Ten Little Wizards: A Lord Darcy Novel (19 page)

“I have an appointment,” Sir Darryl said.

“Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Oh no, my dear, it’s quite unsafe actually. But I rather think I’m not the one who will be surprised.”

“Perhaps I should go with you,” Mary of Cumberland offered. “Or we could get a guard, if you think I’d be in the way.”

“It’s not that, my dear. But I really am quite capable of taking care of myself—now that I know that care need be taken. And what I am hoping will happen won’t happen if you’re along.”

“If you say so, Sir Darryl,” Mary of Cumberland agreed grudgingly. “I will go in search of Lord Darcy. But please—take care of yourself.”

“I promise,” Sir Darryl assured her. “Now you go along. I have some overdue business to attend to.” He watched her walk away for long enough to assure himself that she was walking away, and then, after glancing at his watch, headed off in the opposite direction.

The herb garden was in a little courtyard flanked on one side of the Arthur Keep kitchens and on the other by the windows of the Offices of State—the Lord Chamberlain’s office and the seneschal’s office, and on the floor above them, the private offices of the King-Emperor.

Sir Darryl arrived for his appointment in the cloistered walk by the herb garden right on time. One should not be late for destiny. He looked around. There was no one else in sight, which was not surprising. People were not encouraged to rest in the herb garden; first, the herbs were actually used by the kitchens, and second, neither the Lord Chamberlain nor His Majesty were particularly fond of noises outside their windows.

A minute later he heard a rustling behind him. “Afternoon Sir Darryl,” a thin, whiny voice said close to his ear. “Don’t turn around.”

“And why not?” Sir Darryl asked without turning around. Mastering all of his considerable self-control, he held himself in check.

A hand was laid on his shoulder, and a coil of something cold was at his neck. After a moment he felt a slight tugging at his jacket lapel. “I’m going to kill you,” the voice said, “and I’m going to watch you die. You deserve death. I got what I deserved, Sir Darryl, and now it’s time for you to get what you deserve.”

“I don’t think—”

“Run, Sir Darryl!” the voice commanded. “Run! Maybe you can save yourself.”

“I think I’ll continue to stand here,” Sir Darryl said calmly.

“You won’t run,” the voice yelled, rising in inflection until it was almost a screech. “Then I’ll have to kill you as you stand here!”

Sir Darryl wheeled around, to face a medium-sized, stocky man with very bright eyes, who had just pulled a large knife from his belt. “Die, damned wizard,” the man yelled, thrusting savagely at the sorcerer’s chest.

Sir Darryl made a slight gesture, and the knife flew into the air. The man screamed, a long, animal scream, and lunged at Sir Darryl’s throat with outstretched hands.

Sir Darryl made another gesture.

Sir Darryl stepped aside. The man, frozen in position, his arms outstretched, his face fixed in a feral grin, fell into the basil.

“I think you’ll be that way for a while, my man,” Sir Darryl said to the living statue with a satisfied smile. “And let this be proof to you that a warned sorcerer is an armed sorcerer. I’ll send someone for you.”

They were in the inner room of Marquis Sherrinford’s offices; Lord Darcy, Lord Peter, and a masked man. The man across from Lord Darcy wore his domino mask with easy grace, although it looked particularly out of place on his square, stocky face.

“Has Lord Peter had a chance to explain what we need from you?” Lord Darcy asked.

“He has not, my lord,” the man answered in a gruff voice, which Lord Darcy suspected was not his natural one.

“He only arrived a moment before Your Lordship,” Lord Peter explained. “And he can only stay for a few minutes, lest they get suspicious.”

“There is small chance of that,” the masked man said. “But in this business small chances have a way of being cumulative, and even small mistakes are often fatal.”

“In that case, ah, Sir...”

“You may, without error, call me ‘my lord,’ My Lord Darcy,” the masked man said.

“Well, my lord, there are a few questions I would like to put to you.”

“So I understand,” the masked man said dryly, “else I would not be here.”

“Are you aware of any threat against the person of His Majesty?” Lord Darcy asked.

“His Majesty?” The man looked surprised. “To which ‘His Majesty’ do you refer?”

“John of England.”

“I feared that you meant that. No, I am not aware of any such threat. And since clearly you are, I can only hope and pray you are wrong.”

“Would you know if there were a Polish plot against the Angevin Empire?” Lord Darcy asked.

