Too Many Magicians Page 5

  Had he been going off duty, had he been going to the Middle Tower instead of St. Thomas’ Tower, he would not even have noticed the symbol-decorated carpetbag. The spell was specific. But he did pick it up, and he did carry it up the spiral staircase to Master Sean’s cell.

  He unlocked the door to Master Sean’s cell, then knocked politely.

  “Master Sean, it is I, Warder Linsy.”

  “Come in, me boy, come in,” said Master Sean jovially.

  The door opened, and when Master Sean saw the carpetbag in the Warder’s hand, he suppressed a smile and said: “What can I do for you, Warder?”

  “I was to come up and see what you wanted for dinner, Master,” Warder Linsy said deferentially. Absently he put the bag down inside the door.

  “Ah, it’s of no matter to me, my good Warder,” said Master Sean. “Whatever the Chief Warder orders will be good enough for me.”

  Warder Linsy smiled. “That’s good of you, Master.” Then he lowered his voice. “Ain’t none of us thinks you done it, Master Sean. We knows a sorcerer couldn’t of killed a man. Not that way, I mean. Not by black magic.”

  “Thank you for your confidence, me boy,” Master Sean said expansively. “I assure you it’s not misplaced. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some thinking to do.”

  “Of course, Master. Of course.” And Warder Linsy closed the door, locked it carefully, and went on about his business.

  * * * *

  Lord Darcy’s trip from the Palace du Marquis to the Tower of London was uneventful. The cab clattered out of Mark Lane, swerved, and descended Tower Hill. In Water Lane, at the gate, it stopped. Lord Darcy stepped out.

  A heavy, whitish fog drifted through the bars of the great iron fence and clung to the shadows of the Gothic archways. There was a fading sound of bells as the ships on the Thames moved through the mist-laden waters. The air was muggy, and a faint smell of marine decay drifted over the wall that formed one side of the fortress. Lord Darcy wrinkled his nostrils at the aroma that assailed them, and then walked over the stone bridge that led from the Middle Tower to another tower—larger and gray-black, with a few whitish stones here and there in its walls. There was another archway, then a short, straight path, and then Lord Darcy turned toward the right and entered St. Thomas’ Tower.

  Within a few minutes, the Warder was unlocking the door to Master Sean’s cell. “Call me when you wants to leave, your lordship,” he said. He left, closing the door and relocking it.

  “Well, Master Sean,” said Lord Darcy with a spark of humor in his gray eyes, “I trust you are enjoying this idyllic relaxation from your onerous duties, eh?”

  “Hm-m-m—yes and no, my lord,” said the tubby little sorcerer. He waved a hand at the small plain table on which his carpetbag sat. “I can’t say I enjoy being locked up, but it has given me an opportunity to experiment and meditate.”

  “Indeed? Upon what?”

  “Upon getting in and out of locked rooms, my lord.”

  “And what have you learned, my good Sean?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “I’ve learned that the security system here is quite good, but not quite good enough. To hold me in, I mean. The spell on that lock took me ten minutes to solve.” He picked up a small wand of gleaming brass and twirled it between thumb and forefinger. “I relocked it, of course, my lord. No need to disturb the Warder, who’s a decent sort of fellow.”

  “I see you regained possession of your bag of equipment easily enough. Well, one could hardly expect an ordinary prison magician to compete with a Master Sorcerer of your capabilities. Now pray be seated and explain to me in detail how you came to be incarcerated in one of London’s oldest landmarks. Omit no detail.”

  Lord Darcy did not interrupt while Master Sean told his story. He had worked with the little sorcerer for years; he knew that Sean’s memory was accurate and complete.

  “And then,” Master Sean finished, “Lord Bontriomphe brought me here—with, I must say, sincere apologies. I can’t for the life of me see why the Marquis should order me locked up, though. Surely a man of his abilities should be able to see that I had nothing to do with Sir James’ death.”

