Randall Garrett - Lord Darcy 03

by A Study in Sorcery # Michael Kurland

  De Maisvin shrugged. “Trappers, mappers, hunters, surveyors, explorers, guides, scouts; call them what you want to, and hire them for that purpose. We call them frontiersmen as a group. It’s hard to realize that this trim little town is on the edge of a vast untamed frontier. These are the men who are pushing back the boundaries of the New England territory as fast as there’s anyone to move in, as fast as the native tribes will let them. Sometimes faster.”

  “I thought something like that,” Lord Darcy said. “Who are they?”

  De Maisvin looked at him sharply. “You mean where are they from? What social class? What is their background?”

  “Yes,” Lord Darcy told him. “I suppose that’s what I meant.”

  “They come from every class, every location, and every occupation in the Empire,” de Maisvin told him. “There are gaolbirds and clerks, the sons of barmaids and the sons of dukes, dissatisfied dentists, inquisitive magicians, bored attorneys, and adventurous seneschals. There are strong men who come to pit their strength against the unknown, and weak men who come to gain strength or die trying. There are some who come to live life to its fullest, and some who come to die. Each, to some extent, gets what he has come after.”

  “You seem to have made something of a study of these people,” Lord Darcy said.

  “I have,” de Maisvin said. “I find them of great interest. I would like to understand the impulses that moved them to become what they are, and also, the impulses that continue to drive them.”

  “Are there any women amongst them?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “Oh, yes. Of as many types, and for as many motives as the men. I do not count the hangers-on, the local demoiselles who find these strong silent men fascinating; I speak only of the women who go as they go, do as they do. They range from the highborn to scullery maid, from plain to breathtakingly beautiful; and the only trait they share, aside from the wanderlust, is that any man who approaches one of them without being invited to do so is liable to wind up with a split skull.”

  “Hardy ladies,” Lord John commented.

  “Hardly ladies, as that term is usually applied,” de Maisvin said, “but a very impressive group of women. Just as these are a very impressive group of men. And well they should be, my lords; they are winning a continent for the Empire, and paying for it with their own blood.”

  With that, de Maisvin turned right and led them across the street and onto Garvey Lane, a narrow curving street that headed east toward the Igerne, as was called the narrow east branch of the Arthur River which turned Saytchem Island into an island. The houses fronting the lane grew smaller and farther apart as they progressed, each standing on its own plot of land.

  “What part of town is this?” Lord John asked. “I am not familiar with it.”

  “The ‘town,’ as such, has grown up along both shores of the island,” Count de Maisvin told him. “We are now cutting across the middle, which is occupied by small farms that grow the fresh produce we enjoy in such abundance.”

  The snow was letting up, and in a few minutes it had stopped entirely, except for a few random windborne flakes which still fluttered to the ground. It had melted off the road as fast as it landed, but there was still a fine white layer on the fields on both sides.

  A few minutes later they were through to East Road, which paralleled the Igerne and led to docks and wharves on the river side, and warehouses on the other. Six or seven large merchantmen were berthed along the row of docks immediately before them, their prows pulled almost up to the road, and their bowsprits thrusting out over the road until they almost met with the upper storeys of the buildings across the street. From the pier alongside the nearest of these great ships a gang of stevedores was busy with the unloading, while a row of drayage wagons waited patiently for their cargo, their draymen gathered about a small fire with pewter mugs cupped in their hands.

  “What do you suppose is in the mugs,” Lord Darcy asked idly as they passed the huddled group of draymen, “caffe, tea, or ouiskie?”

  “Probably hot rhum from the southern islands, my lord,” Count de Maisvin said. There’s no duty collectible on rhum.”

  They walked north along the East Road. “A strange district for our Azteque friends to have settled in,” Lord Darcy remarked. “Don’t you agree, Lord John?”

  “I do,” Lord John said. “Perhaps they felt a need to be as far from the Residence, and the Cathedral, as possible.”

  “That may be,” Count de Maisvin said. “But, you’ll note, they are still within easy walking distance. Nothing is very far from anything else in New Borkum. The town only takes up a part of the southern third of Saytchem Island, which is, in any case, not that big an island.”

