Lord Darcy Investigates Page 17

  Lamar raised a finger. “And that’s not period, either.”

  Father Armand looked astonished. “Riveted link mail not period for the Thirteenth Century? Surely, sir—”

  “No, no,” Lamar interrupted hastily. “I meant the surcoat with the Marshal arms. Armorial bearings of that sort didn’t come in till about a century later.”

  “You know,” said Arthur Mac Kay suddenly, “I’ve always wondered what I’d look like in one of those outfits. Rather dashing, I think.” His actor’s voice contrasted strongly with Lamar’s flat tones.

  Valentine Herrick looked at him, smiling toothily. “Hey! Wouldn’t that be great? Imagine! Charging into combat with a broadsword like that! Or rescuing a fair princess! Or slaying a dragon! Or a wicked magician!” He stopped suddenly and actually blushed. “Oops. Sorry, Master Sorcerer.”

  “That’s all right,” said Master Seamus mildly. “You may slay all the wicked magicians you like. Just don’t make any mistakes.”

  That got a chuckle from everyone, even Herrick.

  They looked over their menus, chose and ordered. The food, which the sorcerer thought quite good, came very quickly. Father Armand said grace, and more small talk ensued. Lamar said little about the food, but the wine was not to his exact taste.

  “It’s a Delacey ‘69, from just south of Givors. Not a bad year for the reds, but it can’t compare with the Monet ‘69, from a lovely little place a few miles southeast of Beaune.”

  Mac Kay lifted his glass and seemed to address his remarks to it. “You know, I have always contended that the true connoisseur is to be pitied, for he has trained his taste to such perfection that he enjoys almost nothing. It is, I believe, a corollary of Acipenser’s Law, or perhaps a theorem derived therefrom.”

  Herrick blinked bright blue eyes at him. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about, but, by S’n George, I think it’s damn good wine.” He emphasized his point by draining his glass and refilling it from the carafe.

  Almost as if he had heard the pouring as a summons, Maurice Zeisler came wandering over to the table. He did not stagger, but there was a controlled precision about his walking and about his speech that indicated a necessity to concentrate in order to do either one properly. He did not sit down.

  “Hullo, fellows,” he said very carefully. “Did you see who’s over in the corner?” There were, of course, four corners to the big room, but a slight motion of his head indicated which one he meant.

  It was bushy-bearded John Peabody, eating by himself, his suitcase on the floor beside his chair.

  “What about him?” asked Lamar sourly.

  “Know him?”

  “No. Kept pretty much to himself. Why?”

  “I dunno. Seems familiar, somehow. Like I ought to know him. Can’t exactly place him, though. Oh, well.” And he wandered off again, back towards the bar, whence he had come.

  “Condition he’s in, he wouldn’t recognize his own mother,” muttered Lamar. “Pass the wine, please.”

  6

  The Napoli Express crossed the Rhone at Lyon and headed southwards through the Duchy of Dauphine, toward the Duchy of Provence, following the river valley. At Avignon, it would angle away from the river, southeast toward Marsaille, but that wouldn’t be until nearly five o’clock.

  The Napoli Express was not a high speed train; it was too long and too heavy. But it made up for that by making only four stops between Paris and Napoli. Five, if you counted the very short stop at the Provence-Liguria border.

  In order to avoid having to cross the Maritime Alps, the train ran along the coast of the Mediterranean after leaving Marsaille, past Toulon, Canne, Nice, and Monaco to the Ligurian coast. It looped around the Gulf of Genova to the city of Genova, then stayed with the seacoast all the way to the Tiber, where it turned east to make the short side trip to Rome. There, it crossed the Tiber and headed back toward the sea, staying with the coast all the way to arrive at last at Napoli.

  But that would be tomorrow afternoon. There were hundreds of miles and hours of time ahead of her yet.

  Master Seamus sat on one of the chairs on the observation deck at the rear of the car and watched the Rhone Valley retreat into the distance. There were four seats on the semicircular observation deck, two on each side of the central door that led into the lounge. The two on the starboard side were occupied by the plump, sandy-haired man who had almost missed the train—Jason Quinte—and the blond, pink-faced young man whose name the sorcerer did not know. Both were smoking cigars and talking in voices that could be heard but not understood above the rush of the wind and the rumble of the wheels over the steel tracks.

