“Belief?” Father Adamsus looked puzzled.
“Yes. You see, in an exorcism you must say, with all your heart, ‘begone spirits—return here no more.’ This is one of the key exhortations, is that not so?”
“In Latin,” Father Adamsus said, nodding his head. “For some reason most creatures of the demi-monde seem to respond better to Latin.”
“And you must mean it,” Lord John said.
“Absolutely,” Father Adamsus agreed.
“But, when the priest-magician says it, the priest in him means it, but the magician in him is whispering ‘now wait a minute—there are a few more questions I’d like to ask.’”
Master Sean chuckled. “Aye, that’d be so,” he agreed. “Cats and sorcerers are more prone to die of curiosity than anything else.”
Lord Darcy was prowling around the room, bent over, with his glass in his hand. He examined the bare stone floor and walls of that ancient temple, with the rigorous care and attention to detail that he always paid to the immediate area in which a crime has been committed. “Lord John,” he said, “would you mind telling me just what steps you took upon discovering the body?”
“First, I sent Lord de Maisvin back with the cutter, to notify the authorities and to bring back a chirurgeon,” Lord John replied. “Then I examined the body and the area around it for any physical clues. I discovered little beyond the obsidian-bladed knife found by the body. Father Adamsus was good enough to stay with me and verify my notes, of which there are but a scant half-page of any value, I’m afraid.” Lord John shook his head ruefully.
“Ah, well, you can’t very well find what isn’t there,” Master Sean said. “Sometimes it’s like that.”
“It’s true,” Lord John agreed, “but you can’t help asking yourself whether this is one of those times, or whether you’re overlooking something that someone cleverer or more experienced would find. At least I can’t.”
Lord Darcy turned to look at the young Mechicain forensic sorcerer. “I trust you will keep asking yourself that throughout your whole career,” he said. “It will give you that extra edge that will keep you at the top of your craft. It is those who are complacent who get sloppy and undependable. You are an exemplar of your craft, my lord. If Master Sean were unavailable, I cannot think of anyone I would rather have at my side in an investigation.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lord John said.
“What did the chirurgeon say?” Lord Darcy asked, turning back to his investigation of the bare floor in the left-hand back corner of the temple.
Lord John shrugged his broad shoulders. “What could he say beyond making it official? Prince Ixequatle had been killed some hours earlier, presumably with the bone-and-obsidian knife found by the body, and his chest had been ritually torn open, and the heart removed.”
“Yes, and then?” Lord Darcy asked. “What did you do?”
“I placed a preservation spell on the body, leaving it as you see it there, and I came away.” Lord John said, speaking very carefully. “I did nothing else. What else could I do? I was not authorized by the duke to conduct a forensic investigation, and so I did not do so. If I did any tampering with the body, it will show up when Master Sean conducts his tests, but I assure you I did not.”
Lord Darcy stood up and turned to face Lord John Quetzal, looking slightly puzzled. “What—?” he said. “Oh! Of course. My apologies, Lord John, for not making this clear earlier. You are not under suspicion in this case. Not any more than anyone else who doesn’t have the near-perfect alibi of being on the other side of the Atlantic when it happened. You have my word.”
“Lord John under suspicion?” Master Sean asked, sniffing. “Incredible!”
“That’s what he has been thinking,” Lord Darcy said. “Am I right?”
Lord John nodded. “So,” he said. “What was I to think? The only master forensic sorcerer in town, and not asked to investigate? Duke Charles had no way of knowing that you and Master Sean were on your way. Why else would he have kept me away? He thought that because the Prince and I were of the same race, I might have committed the crime. That, at least, was my reasoning when the duke made it clear that the body was to be left alone for the time being.”
“I can assure you, my young friend, that the duke did not indicate any such suspicion to me when we discussed the case this morning,” Lord Darcy said. “It was suggested to Duke Charles that your presence, as a Catholic Mechicain, might offend the approaching Azteque treaty party. I understand that there is a thinly veiled hostility between the two groups.”
