“Now the third, Great Cristobel, is the most recent—which still makes it over four hundred years old—and is more like what I think of as a castle. Several great halls, a grainery, troop quarters downstairs, servants’ quarters upstairs, and with only six entrances to the whole place. Easily guarded, easy to check who goes in and out, and also quite pointless. But we shall do it, nonetheless. Even Between the Walls shall have both roving and stationary guard points.
“The internal guardposts have been set up so that a roving guard will pass each stationary post at least every quarter hour of the night. Very mundane, very ordinary, but it’s what gets the job done.” Coronel Lord Waybusch took his gold shakers back, and the map rolled closed with a snap. He stuffed it back into his boot. “I don’t say it’s perfect,” he said. “I’ll be damned glad of suggestions or criticisms.”
“We should eliminate burglary and reduce petty theft to the vanishing point,” Marquis Sherrinford said, “but I don’t know how much good this will do in protecting His Majesty.”
“Nor do I,” Coronel Lord Waybusch agreed. “When you have a better idea, let me know. There will be close to six thousand people here for the next few weeks; an unmatched forest for our lone tree to hide in. Particularly since we cannot, as yet, call it by name. Give me something more to go on, and I swear to you that I will find someplace to go.”
“Now I return to where we began,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “Perhaps the unfortunate death of Master Sorcerer Raimun DePlessis is somehow related to the threat to our sovereign. At any rate, we must keep that possibility in mind.”
“I assure you we are, my lord marquis,” Lord Darcy said.
“Just what do we know about the murder so far?” Duke Richard asked. “Aside from the fact that the murderer is a rhymester?”
“Master Sean,” Lord Darcy said, “if you would be good enough to give His Highness a forensic report, I’ll add what I can to it when you’re done.”
Master Sean O Lochlainn pushed himself out of his chair at the left end of the table and stood, his hands holding the lapels of his blue-and-gold sorcerer’s robe, facing the others. “Your Highness, Your Lordships,” he said, “I won’t bother you with the technical data unless you want it—the various spells I used, and such. All standard, I can assure you.
“Master Sorcerer Raimun DePlessis died between eleven-thirty and noon today. He was killed by a penetrating blow to the heart from a narrow-bladed weapon, which was not found. At the time of his death there was one other person in the room with him, whom we must assume was the murderer. He almost certainly knew his assailant, and despite the fact that the room was locked from the inside, with both doors and windows either barred from the inside or unopenable, neither black magic nor white was used to accomplish the crime. There was a pool of blood on the floor by the body, which was shown by similarity tests to be Master Raimun’s own blood. Unfortunate, but as Lord Darcy said, it would have been too much to hope that the murderer, while stabbing Master Raimun, would accidentally cut himself.”
“Have you any explanation for the locked doors, Master Sean?” Marquis Sherrinford asked.
“I have not, my lord,” Master Sean told him. “Except that it was not done by magic. And, that being so, it is in Lord Darcy’s province to solve that problem, not mine.”
“Is there anything else, Master Sean?” Duke Richard asked.
“There was one other thing of note, Your Highness, but I cannot honestly say that I know what it means.”
“Yes?”
Master Sean paused to pick his words carefully. “I performed a hologramic spell on the room, to find traces of whoever was in the room during or since the crime.” He turned to Sir Darryl and His Grace of Paris. “It was the double-fringe moire test, using sandalwood, finely-divided charcoal, and myrrh; are you familiar with it, Sir Darryl? Your Grace?”
“I have used a variant of it for, ah, less serious purposes,” Sir Darryl said. “A Wizard Laureate spends a large part of his time devising entertainments, and this lends itself to a certain impressive sort of divination. All quite good-hearted, I assure you. Do you know the method, Your Grace? It’s quite showy.”
“I’ve read of it in the literature,” Archbishop Maximilian answered. “I’m sorry I missed a chance to see it done. I thought it required two sorcerers.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Sir Darryl said, looking bemused.
