Too Many Magicians Page 3

  “A formidable ambition—and a laudable one. Do you—”

  “Ah! Master Sean!” said an oily voice from just to the left and behind Lord John Quetzal.

  Master Sean had noticed the approach of Master Ewen MacAlister, hoping—in vain, as it turned out—that Master Ewen would not notice him. He had enough troubles as it was.

  “Master Ewen,” said Master Sean with a forced smile. Before he could introduce Lord John Quetzal, Master Ewen, who totally ignored the journeyman sorcerer, began talking.

  “Heard you had a bit of a set-to with Sir James yesterday, Sean, eh? Heheh.”

  “Hardly a set-to. We—”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean a quarrel. What were you arguing about, though? Nobody seems to know.”

  “Because it is nobody’s business,” snapped Master Sean.

  “Of course not, heheh. Of course not. Still, it must have been something hot, or the Grand Master wouldn’t have broken it up.”

  “He didn’t ‘break it up’, as you put it,” Master Sean said through set teeth that were wreathed in a false smile. “He merely arbitrated our discussion.”

  “Yes. Heheh. Naturally.” The lanky, sandy-haired Scot smiled toothily. “But I don’t blame you for being angry at Sir James. He can be pretty stiff at times. Heheh. Cutting, I mean. Sharp-tongued, he is.”

  “Quite sharp-tongued,” said Lord John Quetzal in agreement. “I’ve felt the bite of it, myself.”

  Master Ewen MacAlister turned and looked at the young Mechicain as if seeing him for the first time. “It is not proper,” he said chillingly, “for a Journeyman to interrupt the conversation of Masters, nor for a Journeyman to criticize a Master. And one would be wise in any case not to criticize the Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London.”

  Lord John Quetzal’s face became wooden, masklike. He gave a courteous bow. “I beg your pardon, Master. I have erred. If you will excuse me, Masters, I have an appointment. I trust I may see you again, Master Sean.”

  “Certainly. How about lunch? I have some things I’d like to talk over with you.”

  “Excellent. When?”

  “Noon, sharp. In the dining room.”

  “I shall be there. Good day, Master Sean, Master Ewen.” He turned and walked away, proudly, even a little stiffly.

  “Good day, your lordship,” Master Sean said to his retreating back.

  Master Ewen blinked. “ ‘Your lordship,’ you said? Who is the boy?”

  “Lord John Quetzal,” said Master Sean with a malicious smile, “is the son of His Gracious Highness, Netsualcoyotle, Duke of Mechicoe.”

  Master Ewen paled visibly. “Dear me,” he said in a low voice, “I do hope he wasn’t offended.”

  “Your ingratiating ways will eventually make you many friends in high places, Master Ewen. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I, too, have an appointment.” He walked away, leaving MacAlister staring after the Mechicain lad and worrying his lower lip with his long horsey upper teeth.

  Master Ewen’s snobbery, Sean thought, would keep him from ever getting anywhere, no matter how good a magician he was. A Master had a perfect right to tick off a Journeyman, but for important things, not trivial ones. On the other hand, if one does exercise that right, one shouldn’t go all puddingy just because the one ticked off happens to have high-ranking relatives. Master Sean decided he needed something to take the bad taste out of his mouth.

  He looked at his wrist watch. Nine twenty-two. He still had time for a cool, foamy beer before his appointment. He headed for the private saloon bar that had been reserved for the Convention members and their guests. Five minutes later, with a pint of good English beer firmly ensconced in his round Irish belly, Sean was climbing the stairs to the upper floor. Then he walked down the hall toward the room that had been assigned to Master Sir James Zwinge, Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London.

  At precisely half past nine, Sean rapped on the door. There was no answer, but he fancied he could hear someone moving about inside so he rapped again, more loudly.

  This time, he got an answer, but certainly not the one he had been expecting.

  The scream was hoarse and reverberating, and yet the words were clear enough. “Master Sean! Help!”

  And then came another sound which Sean recognized as that of someone—or something—heavy falling to the floor of the room.

  Sean grabbed the door handle and twisted. To no avail; the door was locked firmly.

