Too Many Magicians Page 19

  Lord Ashley carefully took his hand off the hilt of his own sword. The Armsman kept his where it was. “I heard a disturbance on the bridge, sir,” he said stolidly. “A noise of swords clashing, it sounded like, sir. Then somebody from off the bridge ran past me in the fog. And just now …” He paused. “Were that you shouting, sir?”

  It came suddenly to Lord Ashley what a forbidding figure he must be. In his long black Naval cloak, with the hood up, and his back to the lamp, his shadowed face was as invisible as MacAlister’s had been. He reached up with one hand and pulled back the hood, and then pushed the cloak back over his shoulders so that the Armsman could see his uniform.

  “I am Commander Lord Ashley,” he said. “Yes Armsman, there has been trouble. The man you heard running is a criminal wanted for murder.”

  “Murder, your lordship?” said the Armsman blankly. “Who was he?”

  “I’m afraid he did not give me his name,” said Lord Ashley. The statement was perfectly true, he thought, and he wanted to tell Darcy about MacAlister before he told anyone else. “The point is that a short time ago he pushed a young girl off the bridge. My companion dived in after her.”

  “Dived in after her? That were a foolish thing to do on a night like this. Likely we’ve lost two people instead of one, your lordship.”

  “That may well be,” Lord Ashley admitted. “I’ve called him and he doesn’t answer. But he’s a powerful man, and although the chances are against his having found the girl, there’s a good chance he can make it to shore by himself.”

  “All right, your lordship, we’ll start looking for both of them right away.” He took out his whistle and blew a series of shrill, high, keening notes into the murk-filled air—the “Assistance” call of the King’s Armsmen. A second or two later, they heard distant whistles from both sides of the river blowing the answer: “Coming.” After several more seconds, the Armsman repeated the call, to give his hearers a bearing.

  “There’ll be help along in a few minutes. Nothing we can do till then,” the Armsman said briskly. He took a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Now, your lordship, if I might have your name again and the names of the other people involved.”

  The Commander repeated his own name, then he said, “The girl’s name is Tia Einzig.” He spelled it. “She is an important witness in a murder case, which is why the killer tried to do away with her. The man who went in after her is Lord Darcy, the—”

  “Lord Darcy, did you say?” The Armsman lifted his head suddenly from the notebook. “Lord Darcy, the famous investigator from Rouen?”

  “That’s right,” said Lord Ashley.

  “The same Lord Darcy,” persisted the Armsman, who seemed to want to make absolutely sure of the identification, “who came over from Normandy to help Lord Bontriomphe solve the Royal Steward Hotel Murder?”

  “The same,” Lord Ashley said wearily.

  “And he’s gone and jumped in the river?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. He jumped in the river. He was trying to save this girl. By now he’s had time to swim clear to the Nore. If we wait a little longer, he may be on his way back.”

  The Armsman looked miffed. “No need to get impatient, your lordship. We’ll get things done as fast as we can.” He put his whistle to his lips again and sent out the distress call a third time. Then, after a moment, a fourth.

  Then they could hear hoofbeats clattering on the distant street and the sound changed to a hollow thunder as the horse galloped onto the bridge. They could see a glow of light approaching through the fog; the Armsman signaled with his own lantern. “Here comes the sergeant now, your lordship.”

  The mounted Sergeant-at-Arms was suddenly upon them, pulling his big bay gelding to a halt, as the Armsman came to attention. “What seems to be the trouble, Armsman Arthur?”

  “This gentleman here, Sergeant, is Commander Lord Ashley of the Imperial Navy.” Referring to his notebook, he went on to report quickly and concisely what Lord Ashley had told him. By that time, they could hear the thud of heavy boots and the clatter of hoofbeats from both ends of the bridge, as more Armsmen approached.

  “All right, My Lord Commander,” said the sergeant, “we’ll take care of it. Likely he swam for the right bank since it’s the nearer, but we’ll cover both sides. Arthur, you go to the Thames Street River Patrol Station. Tell them to get their boats out, and to send a message to the other patrol stations downriver. We’ll want everything covered from here to Chelsea.”