“It is a lot easier with an assistant, but it can be done alone. You have to be careful to—well, I’ll go into it later with Your Grace and Sir Darryl, if you like. In the meantime...”
Master Sean turned back to the others. “I don’t want to color my facts with my suppositions,” he said. “My facts are the result of good, reliable magic. My suppositions are just that—suppositions—and may be totally wrong.”
“And what are these facts?” Duke Richard asked.
“The man who was in the room with Master Raimun when he was killed—the man we must suppose is the killer—showed up only slightly on the hologram. He did not make much of a psychic impression on the room—on his surroundings. That is the fact. It was as though he was only partially there. What that means, I cannot tell you.”
“Perhaps the man was only there for a brief time,” Marquis Sherrinford suggested.
“No, my lord,” Master Sean said. “I am not making myself clear, but then it is not a clear concept to grasp hold of. This person was in that room for about half an hour. I know I have been saying ‘man,’ but I shouldn’t have. There is no indication of the gender of the person. But in some way I cannot explain, it wasn’t a whole person. The psychic afterimage of this person did not show up nearly as strongly, as clearly, as it should have.”
“Come now, this is very interesting,” Lord Darcy said. “If I were to ask you for your supposition, Master Sean—with the understanding that it may be totally inaccurate, but just to get a better feel of what you are trying to describe—what would you say? How would you categorize what you saw?”
“My lord, I am not a superstitious man,” Master Sean said. “Being a sorcerer leaves little room for superstition. A superstitious magician is unable to manipulate symbols properly, and symbolism is a large part of magic. But with that said—my lord, if I had to characterize the impressions of the other person who was in that room with Master Raimun, I’d say it was a ghost!”
The Archbishop of Paris crossed himself. “Remember, Master Sean, that there are supernatural happenings that are regarded by the Church as valid experiences. And there are supernatural beings that are regarded as real.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Master Sean said. “I’d not be talking about any such. I’ve never had the experience myself of running across any of them, and I can’t say that I’d care to; but a true supernatural being would probably show up even stronger on a hologram than would a mortal. It is the essence of life spirit that is detected, not physical bulk.”
“I don’t care whether Master Raimun was stabbed by a ghost or by a gazelle,” Duke Richard said, slapping his hand down on the hardwood table. “What I want to know is whether it is related to the threat to His Majesty.”
“As to that, I cannot say, Your Highness,” Master Sean replied. “I wish I could. There was none of the characteristic residual miasma of evil one might expect in such a case; but then, in most cases evil is a matter of intent. It could be that a Polish agent would be so free of evil intent in his own mind, even while committing murder, that no evil intent would be projected.”
“What do you think, Lord Darcy?” Duke Richard asked.
“I wish I could say,” Lord Darcy replied. “I can’t see any relationship at the moment, but we know so little about the threat, and so little about the murder, that I dare not even venture a guess. In either case we cannot relax our vigilance. I confess that I don’t know which would be more worrying news: that we were involved with a single assassin who has killed Master Raimun as part of some obscure plot to get His Majesty, or that we have both a killer and an assass
in on our hands simultaneously.”
Duke Richard stood up, the impassive expression on his finely chiseled face almost concealing the deep worry beneath. “I have spoken to my brother about this,” he said. “His Majesty bade me inform you that he knows that the safety of the realm could not be in better hands. I will now leave this to you. Please keep me informed. You have carte blanche on the goods, the treasury, and the personnel of the Duchy.”
The others stood as His Royal Highness of Normandy left the room by the side door.
“Ha, hum,” Coronel Lord Waybusch said as they all seated themselves. “Carte blanche, eh? Would that I could think of something useful to spend it on. Guards we have, as many as we can find places to put them. Beyond that I’ll be damned if I know what we could or should do. You can’t fight an enemy that isn’t there. As far as the murder goes, that’s in Lord Darcy’s and Master Sean’s capable hands; and I, for one, am damned happy to leave it there. If it can be solved, they will solve it. As far as the threat to His Majesty’s life goes, that’s all it is so far—a threat. With nothing tangible to sink our teeth into, there isn’t much my people can do.”