  Lord Darcy scooped tobacco from a leathern pouch and thumbed it into the gold-worked porcelain bowl of his favorite pipe. “Of course he knows you’re innocent, my dear Sean,” he said crisply. “My Lord Marquis is a parsimonious man and a lazy one. Bontriomphe is an excellent investigator, but he lacks the deductive faculty in its highest form. My Lord Marquis, on the other hand, is capable of brilliant reasoning, but he is both physically and mentally indolent. He leaves his own home but rarely, and never for the purpose of criminal investigation. When he is pressured into doing so, My Lord Marquis is perfectly capable of solving some of the most intricate and complex puzzles with nothing more to work with than the verbal reports given him by Lord Bontriomphe. His mind is—brilliant.” Lord Darcy lit his pipe and surrounded himself with a cloud of fragrant smoke.

  “Coming from you,” said Master Sean, “that’s quite a compliment.”

  “Not at all. It is merely a statement of fact. Perhaps it runs in the blood; we are cousins, you know.”

  Master Sean nodded. “At least the laziness doesn’t run in the blood, my lord. But why lock me up because he’s lazy?”

  “Lazy and parsimonious, my good Sean,” Lord Darcy corrected the sorcerer. “Both factors apply. He has already recognized that this case is far too complex for the relatively feeble powers of Lord Bontriomphe to cope with.” Lord Darcy smiled and took the pipe from his lips. “You said a moment ago that I had complimented my lord’s brilliancy. If that is so, then he has, in his own way, paid the same compliment to me. He is mentally lazy; therefore, he wishes to get someone else to do the work—someone competent to solve the problem with the same facility with which he would do it himself, were he to apply his mind. He has chosen me, and I flatter myself that he would not have chosen any other man.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why he locked me up,” Master Sean said “He could have just asked you for assistance.”

  Lord Darcy sighed. “You have forgotten his parsimony again, my good Sean. Were he to ask His Royal Highness of Normandy to spare my services for a short while, he would be obligated to pay my salary from his own Privy Purse. But by incarcerating you, he deprives me of my most valued assistant. He knows I would not suffer you to be imprisoned one second longer than necessary. He knows that putting you in the Tower would force me to take a leave of absence, to solve the case on my own time, thereby saving himself a pretty penny.”

  “Blackmail,” said Master Sean.

  “ ‘Blackmail’ is perhaps too strong a word,” Lord Darcy said thoughtfully, “but I will admit that no other is quite strong enough. That problem, however, will be taken care of in its own time. At the moment, we are concerned with the death of Sir James.

  “Now—what about the lock on Sir James’ room?”

  Master Sean settled himself deeper into his chair. “Well, my lord, as you know, most commercial spells are pretty simple, especially those where more than one key has to be used, as they have in a hotel.”

  Lord Darcy nodded patiently. Master Sean O Lochlainn had a rather pedagogical habit of framing his explanations as though they were lectures to be used in the training of apprentice sorcerers—which was not surprising, since the tubby little master magician had at one time taught in one of the Sorcerers’ Guild’s schools and had written two textbooks and several monographs upon the subject. Lord Darcy had long ago formed the habit of listening, even though he had heard parts of each lecture before, for there was always something to be learned, something new to be stored away in the memory for future reference. Lord Darcy did not have the inborn Talent necessary to make use of the Laws of Magic directly, but one never knows when some esoteric bit of data might become pertinent and useful to a criminal investigator.

  “The average commercial spell uses the Law of Contagion, so that every key which touches the lock during the ca
sting of the spell will unlock and lock it,” Master Sean continued. “But that means a relative weakening of the spell. An ordinary duplicate key won’t work the lock, but any good apprentice o’ the Guild could break the spell if he had such a duplicate. And any Master could break it without the key in a minute or two.

  “But a personal spell by a Master uses the Law of Relevance to bind the whole lock-and-key mechanism together as a unit—one key, one lock. The spell is cast with the key in the lock, so that the binding considers the key simply as a detachable part of the mechanism, if you follow me, my lord. No other key will work, either to lock or to unlock the mechanism, even if it is so physically like the proper key that they couldn’t be told apart.”