  “Why does such a small place have such a large amount of commerce?” Lord Darcy asked, indicating the great ships ahead of and behind them.

  “Goods to and from all of New England, my lord,” Count de Maisvin told him. “My lord Duke’s domain is much larger than the size of this town would indicate, even though it is the ducal seat. The spaces here are just—vast. It’s hard to imagine. This is the major port of entry in the North, and quite the best harbor on this side of the Atlantic. It services settlements for hundreds of miles in every direction. Except, of course, East.”

  “Of course,” Lord Darcy said.

  “Ahead of us on the corner and across the street you will note three inns,” the count said, “the Lord of the Sea on the corner, the Bon Richard, and the Earl of Orkney, across the street. The last was named after the last royal governor of New England but one. The Bon Richard has been taken over, lock, stock, and beer kegs, by the Azteque advance party. Their deal with the landlord even included having him and his staff move out for the duration. They are putting up at the Earl of Orkney.”

  “They value their privacy,” Lord Darcy commented.

  “I think it’s a matter of trust,” Lord John said. “They don’t trust Angevins, and they certainly don’t trust the local tribes.”

  “That’s understandable, given their world view,” Count de Maisvin said. “They know what they would do to us, given the chance, and they are constantly amazed that we don’t do it to them.”

  Lord John nodded. “That expresses it well,” he agreed.

  They walked over to the Bon Richard, a rectangular three-storey building in the middle of the next block. On a swinging sign over the entrance a knight in full armor with plumed helm stared belligerently out at the world. The door was locked and, from peering through the casement window, they could see that the downstairs barroom was empty. “They are not expecting guests,” Lord Darcy said.

  Count de Maisvin pounded on the door. “They never go out,” he said, “so they must be in there somewhere.”

  “Excellent logic,” Lord Darcy said.

  A pair of muscular copper-colored legs appeared on the stairway, followed shortly by the rest of the body, as one of the Azteque warriors came down to see who was banging on the door. He approached the window and peered out at them, “No come in,” he shouted through the glass. “No come in! Not want nobody in! Very busy!”

  “We are guardsmen,” de Maisvin yelled back, “investigators. Must talk to Don Miguel. Get Don Miguel!”

  “No come in!” the warrior insisted. He turned and headed back toward the stairs.

  “I don’t think he’s going to get anybody,” Lord Darcy said.

  Lord John called out in the harsh, guttural Nahuatl language, and the warrior spun on his heels, looking amazed.

  “I trust you’ll excuse me for demoting you to guardsmen, my lords,” de Maisvin said. “I felt that the subtleties of rank were beyond the gentleman in the loincloth.”

  The warrior returned to the door, and he and Lord John had a loud colloquy before he turned away and dashed upstairs.

  “They are completing some sort of religious ceremony for the dead prince.” Lord John said. “But he will send someone down as soon as he can.”

  Less than a minute later another pair of le
gs appeared on the stairs, and an elderly man garbed in much wicker-and-feather finery, and carrying an ornate six-foot stave, stormed down and across the barroom and flung the door open. A torrent of Nahuatl burst forth from him, as though it had been under pressure inside him for some time, and he gesticulated emphatically with each phrase.

  “What are we being told?” Count de Maisvin asked Lord John.

  “This is Lord Lloriquhali,” Lord John told him. “He wants to know why the body of his prince has not been returned to him. He wants to know just what we are doing with Prince Ixequatle’s body.”

  “Tell His Lordship that the body will be returned to him as soon as possible,” Lord Darcy said. “I don’t see any reason for holding on to it; we’ve completed all the tests. We have, haven’t we, Lord John?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lord John told him. “Master Sean was quite thorough.”

  “Then let us return the body to His Lordship. Ask him where he would like it brought.”

  While Lord John spoke, Lord Lloriquhali stared straight at Lord Darcy, as though the young master magician were not there. When Lord John paused, Lord Lloriquhali replied in a spate of words aimed directly at Lord Darcy.

