Perhaps I could invite Your Lordship to dine with me in the officer’s mess sometime during your stay. And you too, of course, Master Sean.”
“It would be our pleasure,” Lord Darcy told the young officer.
“Are you going to be with us long?” the leftenant asked. “Are you here on His Majesty’s business, or your own?” He saw the slight frown pass over Master Sean’s face, which wiped the smile off his own. “Oh!” he said. “I’m terribly sorry. What a personal question to ask. I do apologize. How presumptuous of me. We’re so informal around here, and, with only each other to talk to, I sometimes forget my manners.”
“No, no, that’s quite all right,” Lord Darcy said, smiling. “As a matter of fact, we’re here for both business and pleasure, and for His Majesty’s business and our own. I have some small land holdings here—family inheritance, you know. They’re being run quite well by the factor, as far as I can tell; but there’s nothing like the personal touch once in a while. And, while we’re here, Master Sean is going to look into the state of forensic sorcery. He is a—”
”I know, believe me, I know all about Master Sean, in as much detail as a layman can understand,” Leftenant Assawatan said, laughing, “You’ll excuse me, Master Sean, I mean no disrespect, but Master Lord John Quetzal is a good friend of mine, and we dine together regularly. All I heard about is Master Sean O Lochlainn. Especially if I try to compliment him on something he has done well. ‘That was a nice bit of magic you used today,’ I’ll say. ‘If you think so, then you’ve never seen Master Sean O Lochlainn working,’ he’ll reply. Then he’ll describe something he saw you do in the classroom, or on a case, and it will sound like a miracle indeed. If you’re as good as Lord John thinks you are, Master Sean, then you’re no magician, you’re a saint!”
Master Sean came as close to blushing as Lord Darcy had ever seen. “Well,” he said, “His Lordship is one of my favorite pupils, and one of the best I’ve ever taught. Aside from his own native ability at witch-smelling, he’s just one of the best natural all-around magicians I know. Forensic magic will not be the poorer for his decision to practice it.”
“I’d tell him you said so, Master, only he wouldn’t be fit to live with for a week after,” Leftenant Assawatan said.
Lord Darcy watched with fascination as the noisy vessel chugged upstream toward the Residence. To the right, Fort St. Michael at the tip of Saytchem Island, and then a mile of farmland before the town of New Borkum started. To the left, a granite palisade separating the river from a thick virgin forest that came right to the cliff’s edge. Ahead of them a flat-bottom barge was gliding across the river toward the distant palisade, with no visible motive power.
“What is that?” Lord Darcy asked, pointing to the rectangular barge crossing their path.
“The Langert Street Ferry,” the leftenant told him. “It’s operated by ropes from below. Best and fastest way to cross the river, even if it is a little out of the way, being a bit south of town to be entirely convenient.”
In another ten minutes they had reached the Residence, a squat stone building that stretched out over several city blocks and couldn’t quite decide whether it was a palace or a fort. It had its own private dock, and a quarter-hour after they left the deck of the Aristotle, they were being ushered into the Throne Room, and the presence of His Grace, Duke Charles of Arc, Imperial Governor of New England.
The Throne Room was gay with color; crowded with courtiers in the multicolored splendor of the elaborate court garb, and stuffed with military officers in the rich dress-uniforms of a variety of services from a multitude of lands. There were also a sprinkling of plainly dressed, hard-bitten men who projected an air of competence that was as tangible as the scent of the courtiers.
Lord Darcy and Master Sean approached the throne and knelt on bended knee before it, in the thousand year-old ceremony of acknowledging their obedience to their sovereign, and his representative the Duke of Arc.
His Grace was a slight, handsome man in his early sixties, with the look of someone who led a full and active life and spent a great deal of time outdoors. At the moment he looked worried. “Welcome to Nova Eboracum, Lord Darcy, Master Sean O Lochlainn,” he said. “You have come at a propitious moment—for us, at least. But I fear that I may intrude upon your plans. When I heard of your impending arrival from your cousin, Lady Irene Eagleson, I arranged for you to be brought here from the ship. I trust you will forgive the needs of Government, my lord.”
“There has been a murder, I understand, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said, rising to his feet.
“Indeed,” His Grace said. “A vile and pointless crime has been perpetrated; one that could affect the relations between us and the Empire of the Azteques. And our own chief investigator, Major DePemmery, is in the neighborhood of Garretton, some three hundred miles west of here. I have sent a message to him, but it is unlikely that he has received it yet. I fear we must impose on you, Lord Darcy, and ask you to investigate this crime.”
“As Your Lordship requires,” Lord Darcy said, “we will, of course, comply. We can put off our personal business for the time being and devote ourselves to the Crown’s needs.”
“As you have for so many years, my lord, and, if the stories I have heard about you and Master Sean are true, so well. I have arranged for you to have a suite of rooms in the Residence. Lady Irene will show you to your chambers; I’m sure you and your cousin have a lot to talk over. When you are settled, I would speak with you. Shall we say at nine this evening, my lord?”
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