  “And Master Sir James’ key-and-lock had that sort of spell on it, eh?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “That it did, my lord.”

  “Could a Master Sorcerer have removed the spell?”

  Master Sean nodded. “Aye, that he could—in half an hour. But look what that would entail, my lord.

  “The Unknown would have to stand in that corridor for at least half an hour, maybe more, going through the proper ritual. Anyone who came by during that time couldn’t help but notice. Certainly Master Sir James would have noticed if he was inside the room.

  “But let’s say the Unknown actually does that. Now he opens the door with an ordinary duplicate, goes inside, and kills Master Sir James. Fine.

  “Then he comes out, and casts another spell on the lock-and-key—with the key in the lock, as it must be. That takes him another half hour.

  “And then …“

  Master Sean held up his forefinger dramatically.

  “… And then—he has to get that key back into the room!”

  Master Sean spread his hands, palms upward. “I submit that it isn’t possible, my lord. Not even for a magician.”

  Lord Darcy puffed thoughtfully at his pipe for the space of two seconds. Then he said: “Is it not theoretically possible to move an object from one point in space to another without actually traversing the space between the two points?”

  “Theoretically?” Master Sean made a wry grin. “Oh, yes, my lord. Theoretically, The Transmutation of metals is theoretically possible, too. But, like instantaneous transportation, no one has ever done it. If anyone did solve the rites and ceremonies necessary, it would be the biggest scientific breakthrough of the Twentieth Century. It couldn’t be kept quiet. It is simply beyond our present stage of science, my lord.

  “And when and if it is ever done, my lord, the process will not be used for such minor things as moving a big brass key a few feet.”

  “Very well, then,” said his lordship, “we can eliminate that.”

  “The trouble is,” said Master Sean, “that all those heavy privacy spells make it difficult for a man to do his work properly. If it weren’t for them, your job would be simple.”

  “My dear Sean,” said Lord Darcy with a smile, “if it were not for the privacy spells used in every hotel, private home, office building, and in public structures of all kinds, my job would not be simple, it would be nonexistent.

  “Although the clairvoyant Talent is no doubt a useful one, its indiscriminate use leads to so much encroachment upon personal privacy and individual rights that we must protect ourselves from it. Imagine what a clairvoyant could do in a world where such protective spells were not used. There would be no need for investigators like myself. In such a world the police would have merely to bring the case to the attention of a clairvoyant, who would immediately inform them of how the crime was committed and who had committed it.

  “On the other hand, think what opportunity there would be for a corrupt government to employ such clairvoyants to spy upon private citizens for their own nefarious purposes. Or think of the opportunities for criminal blackmail.

  “We must be thankful that modern privacy spells protect us from such improper uses of the Talent, even though it makes physical investigation of a crime necessary. Even as it is, I am never called upon when something happens in the countryside. If a person is killed in a field or in a forest, a journeyman sorcerer working for the local Armsmen can easily take care of the job—as easily as he finds lost children and strayed animals. It is in the cities, towns and villages where my ability to deduce facts from physical and thaumaturgical evidence makes me useful.

  “It is my job to find method, motive, and opportunity.” He took a small, silver, ivory-handled tool from his pocket and began tamping the ashes in his pipe. “Method, motive and opportunity,” he repeated thoughtfully. “So far we have no candidates for the first two and entirely too many for the last.” He returned the tamper to his pocket and the pipe to his mouth.

  “Normally, my dear Sean,” he continued, “when a case appears to have magical elements in it, finding the magician involved is a prime factor in the problem. You will recall the interesting behavior of Laird Duncan at Castle D’Evreux, the curious habits of the one-armed tinker at the Michaelmas Fair, the Polish sorcerer in the Atlantic Curse problem, the missing magician in the Canterbury blackmail case, and the odd affair of Lady Overleigh’s solid gold chamber pot. In each case, only one sorcerer was directly involved.

  “But what have we here?” Lord Darcy gestured with his pipe in the general direction of the Royal Steward Hotel. “We have nearly half the licensed sorcerers of the Empire, a collection that includes some seventy-five or eighty percent of the most powerful magicians on Earth.