“That is so,” Lord John admitted. “When my great-grandfather, the then Duke of Mechicoe, embraced Christianity, Quachititiquotl, the then Emperor of the Azteques, declared my great-grandfather and all his relatives dead, and the Duchy of Mechicoe vacant. He appointed a ‘new’ duke, whose family retains the title to this day. Our two families very carefully ignore each other.”
“Now, just how large is the Duchy of Mechicoe?” Master Sean asked. “And just how do the two dukes decide who controls what facility or collects what revenue?”
“It is a medium-sized chunk out of the north-central area of the Mechicain arm—or perhaps I should call it a leg—of New England. It includes Tenochtitlan, the capital city.”
“Ah, yes,” Father Adamsus said. “I was there once, four years ago. I stayed at your father’s palace, as a matter of fact. You were away in England, studying sorcery. Your father is very proud of you.”
“Magic is very important in our family,” Lord John said. “We keep our title, our palace, and probably our lives, only because of the superiority of Christian magic to Azteque magic. It is the sort of thing that can shape one’s life.”
“I can well believe it,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Now you must relieve your mind of any thought that you are suspected of this crime. I, certainly, do not suspect you. And neither does the duke. His only concern was that by asking you—a Mechicain, who is not on His Grace’s regular staff of investigators—to investigate the killing, he might offend your prospective Azteque guests. He was hoping that Major Sir John DePemmery, his regular investigator, and Master Bryce Comrich, his regular forensic sorcerer, might return from wherever they are in time to conduct the investigation. And, instead, he got me and Master Sean.”
“Ah, my lord,” Master Sean said, looking slightly troubled, “I trust there won’t be any difficulty with allowing Lord John here to work as my assistant?”
“If you need him, and he is willing,” Lord Darcy said, “I don’t see any difficulty. As long as the investigation is under our control, we can use whatever assistance we require. And, as always, I leave such choices in your capable hands, Master Sean.”
“Good, good,” Master Sean said. “I anticipate the need for a few rather lengthy and difficult procedures, and Sir John’s assistance will be invaluable. That is, if you’ll agree to help me, Sir John?”
“I should be delighted, Master Sean,” Sir John said earnestly. “Working with you has always been a learning experience in the past, and I trust that I am never too old nor too conceited to learn.”
Lord Darcy went over to the ancient altar and stared down at the corpse. “A young man,” he said. “Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, I should judge. Skin and facial features consistent with Azteque heritage. Has he been positively identified?”
“As positively as possible,” Lord John said. “That is, I cannot identify him as Prince Ixequatle, since I never met the prince back in Tenochtitlan. But he is the man who arrived in New Borkum, claiming to be Prince Ixequatle. All his servants believe him to be the prince.”
“A nice distinction,” Lord Darcy said.
“What tests do you want me to perform, my lord?” Master Sean asked.
“Let’s see,” Lord Darcy mused. “What can we hope to find out?” He walked slowly around the altar, his hands clasped behind his back, examining the body from each side. Only the nervous twitching of his thumbs showed the suppressed energy under his
passive exterior. “Cause of death would be a good place to start,” he said.
“You mean aside from that great gaping hole in his chest?” Father Adamsus asked, staring at the corpse. It was as though time had just looped around and brought him back to a week ago. The preservation spell on the corpse kept it as it had been; even to the not-completely-congealed blood which had run out of the body. It remained semifluid, and kept the red color of life, belying the awful stillness of the body from which it had spilled.
Lord Darcy turned to Lord John. “You are familiar with the Azteque ceremony in which they performed human sacrifice?” he asked.
“I have had it described to me,” Lord John said quietly.
“Describe it to me, if you don’t mind,” Lord Darcy requested.
Father Adamsus gasped. “My lord!” he said sharply, “not here!” He waved his arm to indicate the interior walls of the temple. “That would be most unwise.”
“Of course,” Lord Darcy said. “Pardon me, Father. Master Sean, I would like to know how Prince Ixequatle met his death and where. I should like you to examine that rather complex loincloth he is wearing—”
”Maxtlatl,” Lord John said. “The garment is called a maxtlatl.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lord Darcy said. “I would also like you to check the blood surrounding the body. See if it’s all his. That’s all that comes to mind at the moment. If you yourself, or Lord John, think of anything else that might be of use, please go right ahead.”