  Other doors, up and down the corridor, were popping open.

  3

  At precisely 7:03 that evening, Lord Darcy, Chief Investigator for His Royal Highness, Richard of Normandy, stepped out of a cab at the front door of the immense town house of my lord the Marquis of London. In Lord Darcy’s hand was a large suitcase and in his eye was a purposeful gleam.

  The soldier at the door, wearing the bright yellow uniform of the Marquis’ Own Guard, asked him his business, and Lord Darcy informed the guard in a quiet, controlled voice that My Lord Marquis was expecting Lord Darcy from Rouen.

  The guardsman looked at the tall, rather handsome man with the lean face and straight brown hair and wondered. In spite of the name and the city he gave as his residence, the gentleman spoke Anglo-French with a definite English accent. Then the guardsman saw the cold light that gleamed in the eyes and decided that it would be better to check with Lord Bontriomphe before he asked any questions.

  Lord Bontriomphe was at the door in less than a minute, ushering Lord Darcy in.

  “Darcy! We weren’t expecting you,” he said with an affable smile.

  “No?” Lord Darcy asked with a smile that had the hardness of chilled steel about it. “Am I to presume that you expected me to receive My Lord Marquis’ message and then take off on a pilgrimage to Rome?”

  Lord Bontriomphe noted the controlled anger. “We expected you to call us on the teleson from Dover,” he said. “We would have had a carriage meet you at the station when the train pulled in.”

  “My Lord Marquis,” said Lord Darcy coolly, “has not indicated that he was willing to pay for any expenses; therefore I assumed that such expenses would come out of my own pocket. Weighing the cost of a teleson message against the cost of a cab made me prefer the latter.”

  “Um-m-m. I see. Well, come on into the office. I think we’ll find My Lord Marquis waiting for us.” He led Lord Darcy down the corridor, opened a door and stood aside to allow Lord Darcy to pass.

  The office was not immense, but it was roomy and well appointed. There were some comfortable-looking chairs and a large one covered with expensive red Moorish leather. There was a large globe of the world on a carved stand, two or three paintings—including a reproduction of a magnificent Vandenbosch which depicted a waterfall—and a pair of large desks.

  Behind one of them sat my lord the Marquis de London.

  The Marquis could only be described as immense. He was absolutely corpulent, but his massive face had a remarkable sharpness of expression, and his eyes had a thoughtful, introspective look. And in spite of a weight that was better than twenty stone, there was an air of firmness about him that gave him an almost regal air.

  “Good evening, my lord,” he said without rising, but extending a broad, fat hand that reminded one of the flipper of a seal.

  “My Lord Marquis,” said Lord Darcy, gripping the hand and releasing it.

  Then, before the Marquis could say anything more, Lord Darcy put one hand firmly on the desk, palm down, leaned over to look down at de London, and said: “And now, how much of this is flummery?”

  “You mock me,” said the Marquis heavily. “Sit down, if you please; I don’t like to have to crane my neck to look up at you.”

  Lord Darcy took the red leather chair without taking his eyes off the Marquis.

  “None of it is flummery,” the Marquis said. “I admit I do not have the full roster of facts, but I feel I have enough to justify my actions. Would you care to hear Lord Bontriomphe’s report?”

  “I would,”
Lord Darcy said. He turned and looked at the second desk, behind which Lord Bontriomphe had seated himself. He was a fairly tall, rather good-looking, square-jawed man who was always well dressed and carried about him an air of competence.

  “You may report, Bontriomphe,” said the Marquis.

  “Everything?”

  “Everything. The conversation verbatim.”

  Lord Bontriomphe leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Lord Darcy prepared himself to listen closely. Bontriomphe had two things which made him of tremendous value to the Marquis of London: a flair for narrative and an eidetic memory.

  Bontriomphe opened his eyes and looked at Darcy.

  “At my lord’s orders,” he said, “I went to the Sorcerers and Healers Convention to look at the herb displays. He was especially interested in the specimens of Polish devilwort, which he—”

  The Marquis snorted. “Pah! That has nothing to do with the murder.”