  Master Seamus had taken the outer of the two remaining chairs, and Father Armand, who was trying valiantly to light his pipe in the gusts that eddied about him, had taken the other. When at last the pipe was burning properly, Father Armand leaned back and relaxed.

  The door slid open and a fifth man came out, thumbing tobacco into his own pipe, a stubby briar. It was Sir Stanley Galbraith, the wide-shouldered, muscular, graying man who had preceded the sorcerer aboard the train. He ignored the others and went to the high railing that surrounded the observation deck and looked into the distance. Having packed his pipe to his satisfaction, he put away his tobacco pouch and then proceeded to search himself. Finally, he turned around, scowling. The scowl vanished when he saw Father Armand’s pipe.

  “Ah. Begging your pardon, Reverend Sir, but could I borrow your pipe lighter? Seem to have left my own in my compartment.”

  “Certainly.” Father Armand proffered his lighter, which Sir Stanley promptly made use of. He succeeded in an astonishingly short time and handed the lighter back. “Thank you. My name’s Galbraith, Sir Stanley Galbraith.”

  “Father Armand Brun. I am pleased to meet you, Sir Stanley. This is Master Sorcerer Seamus Kilpadraeg.”

  “A pleasure, gentlemen, a pleasure.” He puffed vigorously at his pipe. “There. She’ll stay lit now. Good thing it isn’t raining; left my weather pipe at home.”

  “If you need one, Sir Stanley, let me know.” It was the plump Jason Quinte. He and the pink-faced youngster had stopped talking when Sir Stanley had appeared and had been listening. Sir Stanley’s voice was not overly loud, but it carried well. “I have a couple of them,” Quinte went on. “One of ‘em never used. Glad to make you a present of it if you want it.”

  “No, no. Thanks all the same, but there’s no bad weather predicted between here and Napoli.” He looked at the sorcerer. “Isn’t that right, Master Seamus?”

  The sorcerer grinned. “That’s what the report said, Sir Stanley, but I couldn’t tell you of my own knowledge. Weather magic isn’t my field.”

  “Oh. Sorry. You chaps do all specialize, don’t you? What is your specialty, if I may ask?”

  “I teach forensic sorcery.”

  “Ah, I see. Interesting field, no doubt.” He shifted his attention as a whiff of cigar smoke came his way. “Jamieson.”

  The pink-faced youth took the cigar from his mouth and looked alert. “Sir?”

  “What the devil is that you’re smoking?”

  Jamieson looked down at the cigar in his hand as though he were wondering where the thing had come from and how it had got there. “A Hashtpar, sir.”

  “Persian tobacco; I thought so.” A smile came over his tanned face. “Good Persian is very good; bad Persian—which that is—will probably rot your lungs, my boy. That particular type is cured with some sort of perfume or incense. Reminds me of a whorehouse in Abadan.”

  There was a sudden awkward pause as it came to the minds of all of them that there was a man of the cloth present.

  “Toss it overboard, Jamie,” Quinte said in a rather too-loud voice. “Here, have one of mine.”

  Jamieson looked at the three-quarters-smoked cigar again, then flipped it over the rail. “No, thanks, Jason. I was through with it anyway. Just thought I’d try one.” He looked up at Sir Stanley with a rather sheepish grin. “They were exp
ensive, sir, so I bought one. Just to try it, you see. But you’re right—they do smell like the inside of a—uh—Daoist temple.”

  Sir Stanley chuckled. “Some of the worst habits are the most expensive, son. But, then, so are some of the best.”

  “What are you smoking, Sir Stanley?” Father Armand asked quietly.

  “This? It’s a blend of Balik and Robertian.”

  “I favor a similar blend, myself. I find Balik the best of Turkish. I alternate with another blend: Balik and Couban.”

  Sir Stanley shook his head slowly. “Tobacco from the Duchy of Couba is much better suited for cigars, Reverend Sir. The Duchy of Robertia produces the finer pipe tobacco, I find. Of course, I’ll admit it’s all a matter of taste.”