  “Right away, Sergeant.” Armsman Arthur disappeared into the fog.

  “I’d like to ask a favor if I may, Sergeant,” said Lord Ashley.

  “What might that be, My Lord Commander?”

  “Send a horseman to the Royal Steward Hotel, if you would. Have him report exactly what happened to the Sergeant-at-Arms on duty there. Also, there is an official Admiralty coach waiting for me there, Petty Officer Hosquins in charge. Have your man tell Hosquins that Commander Lord Ashley wants him to bring the coach to Thames Street and Somerset Bridge immediately. I’m going to assume that Lord Darcy made for the right bank, and help your men search that side.”

  “Very good, My Lord Commander. I’ll send a man right along.”

  * * * *

  Mary de Cumberland walked across the almost deserted lobby of the Royal Steward, doing her best to suppress her nervous impatience.

  She felt she ought to be doing something, but what?

  She would like to have talked to someone but there was no one to talk to.

  Sir Lyon and Sir Thomas were still in conclave with the highest ranking sorcerers of the Empire. Master Sean was at the morgue attending to the autopsy of Sir James Zwinge. Lord Bontriomphe, according to the Sergeant-at-Arms who was on duty in the temporary office, was out prowling the city in search of a missing man named Paul Nichols. (She knew that the Sergeant-at-Arms would not have given her even that much information except that Lord Bontriomphe had told him that Her Grace of Cumberland would be bringing in information. The sergeant apparently assumed that her status in the investigation was a great deal more official than it actually was.)

  And Lord Darcy was in a low dive down the street, keeping an eye on Tia.

  Which left the Duchess with nothing to do.

  Part way across the lobby, she turned and headed down the hall that led back to the temporary office. Maybe some information had come in. Even if none had, it was better to be talking to the sergeant than to be pointlessly pacing the hotel lobby.

  If this had been a normal convention, she could have found plenty of convivial companionship in the Sword Room, but the murder had stilled the thirst of every sorcerer in the hotel. She went through the open door of the little office. “Anything new, Sergeant Peter?”

  “Not a thing, Your Grace,” said the Sergeant-at-Arms, rising to his feet. “Lord Bontriomphe’s not back yet and neither is Lord Darcy.”

  “You look as though you’re as bored as I am, Sergeant. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “It would be an honor, Your Grace. Here, take this chair. Not too comfortable, I’m afraid. They didn’t exactly give their night manager their best furniture.”

  They were interrupted by another Sergeant-at-Arms who walked in the door. He gave the Duchess a quick nod, said, “Evening, mum,” and then addressed Sergeant Peter. “Are you in charge here, Sergeant?”

  “Until Lord Bontriomphe or Lord Darcy gets back, I am. Sergeant Peter O Sechnaill.”

  “Sergeant Michael Coeur-Terre, River Detail. Lord Darcy might not be back. Girl named Tia Einzig got pushed off Somerset Bridge, and Lord Darcy jumped off the bridge after her. They’re putting out patrol boats and search parties on both sides of the river from Somerset Bridge to Chelsea, but personally I don’t think there’s much chance. A Commander Lord Ashley asked us to report to you. He said Lord Bontriomphe would want the information.”

  Sergeant Peter nodded. “Right,” he said briskly. “I’ll tell his lordship as soon as he comes in. Anything else?”
>
  “Yes. Do you know where an Admiralty coach is parked around here with a Petty Officer Hosquins in charge of it? Commander Lord Ashley says he wants it at Thames Street and Somerset Bridge immediately. He wants transportation for Lord Darcy when they find him, though it’s my opinion that his lordship is done for.”

  Mary de Cumberland had already risen to her feet. Now she said, in a very quiet voice, “He is not dead. I should know it if he were dead.”

  “I beg your pardon, mum?” said Sergeant Michael.

  “Nothing, Sergeant,” she said calmly. “At Thames Street and Somerset Bridge, you said? I know where the Admiralty coach is. I shall tell Petty Officer Hosquins.”