  “I haven’t said it did. Where was I? Oh, yes. Which he hasn’t been able to grow from the seed, only from cuttings. He wanted to find out how the seed-grown plants had been cultivated.

  “I went in to the Royal Steward a little after nine. The place was packed with sorcerers of every size and description and enough clergy to fill a church from altar to narthex. I had to convince a couple of guards at the door that I wasn’t just some tourist who wanted to gawk at the celebrities, but I made it to the herb displays at about ten after. I took a good long look at the Polish devilwort—it seemed to be thriving well—and then took a survey of the rest of the stuff. I took some notes on a few other rarities, but that wouldn’t interest you, so I’ll omit the details.

  “Then I wandered around and looked at the rest of the displays, just to see if there was anything interesting. I didn’t meet anyone I knew, which made me just as happy, since I hadn’t gone there for chitchat. That is, I didn’t meet any acquaintance until nine twenty. That was when Commander Lord Ashley tapped me on the shoulder.

  “I turned around, and there he was, in full dress Naval uniform, looking as uncomfortable as a Navy officer at a magicians’ convention.

  “ ‘Bontriomphe,’ he said, ‘how good to see you again.’

  “ ‘Good to see you,’ I said, ‘and how is the Imperial Navy? Have you become a Specialist in Sorcery?’

  “That was a deliberate joke. Tony does have a touch of the Talent; he has what they call ‘an intermittent and diffuse precognitive ability’ that has helped him out of tight spots several times, and which, incidentally, is useful to him at the gaming tables. But in general he doesn’t know any more about magic than an ostrich knows about icebergs.

  “He laughed a little. ‘Not yet and not ever,’ he said. ‘I’m here on Naval business. I’m looking for a friend of yours, but I don’t know what he looks like.’

  “ ‘Who are you looking for?’ I asked.

  “ ‘Master Sean O Lochlainn. I checked at the desk and got his room number, but he isn’t in.’

  “ ‘If he’s around,’ I said, ‘I haven’t seen him. But then I haven’t been looking for him.’

  “I stood there and looked around, but I couldn’t spot him any place in that crowd. But I did happen to spot another face I knew.

  “If anybody knows where Master Sean is,’ I said, ‘it will be Grand Master Sir Lyon Grey. Come along.’

  “Sir Lyon was standing over near one of the doors talking to a man who was wearing the habit of one of the Flemish orders. The monk took his leave just as Lord Ashley and I approached Sir Lyon.

  “ ‘Good morning, Sir Lyon,’ I said. ‘I think you’ve met Commander Ashley.’

  “ ‘Good morning, Lord Bontriomphe,’ the old sorcerer said. ‘Yes, Commander Ashley and I have met. In what way may I be of assistance?’

  “ ‘I have a message for Master Sean O Lochlainn, Sir Lyon,’ said Ashley. ‘Have you any idea where he is?’

  “The Grand Master started to answer, but whatever he was going to say was lost. A scrawny little Master Sorcerer with a nose like a spike and rather bugged-out blue eyes suddenly popped from the door nearby, his hands fluttering about like a couple of drunken moths who had mistaken his head for a candle flame. He took a fast look around, saw Sir Lyon, and made a beeline for us, still flapping his hands.

  “ ‘Grand Master! Grand Master! I must speak to you immediately!’ he said in a low, excited voice.

  “ ‘Compose yourself, Master Netly,’ the Grand Master said. ‘What is it?’

  “Master Netly noticed Lord Ashley and me and said: ‘It’s … uh … confidential, Grand Master.’

  “The Grand Master bent a little and cocked his head to one side while Master Netly, who is a good foot shorter than Sir Lyon, stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. I couldn’t catch a word of what he said, but I saw Sir Lyon’s eyes open wider as the skinny little sorcerer spoke. Then his eyes shifted and he looked straight at me.

  “When he straightened up, he was still looking at me. And believe me when Grand Master Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey fixes you with those eyes of his, you have an urge to search your conscience to see what particularly odious sins you have committed lately. Fortunately, my soul was reasonably pure.