  “Never seen Couba,” said Quinte, “but I’ve seen the tobacco fields in Robertia. Don’t know if you’ve ever seen the stuff grow, Father?” It was only half a question.

  “Tell me about it,” said Father Armand.

  Robertia was a duchy on the southern coast of the northern continent of the Western Hemisphere, New England, with a seacoast on the Gulf of Mechicoe. It had been named after Robert II, since it had been founded during his reign in the early Eighteenth Century.

  “It grows about so high,” Quinte said, holding his hand about thirty inches off the deck. “Big, wide leaves. I don’t know how it’s cured; I only saw it in the fields.”

  He may have been going to say more, but the door leading into the lounge slid open and Trainmaster Edmund Norton stepped out, his red-and-blue uniform gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said with a smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “Oh, no,” said Sir Stanley. “Not at all. Just chit-chat.”

  “I hope you gentlemen have all been comfortable, enjoying the trip, eh?”

  “No complaints at all, Trainmaster. Eh, Father?”

  “Oh, none at all, none at all,” said Father Armand. “A very enjoyable trip so far. You run an excellent train, Trainmaster.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Sir.” The Trainmaster cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, it is my custom at this hour to invite all my special passengers to join me in a drink—of whatever kind you prefer. Will you join me, gentlemen?”

  There could, of course, be no argument with an invitation like that. The five passengers followed the Trainmaster into the lounge.

  “One thing I’ll say,” Father Armand murmured to the sorcerer, “it’s certainly quieter in here than out there.”

  The Trainmaster went quietly over to the table where the saba game had resumed after lunch. He had judged his time accurately.

  Vandepole raked in his winnings with one hand, while he ran the forefinger of the other across his hairline mustache.

  The Trainmaster said a few words, which the sorcerer did not hear over the rumble of the train. It was quieter in here, yes, but not exactly silent.

  Then Trainmaster Edmund went over to the bar, where Goodman Fred stood waiting, turned to the passengers and said in a loud voice: “Gentlemen, step up and order your pleasure. Fred, I’ll see what the gentlemen at the saba table will have.”

  A few minutes later, the Irish sorcerer was seated at the bar watching the foam on a glass of beer slosh gently from side to side with the swaying of the train. Maurice Zeisler, he thought, was going to hate himself later. The scar-faced Gavin Tailleur had gone back to his compartment to tell him that the Trainmaster was treating, but had been unable to rouse him from his—er—nap.

  Master Seamus was seated at the end of the bar, near the passageway. The Trainmaster came over and stood at the end of the bar after making sure everyone who wanted one had been served a drink.

  “I’ll have a beer, Fred,” he said to the attendant.

  “Comin’ right up, Trainmaster.”

  “I see beer’s your tipple, too, Master Sorcerer,” Trainmaster Edmund said as Fred put a foaming brew before him.

  “Aye, Trainmaster, that it is. Wine’s good with a meal, and a brandy for special occasions is fine, but for casual or even serious drinkin’, I’ll take beer every time.”

  “Well spoken. Do you like this particular brew?”

  “Very much,” said the sorcerer. “Norman, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. There’s a little area in the Duchy of Normandy, up in the highlands where the Orne, the Sarthe, the Eure, the Risle, and the Mayenne all have their sources, that has the best water in all of France. There’s good beer comes from Ireland, and there are those who prefer English beer, but to my taste, Norman is the best, which is why I always order it for my train.”

  Master Seamus, who did prefer English beer, but by the merest hair, merely said: “It’s very fine stuff. Very fine, indeed.” He suspected that the Trainmaster’s preference might be shaded just a little by the fact that Norman beer was cheaper in Paris than English beer.

  “Have you been getting along well with your compartment mate?” the Trainmaster asked.

  “I haven’t been informed who my compartment mate is,” the sorcerer replied.

  “Oh? Sorry. It’s Father Armand Brun.”

  7

  By half past four that afternoon, Master Seamus Kilpadraeg was dozing on the rearward couch, leaning back in the corner, his arms folded across his chest and his chin nearly touching his sternum. Since he did not snore, he offended no one. Father Armand had gone back to Compartment Number Two at a quarter after three, and, suspecting that the gentleman was tired, the sorcerer had decided to let him have the day couch there to himself.