“Um,” Master Sean said, setting his symbol-decorated carpetbag down and staring speculatively at the murder scene. “The Law of Synecdoche is useful for such questions,” he said. “But how to best apply it? Lord John, perhaps you’d busy yourself by removing the preservation spell you’ve placed on the body while I see what I have handy in my bag here.”
Lord Darcy and Father Adamsus walked outside the temple while the two thaumaturgists busied themselves at their tasks. “How are you going to go about this?” Father Adamsus asked. “Finding the poor lad’s killer, I mean.”
“That depends on exactly what information about himself he has left behind,” Lord Darcy said. “In some cases—in many cases—the forensic sorcerers do my job for me. When Master Sean tells me to look for a tall brown-haired man in his mid-forties of Burgundian extraction, with a scar on his right arm, whose first name is Guiliam, I can just turn the case over to the guardsmen. There are times when Master Sean is able to report the exact identity of the killer; and, as you know, a licensed forensic sorcerer’s report is accepted as evidence in criminal cases.”
“In this case?” Father Adamsus asked vaguely.
Lord Darcy shook his head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen in this case,” he said. “I will, of course, be damned grateful—excuse the language, Father—for anything that Master Sean and Lord John can determine; but I doubt it will be that simple.”
A slight smell of incense wafted out through the open temple doors. The murmur of Latin phrases, intoned with a strong Celtic accent, could be heard.
“Well,” Lord Darcy added, “we’ll soon find out.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Charles, Duke of Arc, was not pleased. It usually came to pass that when Charles was not pleased, those around him had little reason to congratulate themselves. “Three days, my lord Darcy,” he enunciated in his high, precise voice, leaning forward in the massive oak chair behind his oversized desk and jabbing the desk with this forefinger, “three days you’ve been here, you and your magical Master O Lochlainn. You’ve puttered about, and visited here and there, and you have nothing to show for it. Nothing! I might just as well have let that young Mechicain fellow do it.”
His Grace of Arc was troubled, and his trouble was beyond his own skills to patch. His Grace had gone to great lengths, and risked a state secret, to send for Lord Darcy. The least Lord Darcy could have done was to solve the crime in as brief a time as possible. After all, was not Lord Darcy a wonder worker in his chosen profession?
Lord Darcy recognized the attitude and bowed silently to the Duke, not allowing any emotion to cross his face. The reputation for being an almost clairvoyant crook-catcher was sometimes a drawback, he reflected. He was somewhat in the position of the court jester who is perpetually being asked to “say something funny.”
“Well?” His Grace asked testily. “Sit down, man, and tell me something. We’re three days closer to the Azteque retinue arriving, and they’re overdue already. I do not wish to have the murder of an Azteque prince unsolved when they get here.”
“I understand, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said, sitting in the chair opposite the duke. “But you must understand that investigating a crime is not cut and dried. It is like trout fishing; you can cast your line many times without success, and there’s no way to rush it.”
“You can always drain the pond, my lord,” the duke said, leaning back in his chair without changing his intense gaze at Lord Darcy.
Lord Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Hoist by my own simile, Your Grace,” he said. “Would that I could ‘drain the pond.’ I do realize the need for haste, and I’m doing what I can. I have commandeered twenty plainclothes guardsmen to help with the investigation of Prince Ixequatle’s servants and friends, and his movements since he arrived here, and I would take more if I could think of anything to use them for.”
“You believe the answer lies there?” the duke asked. His ire spent, he was now prepared to listen. Lord Darcy knew that His Grace, despite the occasional outbursts of petulant anger, was a fine administrator in a difficult post; Governor of the Empire’s largest, newest, and wildest domain.
“Truthfully, I don’t know, Your Grace. It seems logical. Usually you have to have had some interaction with someone to have a reason to kill them. We are seeking that interaction.”