“We appreciate your confidence, Coronel,” Lord Darcy said. “Master Sean and I will do our best to earn it.”
The Archbishop nodded. “Even if it should turn out that poor Master Raimun’s death has nothing to do with the plot against our King, we must not let it get lost. He was a good and worthy man; and even were he not, we must not allow any person to measure the worth of another’s life by ending it.”
“For the death of any one diminishes us all,’” Lord Darcy quoted.
“Indeed,” Archbishop Maximilian said. “Saint Simon spoke an eternal truth.”
“It is the second time today that I have thought of that quote,” Lord Darcy said.
Marquis Sherrinford coughed. “Let us not get too far afield in this discussion,” he said. “We have two paramount duties before us; first, to protect the King, and second, to solve a dastardly murder. But no matter how dastardly the murder, the duty of protecting His Majesty must come first. Both because he is the King, and because he is alive. Our duty must be toward the living, when it comes in conflict with what we owe the dead.”
“That is so,” Lord Darcy agreed. “But we are not sure there is a conflict. It may be that it is to the interest of the living that we examine this violent and unexpected death. I have sworn an oath, as have we all, to defend and protect King John, and I intend to live up to that oath. But I have also a duty to investigate unnatural death. The fabric of society is not so tightly raveled that a cut thread does not threaten the pattern. And an unsolved murder is a cut thread which must be tied off.”
“I did not mean to suggest otherwise, my lord,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “Although I might not have put it so, ah, eloquently.”
“What are we doing now?” Coronel Lord Waybusch asked. “I mean, aside from myself and my men. What steps are we taking to find out how serious this threat to His Majesty is?”
Marquis Sherrinford turned to Lord Peter Whiss. “I think, Q, that you had better answer that.”
“I would that I had a good answer,” Lord Peter said. “This cursed rain will slow up both query and response. My couriers have gone out in all directions. I have been on the teleson all afternoon, but the extensive flooding has temporarily wiped out many of the teleson connections. You know the device will not work over water.”
“Running water, Lord Peter,” the Archbishop of Paris interrupted.
“I assure Your Grace that this water is running,” Lord Peter said. “At the moment all I can tell you is that my agents have been—or are being—alerted; and that this must take top priority. The few reports I have been able to get are all negative. Which means to say that nobody knows anything. Nary a whisper. This is probably a good sign, since it is hard to believe that an operation of this importance would be mounted without word of it having gotten out.”
“Perhaps nobody knows of it save those who are doing it,” Marquis Sherrinford suggested. “We, surely, would not advertise such a project, were we to embark on it.”
Lord Peter ran his hand through his hair. “Let us look at that, my lord,” he said. “If we decided, for whatever reason, to assassinate the King of Poland, who would know?”
“Assuming you were to undertake such a morally repugnant act,” His Grace of Paris said, “I would assume that as few people as possible would be told.”
“Well,” Lord Peter said, “if the idea originated in my department, certainly I would have to be told. And, I assume, that in any of the other intelligence services the same would apply. Then I, of course, after being convinced that it is a good idea, would still not take the responsibility for such an act on myself. I would discuss it with my immediate superior, the King’s Equerry.”
Marquis Sherrinford nodded. “You’d certainly better,” he said.
“And would you approve it on your own, my lord?” Lord Peter asked.
“Not a chance,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “I would disapprove it on my own; but if I thought it was a good idea, which I cannot imagine, I would still have to take it up with His Majesty.”
“Exactly,” Lord Peter said. “And His Majesty would discuss it with the Privy Council; and with the Lords Military, and probably the Lords of the Admiralty, and each of the councilors and lords would discuss it, in the utmost secrecy, with his staff and advisors, and the ripples would spread. And it would be overheard by servants, by innkeepers, by companions, by casual acquaintances. And it’s much too exciting a secret not to be retold—in the utmost confidence, of course. And by the time it reaches that third level, five different Polish spies will have heard different parts of it, and relayed word back to their spy masters in Poland.”