  Sergeant Michael noticed, for the first time, the Cumberland arms on Mary’s dress. Simultaneously, Sergeant Peter said, “Her Grace is working with us on this case.”

  “That’s … that’s very good of Your Grace, I’m sure,” said Sergeant Michael.

  “Not at all, Sergeant.” She swept out of the room, walked rapidly down the hall, across the lobby, and out the front door of the Royal Steward. She hadn’t the dimmest notion of where the Admiralty coach might be parked, but this was no time to quibble over details.

  It didn’t take her long to find it. It was waiting half a block away, toward St. Swithin’s Street. There was no mistaking the Admiralty arms emblazoned on its door. The coachman and the footman were sitting up in the driver’s seat, their greatcoats wrapped around them and a blanket over their legs, quietly smoking their pipes and talking.

  “Petty Officer Hosquins?” Mary said authoritatively. “I’m the Duchess of Cumberland. Lord Ashley has sent word that the coach is wanted immediately at Thames Street and Somerset Bridge. I’m going with you.” Before the footman had even had a chance to climb down she had opened the door and was inside the coach. Petty Officer Hosquins opened the trap door in the roof and looked down at her.

  “But Your Grace,” he began.

  “Lord Ashley,” the Duchess cut in coldly, “said ‘immediately’ This is an emergency. Now, dammit, get a move on, man.”

  Petty Officer Hosquins blinked. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said. He closed the trap. The coach moved on.

  Part Four

  17

  There was a chilling shock as Lord Darcy’s body cut into the inky waters of the Thames. For long seconds it seemed as if he would keep on going down until he buried himself in the mud and muck at the bottom; then he was fighting his way up again, tearing off his jacket. His head broke the surface, he took one deep breath, and then doubled over to pull off his boots.

  And all the while Lord Darcy was telling himself that he was a fool—a bloody, stupid, harebrained fool. The girl had allowed herself to be pushed in without a struggle, and she had fallen without a sound. What chance was there of finding her in a world of darkness and watery death, better than a hundred yards from the nearest bank? A heaviness at his hip reminded him of something else. He could have drawn his pistol, but he would never have shot a man armed only with a sword, and the time it would have taken to force the man to drop his weapon and then turn him over to Ashley would have been precious seconds wasted. His chances of finding the girl were small now; they would have been infinitesimal if there had been any delay.

  At least, he told himself, he could have drawn his gun and dropped it on the bridge as he had his cloak. Its added weight now was only a hindrance. Regretfully he drew it from its holster and consigned it forever to the muddy depths of the mighty river. He surfaced again and looked around. It was not as dark as he had thought. Dimly, he could still see the lights on the bridge.

  “Tia!” he shouted. “Tia Einzig! Where are you? Can you hear me?”

  She should have been borne downstream, beneath Somerset Bridge, but how far beneath the surface? Had she already taken her last gasp and filled her lungs with water?

  And then he heard a noise.

  There was a soft, spluttering, sobbing sound and a faint splash.

  “Tia Einzig!” he shouted again. “Say something! Where are you?”

  There was no answer except that faint sound again, coming from upstream, between himself and the bridge. His sprint across the bridge and his long dive had put him downstream from her, as he had hoped.

  Lord Darcy swam toward the sound, his powerful arms fighting against the current of the Thames. The sound came closer, a sort of mewing sob that hardly sounded human.

  And then he touched her.

  She was struggling, but not much. Just enough, apparently, to keep her head above water. He put his left arm around her, holding them both up with powerful strokes of his right, and her struggles stopped. Her cloak, he noticed, was gone—probably torn off when she struck the water. The whimpering sounds had ceased, and her body was completely relaxed but she was still breathing. He kept her face above water and began swimming toward the right bank, towing her through the chilling water. Thank God she was small and light, he thought. She didn’t weigh more than seven stone, sopping wet.

  The joke struck him as funny but he couldn’t waste his breath now in laughing. It would be like laughing at my own funeral, he thought, and this second joke was grim enough to preclude any desire to laugh.