  The train and the saba game went on. Jason Quinte had dropped out of the game, but his place had been taken by the red-haired Valentine Herrick. Gavin Tailleur had taken Sidney Charpentier’s place, and now Charpentier was sitting on the forward couch, his large nose buried in a book entitled The Infernal Device, an adventure novel. Sir Stanley Galbraith and Arthur Mac Kay were at the bar with a dice cup, playing for drinks.

  Quinte and young Jamieson were back out on the observation deck with more cigars—presumably not Hashtpars this time.

  Zeisler was still snoozing, and Lamar had apparently retired to his own compartment.

  At Avignon, the train crossed the bridge that spanned the River Durance and curved away from the Rhone toward Marsaille.

  Master Seamus was roused from his doze by the sound of Simon Lamar’s flat voice, but he neither opened his eyes nor lifted his head.

  “Sidney,” he said to Charpentier, “I need your Healing Talent.”

  “What’s the matter? Got a headache?”

  “I don’t mean I need it. Maurice does. He’s got one hell of a hangover. I’ve ordered some caffe from Fred, but I’d like your help. He hasn’t eaten all day, and he has a headache.”

  “Right. I’ll come along. We’ll have to get some food in him at Marsaille.” He rose and left with Lamar.

  The sorcerer dozed off again.

  8

  When the Napoli Express pulled into Marsaille at twenty-four minutes after six that evening, Master Seamus had already decided that he needed exercise before he needed food. He got off the train, went through the depot, and out into the street beyond. A brisk fifteen-minute walk got his blood going again, made him feel less drowsy, and whetted his appetite. The tangy air of the Duchy of Provence, given a touch of piquancy by the breeze from the Mediterranean, was an aperitif in itself.

  The Cannebiere restaurant—which was nowhere near the street of the same name—was crowded by the time the sorcerer got back. With apologies to both sides, the waiter seated him at a table with a middle-aged couple named Duprey. Since he was not carrying his symbol-decorated carpetbag, there was no way for them to know that he was a magician, and he saw no reason to enlighten them.

  He ordered the specialty of the house, which turned out to be a delicious thick whitefish stew with lots of garlic. It went fine with a dry white wine of rather pronounced character.

  The Dupreys, as the conversation brought out, were the owners of a small lea
ther-goods shops in Versaille who had carefully saved their money to make a trip to Rome, where they would spend a week, leaving the business in the hands of their two sons, each of whom was married to a delightful wife, and one of them had two daughters and the other a son, and…

  And so on.

  The sorcerer was not bored. He liked people, and the Dupreys were a very pleasant couple. He didn’t have to talk much, and they asked him no questions. Not, that is, until the caffe was served. Then: “Tell me, Goodman Seamus,” said the man, “why is it that we must stop at the Ligurian border tonight?’ ‘

  “To check the bill-of-lading for the freight cars, I believe,” the sorcerer said. “Some Italian law about certain imports.”

  “You see, John-Paul,” said the woman, “it is as I told you.”

  “Yes, Martine, but I do not see why it should be. We are not stopped at the border of Champagne or Burgundy or Dauphine or Provence. Why Liguria?” He looked back at the magician. “Are we not at all a part of the same Empire?”

  “Well, yes—and no,” Master Seamus said thoughtfully.

  “What can you mean by that, sir?” John-Paul said, looking puzzled.

  “Well, the Duchies of Italy, like the Duchies of Germany, are a part of the Holy Roman Empire, d’ye see, which was established in A.D. 862, and King John IV is Emperor. But they are not a part of what is unofficially called the Anglo-French Empire, which technically includes only France, England, Scotland, and Ireland.”

  “But we all have the same Emperor, don’t we?” Martine asked.

  “Yes, but His Majesty’s duties are different, d’ye see. The Italian States have their own Parliament, which meets in Rome, and the laws they have passed are slightly different than those of the Anglo-French Empire. Its acts are ratified, not by the Emperor directly, but by the Imperial Viceroy, Prince Roberto VII. In Italy, the Emperor reigns, but does not rule, d’ye see.”

  “I—I think so,” John-Paul said hesitantly. “Is it the same in the Germanies? I mean, they’re part of the Empire, too.”