  “He is pretending I do not exist,” Lord John said. “Which, believe me, does not offend me. He would like to go fetch the body himself, so no further profane hands will touch the empty shell of the Prince.”

  “Make a note, will you, de Maisvin?” Lord Darcy said. “Lord John, tell His Lordship that it shall be as he wishes. In the meantime, tell him that we would like to know more about the Prince, and his entourage, to help catch his murderer. Tell him that I have been put in charge of the investigation and I need his help. Tell him we would like to speak to everyone, ah, in the house.”

  Lord John spoke. Lord Lloriquhali did his best to make it clear that he was actually listening to Lord Darcy. Finally he nodded, and then turned and went back into the house. He stamped three times with his staff on the staircase before going through to the room beyond.

  “Do we follow?” de Maisvin asked. “I assume we do.”

  “Come,” Lord Darcy said, and led the way after Lord Lloriquhali.

  The room Lord Lloriquhali had entered was the public room of the tavern: a large rectangular room with a serving bar across one side, a stone fireplace centered in the far wall, and space for a lot of tables. Most of the room was bare, however, the whole lot of tables and their accompanying chairs having been piled up along one of the side walls. In the center of the floor a group of breadloaf-sized stones had been made into a circle about two feet across, and a charcoal fire was smoldering in the middle of it. Lord Darcy looked up, following the thin line of rising smoke, and saw that a smoke hole had been chopped in the ceiling right above the stone ring.

  “A very phlegmatic landlord they must have,” Lord Darcy said, “if he knows about this.”

  “I would say he’ll be none too pleased,” de Maisvin said. “And neither will Duke Charles, if it comes to that; His Grace had to promise to indemnify the innkeeper before that worthy would allow the Azteques to move in.”

  “Against such damage?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “Against anything; fire, flood, and acts of God included,” de Maisvin told him. “The innkeeper, Goodman Malterby, didn’t hold with having heathens carrying on in his house, as he told the duke.”

  “It looks like he had a point,” Lord Darcy said.

  The rest of the Azteque party came trooping down from upstairs and, without so much as a glance at their visitors, gathered in a double circle around the embers and squatted on the floor. Lord Lloriquhali sat on a small three-legged stool, almost over the fire, and began a long, monotonous chant that the others listened to attentively.

  After it had continued for a few minutes, Lord Darcy drew Lord John aside. “What is going on?” he asked.

  “A brief prayer to an unspecified god, to commit various indignities of an intimate and highly painful nature upon the person of whoever murdered their prince,” Lord John told him. “It’s quite imaginative.”

  “I believe it,” Lord Darcy said. “Will it continue long?”

  “I don’t think so. There—it’s winding down already. Another minute or so.”

  The chanting died down and stopped, and Lord Lloriquhali hopped up on top of his stool and talked rapidly and shrilly for about two minutes to the men squatting around him. “He is telling them to cooperate with you,” Lord John said, sounding surprised. “He says you are the great Lord Darcy, who makes the gods jealous with his ability to catch murderers. He says that you will soon catch the assassin of Prince Ixequatle and turn him over to them for punishment. He says the gods have told him that this is so.”

  “Well!” Lord Darcy said. “He says that, does he? I’ll try not to disappoint him, although I’m not sure about the turning the killer over to them part of it.”

  “He says that this example of good faith on the part of the mighty Emperor of the Angevins will make it possible for his people to sign the treaty when they arrive,” Lord John added.

  “The implication there is clear,” Count de Maisvin whispered. “No assassin, no treaty. His Grace will surely be pleased.”

  “Well,” Lord Darcy said, “since I’m to get cooperation, although at a rather higher price than I am accustomed to, I had better begin. Is the Spanish gentleman here?”

  “Don Miguel?” de Maisvin asked. “He is squatting over there. The one with the double row of feathers in his helmet.”

  “I should have known by the mustache,” Lord Darcy said. “How is your Spanish, my lord?”

  “Adequate,” de Maisvin said.