  Where was the damned bank, anyway? How long does it take to cover a hundred-odd yards of water? He felt as though he had been swimming for hours, and the muscles of his right shoulder were beginning to feel the strain. Treading water, carefully holding the girl’s head above the surface, he changed about, letting his right arm keep her up, and swimming with his left.

  Hours more seemed to pass, and now there was nothing but blackness around him. The lights of the bridge had long since faded away, and the lights on the river bank—if there was any river bank!—were not yet visible.

  Had he lost his bearings? Was he swimming downstream instead of across it? There was no way of knowing; his body was moving with the water and there was nothing visible to judge by.

  Then, as he reached out for another in a seemingly endless series of strokes, his fingers slammed into something hard and sent a stinging pain into his hand and wrist. He reached out again, more carefully this time.

  It was a shelf of stone, one of the steps leading down to the water’s edge from the bank above. He levered the girl’s body up onto the step, then climbed out of the water himself. She was all right, as far as he could tell; she was still breathing.

  He realized suddenly that he was too weak and exhausted even to climb the steps to the embankment by himself, much less carry the girl up. But he couldn’t just let her lie there on the cold stone. He lifted her up and held her in his arms, trying to warm her body with his, and then for a long time he just sat there—motionless, cold, and wet, his mind almost as blank as the endless darkness that surrounded them.

  * * * *

  After what might have been minutes or hours of mental and physical numbness, a slight, almost imperceptible change in Lord Darcy’s surroundings forced his sluggish mind to function again.

  What was it that was different? Something to his left. Something he could see out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to look. It was nothing; just a light—a dim glow in the distance that seemed to shift back and forth a little and grow steadily brighter. No, not just one light, there were two … three …

  Then a voice said, “Hallooo … Lord Darcy! Can you hear us, my lord?”

  Lord Darcy’s mind snapped into full wakefulness. The fog must have thinned somewhat, he realized. He could tell from the voice that they were still some distance away, but the lights were easily visible. “Halloo,” he shouted. His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears. He tried again. “Halloo.”

  “Who’s that?” called the voice.

  Lord Darcy grinned in spite of his weariness. “Lord Darcy here,” he shouted. “You were calling me, I believe?”

  Then somebody yelled: “We’ve found him; he’s here!” Somebody else blew on a whistle. Lord Darcy felt himself beginning to shiver.

  Reaction, he
thought, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. I feel weak as a kitten. His muscles felt as though they had been jelled by the cold; the only warm spot in his body was his chest, against which he had been holding Tia. She was still breathing—quietly, regularly. But she was limp in his arms, completely relaxed; she wasn’t even shivering. That’s all right, Lord Darcy thought, I’m shivering enough for both of us. There were more whistles and more lights and footfalls all over the place. He wondered vaguely whether they had decided to call out the Army. And then a Man-at-Arms with a lantern was beside him, saying, “Are you all right, Lord Darcy?”

  “I’m all right, just cold.”

  “Good Heavens, my lord, you’ve got the girl.” He shouted up the embankment, “He’s got the girl!”

  But Lord Darcy hardly heard the words. The light from the man’s lantern was shining directly into Tia’s face, and her eyes were wide open, staring blankly, unseeingly, into nothing. He would have thought her dead, but the dead do not breathe.

  There were more men around him now.

  “Give his lordship more light.”

  “Let me help you up, my lord.”

  Then: “Darcy! Thank Heaven you’re safe! And the girl, too! It’s a miracle!”

  “Hullo, Ashley,” said Darcy. “Thanks for calling out the troops.”

  Lord Ashley grinned. “Here’s your cloak. You shouldn’t go around leaving things on bridges.” And then he was taking off his own cloak to wrap it around Tia. He took her from Darcy’s arms and carried her up the steps, carefully, tenderly.

  Lord Darcy wrapped his cloak tightly around himself, but it didn’t help the shivering.

  “We’ll have to get you some place warm, my lord, or you’ll catch your death of dampness,” said an Armsman.

  Lord Darcy started up the steps. Then a voice from the top said, “Did you find him?”

  “We found both of them, Your Grace,” said another Armsman.