“There are always Polish plots against the Angevin Empire,” the masked man said. “Were it not so, I could return to my little home in Kent and raise lilacs. But a plot against the life of John the Fourth, I might not hear about.”

Lord Peter poured out three glasses of a heavily spiced wine of Picardy which was supposed to ward off chill, and passed them out. “His lordship’s sources are limited,” he told Lord Darcy, “being with the retinue of His Majesty of Courlandt. What the King, his father, does or orders done is not always related to the son.”

“That is so,” the masked man agreed. “The Crown Prince is regarded as something of a liberal, and is viewed with distrust by the Crown Council, and the
Serka
ruling committee.”

“Do you know anything about the
Serka
?’ Lord Darcy asked.

“Oh, yes,” the masked man said. “You see, I am a
Serka
agent planted in the staff of His Majesty the Crown Prince. Not that they tell me anything I don’t have to know.”

Lord Darcy stared curiously at the man. The raw courage that lay behind that mask must be considerable, he reflected. And it was not for him to risk it unnecessarily. “One final question,” he said. “Does the
Serka
have any magical devices designed for laymen to use? Things where the spell is operable by someone without the Talent?”

“Oh, yes,” the masked man said. “There are all sorts of magical devices for
Serka
agents to use in the field, although we come equipped with plenty of our own sorcerers. There are two with us now, just to redo all the Angevin spells and make sure it is impossible to sneak up upon His Majesty. And, I suspect, to test the quality of the Angevin spells and write a report for the
Serka
.”

“Does the
Serka
possess a device—like a blanket—with an avoidance spell woven into it?”

The man nodded. “It’s used for assassination,” he said. “If you bury a body with one of those over it, it will decompose very thoroughly before it is found.”

“Unless a dog happens to chase a rabbit over it,” Lord Darcy commented. “Thank you, my lord. You have been a great help.”

The man bowed slightly. “I don’t see how, but I’m glad,” he said.

“What have you learned?” Lord Peter asked, aware that Lord Darcy’s words were accurate, and that something in this brief conversation had given Lord Darcy a key to the puzzle.

“I’ve learned that the dying words of Goodman Albert Chall were not the rambling nonsense that they sounded,” Lord Darcy said. “And I’ve learned that there really is a threat. But—”

“My lords! My lords!” came the sudden call from the main office outside.

“That’s the Duchess of Cumberland,” Lord Darcy said. “She was doing some investigative work for me.” He rose. “She wouldn’t be so insistent were it not important.”

Lord Peter nodded to the masked man, who disappeared through a side door. “Ask her in, my lord,” he said.

Lord Darcy opened the door. “Your Grace,” he said. “What is it?”

“Oh, my lord, I’m glad I’ve found you,” Mary of Cumberland said, panting to catch her breath. “I’ve been looking everywhere. I think Sir Darryl Longuert has gone off to meet the killer!”

“What? And you let him go?”

“I am an out-of-practice journeyman, My Lord Darcy,” Mary of Cumberland said. “He is a master. He is the Sorcerer Laureate. I don’t see how I could have stopped him.”

“You’re right, Your Grace, I apologize,” Lord Darcy said. “But we’d better go find him. You can tell me about it on the way.”

“I’ll come with you,” Lord Peter said. “You may need an extra pair of hands.”

As they started down the hallway, one of the palace guards came thudding toward them from the other direction, his sword flapping noisily against his side as he ran. “Lord Darcy, Lord Darcy,” he called. “You’re wanted, my lord!”

Lord Darcy turned. “By whom?” he asked.

“Sir Darryl Longuert. He has captured the killer, my lord.”

“Well, I’ll be—Lead on, Serjeant.”

The Serjeant of the Guard swiveled on his heel and dogtrotted back the way he had come, with Lord Darcy, Lord Peter, and the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland close behind.

He led them down and around the inner corridors of the Castle until they came out at the guard room by the main kitchens. Sir Darryl was standing by the door, looking crestfallen, and Master Sean O Lochlainn was next to him, talking to him in an earnest undertone.

Sir Darryl looked up as Lord Darcy came puffing into the room. “I had him, my lord,” he said, holding up his closed right hand. “I had him frozen with this very hand. The murderer. He came after me, but I was ready for him. Or so I thought.”

“Don’t let it get you so upset, Sir Darryl,” Master Sean said. “How were you to know?”

“What happened?” Lord Darcy asked. Lord Peter and Mary of Cumberland came into the room behind him.