  “ ‘Will both of you gentlemen come with me, please?’ he asked, shifting his gaze to Lord Ashley. ‘Something of importance has come up. If you will be so good as to follow me …’

  “He turned and went out the door, and Ashley and I followed. As soon as we got out of the exhibition hall and into the corridor, I asked: ‘What seems to be the trouble, Sir Lyon?’

  “ ‘I am not certain yet. But apparently something has happened to Master Sir James Zwinge. We are fortunate that you, as an officer of the King’s Justice, are on hand.’

  “Then Lord Ashley said: ‘Your pardon, Sir Lyon, but the delivery of this message to Master Sean is most important.’

  “ ‘I am aware of that,’ the old boy said rather testily. ‘Master Sean is already at the scene. That is why I asked you to come along.’

  “ ‘I see. I beg your pardon, Sir Lyon.’

  “We followed him up the stairs and down the upper corridor without saying anything more. Netly pattered along with us, his hands still flitting about.

  “There were three men and a woman standing in the hall outside the room that the management had assigned to Zwinge. Two of the men were wearing the light-blue dress clothing of sorcerers, and so was the woman. The third man was wearing ordinary merchant-class business clothes.

  “One of the sorcerers was Master Sean. The second was a tall young man wearing the white slashes of a Journeyman, a Mechicain, by the look of him. The sorceress was one of the most beautiful honey blondes I have ever had the good fortune to meet in a hotel corridor, with a full-breasted, wide-shouldered, wide-hipped, narrow-waisted body and dark-blue eyes. She was only a couple of inches shorter than I am, and she—”

  “Pfui—” For the second time, the Marquis of London interrupted the report of Lord Bontriomphe. “While you may enjoy dwelling upon the beauties of women, there is no need to do it, much less to overdo it. Darcy has already met Mary, Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. Continue.”

  “Sorry,” Lord Bontriomphe said blandly. “The third man turned out to be Goodman Lewis Bolmer, the manager of the Royal Steward Arms. He’s about an inch taller than Master Sean and looks as though he had lost about fifty pounds too fast. His face and jowls sag and give him a sort of floppy look, as if he were made up of hounds’ ears. He looked both worried and frightened.

  “I asked what had happened as soon as I had identified myself.

  “Master Sean said: ‘I had an appointment with Sir James at nine thirty, I knocked on the door and no one answered. I knocked again. Then I heard a scream and a sound as of a heavy body falling. Since then, there’s been nothing. The door is locked, and we can’t get in.’

  “I looked at Goodman Lewis. ‘Have you the key?’

  “ ‘Yes, your lordship,’ he said, nodding and jiggling his jowls. ‘I brought it as s
oon as Master Netly told me what had happened. But it won’t turn the bolt. It’s stuck. Spell on it, I daresay.’

  “ ‘It’s a personalized lock spell,’ Master Sean said. ‘I’d say that only Sir James’ key will open it. But I’m afraid he may be badly injured. We’ll have to get that door down.’

  “If you’ve ever been in the Royal Steward, you know how thick those doors are. Very old fashioned oak work—the building dates back to the Seventeenth Century.

  “ ‘Can you take the spell off, Sean?’ I asked.

  “ ‘Sure and I can,’ he said. ‘But it would take time. Half an hour if I’m lucky and get the psychic pattern right away. Two or three hours if I’m not lucky. That’s not just an ordinary commercial spell; that’s a personal job put on there by Master Sir James himself.’

  “I knelt down and took a peek through the keyhole. I couldn’t see anything but the far wall of the room. The keyhole is big enough, but the door is so thick that it’s like looking through a tunnel. Those doors are two inches thick.

  “I stood up again and turned to Goodman Lewis. ‘Go get an ax. We’ll have to chop through.’

  “He looked as if he were about to object, but he just said, ‘Yes, your lordship. Right away,’ and hurried away.

  “While he was gone, I asked some questions. ‘What happened right after you heard the scream, Sean?’

  “ ‘Nothing for a few seconds,’ he said. ‘Then my colleagues, here, came out of their rooms.’

  “ ‘Which rooms?’