  “Well presumably Don Miguel speaks some Anglic. Wait for a minute or two, and then have him come to see me in the front room,” Lord Darcy said. “The others can wait in here until I call for them. You can use him to translate; I’ll send him back to you. Lord John, you come with me.”

  Lord Darcy and Lord John returned to the front room, where Lord Darcy pulled a small table away from the wall and slid a straight-back wooden chair around behind it. “It’s dark in here,” he said. “I assume our Azteque hosts would object if we opened the door and windows to let more light in, so we’ll have to resort to artificial aids. This house doesn’t seem to have gas laid on; perhaps it hasn’t reached this far uptown yet. Lord John, will you see if you can locate a few lanterns and put them about? I like to see who I’m talking to.”

  Lord John found a cluster of kerosene lamps in a closet, where presumably the absent landlord had hidden them, and hung them on wall brackets before lighting them. Lord Darcy in the meantime located another chair and placed it on the other side of the desk. “Put one of the lamps over here,” he said. “Off to one side, so it won’t shine directly in anyone’s face. I don’t want to make my witness nervous, but I do want to get a good look at them.”

  “Where do you want me, my lord?” Lord John asked.

  “Pull a chair into that corner,” Lord Darcy said. “You’ll be sitting in the shadow behind my right shoulder. Now, to lessen the possibility of any of these Azteque gentlemen getting upset because you are doing the actual questioning, I will not look at you, but keep staring at the witness. In a polite and inoffensive manner, of course. That should keep his eyes on me, and make him less overtly aware of your presence. You will become, psychologically, an offstage voice, if you see what I mean.”

  “I could, with very little effort, become entirely invisible, my lord,” Lord John said.

  “You could—Oh, you’re referring to the Tarnhelm Effect; the magical ability to cause others to look everywhere but where you are.” Lord Darcy chuckled. “I think the effect on my witnesses of an entirely disembodied voice would outweigh any possible advantage that your apparent absence would generate. But thank you for the suggestion.”

  Lord John shrugged and took his place. “It was just an idea,” he said.

  Lord Darcy swiveled in his chair. “A question for you, my lord,” he said. “Would your w
itch-smelling ability sense evil in a crowded room—like the one we just left?”

  Lord John considered. “In a specialized sense, my lord.” he replied. “And it depends on how you define evil. Someone practicing black magic to any extent, certainly. Someone stealing twelfth-bits, probably not.”

  “Let us consider this scenario, my lord, Lord Darcy said. “Let us assume that one of the people in that room sacrificed their prince in a pagan ceremony to their Sun God. Would that be evil enough for you to have sensed it?”

  “Yes,” Lord John said. “Black magic is a matter of symbolism and intent, as you well know. “The symbolism of that ceremony and its intent would surely have left its mark on the mind of the perpetrator. And a powerful one. I would have sensed it.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Lord Darcy said. “As I know your abilities well, that settles one possibility rather thoroughly.”

  Don Miguel Potchatipotle stalked down the short hallway to the front room. “You want to speak of me?” he asked, smiling ingratiatingly with his stubby gold-filled teeth. His Anglo-French was distorted by what might once have been a Spanish accent, and was now further burdened with a random tonality and erratic mangling of consonants. Lord Darcy sighed as he rose to greet the Azteque-cum-Spanish grandee.

  “Please sit down, Don Miguel,” Lord Darcy said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “I am pleased that your Anglic is so good, so that we may converse in a mutually understandable language.”

  Don Miguel’s smile broadened, displaying more gold. “You do me too much of a goodness,” he said.

  “That may be,” Lord Darcy said in an undertone, smiling and gesturing to the chair. They sat simultaneously.

  Don Miguel Potchatipotle was a short, dark-haired man with a slight pot belly, and a wide, substantial mustache, which was carefully waxed and turned up at each end. A superlative example of the noble Spanish mustache, it was definitely misplaced on the upper lip of a man in the regalia of an Azteque chief.

  “How long have you lived among the Azteque, Don Miguel?” Lord Darcy asked, pulling out his notebook and flipping to a blank page.