“What are you telling us?” Coronel Lord Waybusch asked. “That a Polish plot against King John is unlikely because you would have heard of it?”
Lord Peter smiled ruefully. “That is what I would like to be telling you, Coronel,” he said. “My assumption would be that I should have heard of at least some fragment of the plan through my agents-in-place. But I can’t be sure that it is so. Perhaps one crazy Slav is doing this without His Slavonic Majesty’s knowledge—or perhaps five or six. Just enough to keep a secret.”
“How would you find them, then?” Marquis Sherrinford asked.
“We will recognize them by the signs they leave,” Lord Peter said. “Like searching forest trails for the spoor of some rare wild game. I and my agents will look outside the castle, outside the Duchy of Normandy, outside of France, and outside the Angevin Empire, in ever-widening circles; and Lord Darcy and his men will look inside. By their works we shall know them. Always assuming that they exist.”
“And if not?” the Archbishop asked.
“If, as I sincerely pray, not, we then shall regard it as a training exercise. Right, Lord Darcy?”
Lord Darcy nodded. “It is difficult to look for something that you hope doesn’t exist,” he said. “I suppose we can all use the practice.” He turned to Coronel Lord Waybusch. “With your permission, my lord coronel, I propose to go to the village of Tournadotte tomorrow, taking Master Sean with me. We shall probably only be gone overnight.”
“You don’t need my permission, my lord,” Lord Waybusch said. “But I cannot forbear commenting that it seems like a damn strange time to go visiting villages.”
“There was a double murder in the village,” Lord Darcy explained. “I don’t know whether there is any connection, but the coincidence seems noteworthy to me.”
“A bit farfetched, I’d say, my lord,” Marquis Sherrinford said. “There must be a murder a day throughout the Angevin Empire, with no relation to any Polish plot. But I suppose you know your business.”
“If you’ll excuse my saying so, Your Lordship, much of what Lord Darcy does seems farfetched when he does it,” Master Sean said. “But it somehow never turns out that way. He seems to have a talent for jumping from an unwarrant
ed assumption to a foregone conclusion without touching any of the ground between. I’d listen to him.”
“I stand—sit—corrected,” Marquis Sherrinford replied, nodding to Master Sean. “When a sorcerer tells me to listen, I listen.” He stood up. “Let us adjourn this meeting until such time as we have something more to tell each other. Your Grace, as we didn’t have a prayer to start this meeting, perhaps it would be appropriate to end it with a benediction.”
The Archbishop of Paris rose, and the others with him. “We are humble in Thy sight, oh Lord,” the Archbishop said in a firm, conversational voice, as of one speaking to an old friend. “And we beseech Thee to give us to see the light, so that we may know the truth regarding this vile plot and may best defend our Glorious Sovereign John the Fourth against unseen enemies. Amen.”
“Amen,” the others in the room echoed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Castle Cristobel Station, a regular stop on the Paris-Le Havre line of the Continental and Southern, was about a quarter mile outside the main gate of Castle Cristobel. While the utility of high, thick stone walls as a defense was dwindling, what with the introduction of cannon that could hurl a thousand-pound projectile five miles, still no one in authority could quite bring himself to authorize cutting holes in the Castle wall big enough to drive a locomotive through.
At six-thirty in the morning Lord Darcy passed his suitcase up to the driver of the Castle hackney and then, rain cape buttoned up to the neck and clutching his traveling case, his walking stick, and his rain hat—the wide-brimmed, flat-top sort called a “Londoner” in France, but a “skimmer” in London—he climbed into the waiting vehicle for the short trip to the station. Master Sean, his plaid rain cloak gathered around him with the hood drawn over his head, scrambled up and, putting his symbol-decorated carpetbag on the floor between them, settled into the seat opposite.
“Sorry to drag you out for such a short trip at this hour, Edwards,” Lord Darcy called up to the driver, who could be seen adjusting his rain slicker through the open trap.
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