“What do you think of it being a ritual murder?” the duke asked. “That’s what de Maisvin thinks. Either some fanatical Azteque who lives about Nova Eboracum, or one of the Prince’s own staff that he brought with him. They used to sacrifice their own royalty, de Maisvin says. He’s been researching it.”
“What sort of man is the count de Maisvin?” Lord Darcy asked, “and just what was he doing out there with Father Adamsus and Lord John Quetzal?”
“Sort of an unnecessary appendage, eh?” the duke asked. “Well, it’s my fault, Darcy. I sent him. I use the count, in effect, as my general busybody and surrogate. If I can’t get to see something myself, I send de Maisvin. I don’t mean State occasions, of course.
“As to what sort of man the count is, he is highly intelligent and intensely loyal.” Duke Charles stared at Lord Darcy for a moment. “You’re thinking of him as a suspect, eh? Well, very natural. But, in that case, I should tell you that all my officers swear a bound loyalty oath: ‘I shall, as I hope for salvation, truly obey the commands of my sovereign, in person or through his liege lords and adjutants, and shall hold his interests paramount in all of my actions. So do I swear with all my heart, and so do I affirm.’
“I don’t think that would stop one of them from committing murder, if it didn’t involve the Empire, or if he believed it to be for the good of the Empire, but an act of murder that was also harmful to His Majesty’s interests would probably burn something out in their head, or so my own sorcerer, Master Poul Hosmer, tells me.”
Lord Darcy noted that the thought had occurred to Duke Charles, else he would not have questioned Master Poul. “Well, Your Grace,” he said mildly. “What if the killer is one of your bound officers, and he thought he was doing it for the good of the Empire.”
Charles, Duke of Arc, thought that over for a moment. “You do come up with the strangest ideas,” he said. “As for Count de Maisvin, he didn’t want to go out to the Pyramid Island with Father Adamsus and Lord John; it was my idea. I wanted to make sure everything was done right. In this case, I admit, a ridiculous excess of zeal, since neither de Maisvin nor myself could tell if either a sorcerer or an exorcist did something wrong. M
y wife tells me I’m fussy, and perhaps it’s so.”
“Better to be too careful than too lax, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy suggested.
“Yes, yes,” the duke agreed. “Just what I say. De Maisvin is really an impressive man, you know. Good at whatever he puts his hand to. I’m lucky to have him. Carries a MacGregor .40 caliber handgun given him by His Majesty, you know. I believe you have one yourself, don’t you, my lord?”
“I do,” Lord Darcy admitted. “A special caliber and a special gun, made by MacGregor only to the King’s order. I am very proud to carry mine.”
“Well, I’m lucky to have both of you here, then,” Duke Charles said. “But I trust one of you will solve this little mystery very soon.”
“Is de Maisvin also investigating the murder?” Lord Darcy asked.
“At my order,” the duke said. “He’ll follow your instructions, of course. He should look you up sometime this morning. But I do want him to follow through on his theory. It could be a ritual killing, you know.”
“Master Sean O Lochlainn and Lord John Quetzal await me in the anteroom,” Lord Darcy said. “May I have your permission to bring them in? You might be interested in Lord John’s description of what the Azteque sacrifice ritual was like.”
“I confess I’d be fascinated,” His Grace said. “Secondhand, I trust.” He raised his hand, palm outward. “I jest, my lord; you know I jest. Bring them in, by all means.”
Lord Darcy rose and went through the heavy door into the anteroom. There were a variety of court persons waiting there to catch the duke’s eye, with a guard at the door to keep them out, and a seneschal at a small desk by the door to weed them out.
“Would you ask Master Sean O Lochlainn and Lord John Quetzal to join His Grace and me,” Lord Darcy whispered to the seneschal. His two compatriots were sitting only four feet away, but protocol must be observed.
“Lord John explained this to me two days ago,” Lord Darcy told the duke when the Mechicain sorcerer and Master Sean had seated themselves across the desk. “I asked him to describe the sacrifice ritual. Among other things, I learned that there was not merely one, but a host of sacrificial rituals.”
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