  “We are faced with a plenitude—indeed, a plethora—of suspects, all of whom have the ability to use black magic against Master Sir James Zwinge, and had the opportunity of doing so.”

  Master Sean thoughtfully massaged his round Irish nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. “I can’t understand why any of ‘em would do it, my lord. Every Guild member knows the danger of it. ‘The mental state necessary to use the Talent for black sorcery is such that it invariably destroys the user.’ That’s a quote from one of the basic textbooks, my lord, and every grimoire contains a variation of it. How could any sorcerer be so stupid?”

  “Why do chirurgeons occasionally become addicts of the poppy distillates?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “I know, my lord; I know,” Master Sean said wearily. “One act of black magic isn’t fatal; it doesn’t even cause any detectable mental or moral change in many cases. But the operative word there is ‘detectable.’ And that’s because the moral rot must already have set in before a man with the Talent would even consider practicing black magic.”

  * * * *

  Even though it had happened before and would happen again, no member of the Guild of Sorcerers liked the idea that any single other member would resort to the perversion of his Art that constituted Black Magic.

  Not that they were afraid to face it—oh, no! Face it they must, and face it they did—with a vengeance. Lord Darcy knew—although very few who were not high-ranking Masters of the Guild had that knowledge—exactly what happened to a member who was found guilty of using his Talent for evil.

  Destruction!

  The evil sorcerer, convicted by his own mind, convicted by the analysis of a true Jury of his true Peers, convicted by those who could really understand and sympathize with his motives and reasons, was condemned to have his Talent …

  … Removed.

  … Obliterated.

  … Destroyed.

  A Committee of Executors was appointed—a group of sorcerers large enough and powerful enough to overcome the Talent-power of the guilty man.

  And when they were through, the convicted man had lost nothing but his Talent. His knowledge, his memory, his morals, his sanity—all remained the same. But his ability to perform magic was gone … never to return.

  “Meanwhile,” said Lord Darcy, “we have a problem of our own. Commander Lord Ashley gave you my message?”

  “Indeed he did, my lord.”

  “I hate having to take you away from the Convention, my good Sean; I know what it means to you. Bu
t this is no ordinary murder; it concerns the security of the Empire.”

  “I know, my lord,” said Master Sean, “duty is duty.” But there was a touch of sadness in his voice. “I did rather want to present my paper, but it will be published in the Journal, which will be just as good.”

  “Hm-m-m,” said Lord Darcy. “When were you scheduled to present your paper?”

  “On Saturday, my lord. Master Sir James and I were going to combine our papers and present them jointly, but of course that is out of the question now. They’ll have to be published separately.”

  “Saturday, eh?” said Lord Darcy. “Well, if we can get back to Cherbourg by tomorrow afternoon, I should say that most of the urgent work will be cleared up within twenty-four hours, say by Friday afternoon. You could take the evening boat back and be in time to present both your paper and the late Master Sir James’.”

  Master Sean brightened. “That’s good of you, my lord! But you’ll have to get me out o’ this plush cell if we’re to get the job done!”

  “Hah!” Lord Darcy shot suddenly to his feet. “My dear Master Sean, that problem has, I think, already been solved—although it may take a little time to make the … er … proper arrangements. And now I shall bid you good night; I shall see you again tomorrow.”

  5

  The fog had thickened in the courtyard below the high, embattled walls surrounding the Tower of London, and beyond the Water Lane gate the world seemed to have disappeared into a wall of impalpable cotton wool. The gas lamps in the courtyard and above the gate seemed to be shedding their light into nothingness.

  “Had you no one waitin’ for you, your lordship?” asked the Sergeant Warder as he stood on the steps with Lord Darcy.

  “No,” Lord Darcy admitted. “I came in a cab. I must confess I failed to check with the weather prognostication. How long is the fog to last?”

  “According to the chief sorcerer at the Weather Office, your lordship, it isn’t due to break up until five minutes after five o’clock in the morning. It’s to turn to a light drizzle, which will clear at six twelve.”