“He tried to kill me, my lord. The murderer you’re looking for. He tried to use these on me”—Sir Darryl pointed to a knife and a coil of wire sitting on the Officer of the Guard’s desk—“but I froze him.”

Lord Darcy stepped over to the desk and picked up the coil of wire. “I thought we would find something like this,” he said. “You see, Master Sean—this is what killed Master Sorcerer Paul Elovitz in the ballroom. The murderer places it around the victim’s neck, leaving most of it dangling on the floor, and then frightens him into running away. The wire slices through the victim’s throat as it’s pulled back, and he effectively kills himself. Very neat, very clever.”

“That’s what made the marks on the ballroom floor, my lord?”

“That’s right. The murderer never let go of his end, you see. And as he pulled it back, it bounced on the floor.” He turned back to Sir Darryl. “And then what happened?”

“I froze him, my lord. But he got away. I should have known, but I never thought of it.”

“Thought of what?”

“I think, Sir Darryl, that you had better start from the beginning,” Master Sean said. “I’m sure Lord Darcy would like to hear all the details.” He turned to Lord Darcy. “A general alarm is out for the culprit, my lord,” he said. “Now that we know who it is, he should be easy to apprehend.”

“Fine,” Lord Darcy said. “But who is he?”

“His name is Bowers.”

“Who is he?” Lord Darcy repeated.

“Tell his lordship about it,” Master Sean said.

“It’s my fault,” Sir Darryl said earnestly to Lord Darcy. “I didn’t think of the obvious. Goodman Bowers has a grudge against sorcerers. And, more particularly, against the sorcerers he has so far murdered.”

“How so?”

Sir Darryl went to the bench along the wall and lowered himself onto it. “He was once a sorcerer,” he said. “A journeyman, almost ready to qualify as a master. He, ah, went bad.”

“Bad?” Lord Darcy asked.

“Black magic?” Mary of Cumberland asked, going over to sit next to Sir Darryl on the bench. “What led him astray?”

“It was, as I remember, pretty much the old story,” Sir Darryl replied. “There are three or four patterns that these things seem to run to, and this was one of them. He got in debt to gamblers, playing pukka. To try to get out, he plunged heavily with money that wasn’t his, and lost, of course.”

“Then he tried to win by black magic?” Mary of Cumberland asked.

“No, Your Grace,” Sir Darryl said. “That wouldn’t have worked. The card houses are heavily protected against such things. A little precognition, for those who can manage such things, is accepted as the fortunes of the cards, since the ability is uncontrollable and almost random. But no formalized magic is allowed by the card houses. Except, in some cases, their own.”

“But if magic was being used against him, couldn’t he have detected it?”

“Most certainly, Your Grace. But some people are just bad card players.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“Bowers started doing favors for these people, using his magic. Under threat of exposure. And then they began asking for things that were not to be accomplished by white magic.”

“And he did them?” Lord Darcy asked.

Sir Darryl nodded. “Apparently. Now, many magicians have been in fixes similar to this. There comes a point at which they stop. Confess to their priest. Tell all to their master or grand master. And take their punishment. These people can be salvaged.

“But some others discover that they like it. The feeling of power—of control—is strong. You know, somewhere in the back of your mind, that you are destroying yourself. But it is like some of the addictive drugs. You can’t help what you are doing, and get sucked further and further into abominable acts. That is what happened to Bowers. By the time the case was discovered and brought to his Bishop’s attention, he was incurable.”

“And so?” Lord Darcy asked.

“And so he was tried by a court of his peers and found guilty of practicing black magic. For his secular crimes—fixing horse races or whatever—he was sentenced to some years in prison. For his practice of black magic, a Committee of Executors was formed, and he was thrummed. All his Talent was removed. All. And he was sent forth blind into the world.”

Lord Darcy nodded. “I see,” he said. “Apparently he bore a grudge.”

“That’s right, my lord,” Sir Darryl said. “All of the murdered sorcerers were on the committee.”

“And yourself?”

“Yes. But that was almost ten years ago. Many things have happened since then. I had almost forgotten.”

“This explains how he was able to get away from Sir Darryl’s freezing spell, my lord,” Master Sean said. “It also explains some results I’ve been getting on my magical tests. You see, as an unintentional side effect, the person who is thrummed becomes almost transparent to magic.”

“Ah!” Lord Darcy said. “There’s your ghost.”

“That’s right, my lord,” Master Sean agreed. “In a sense, our killer was a ghost. A ghost with a grudge.”

“Ten Little Wizards,” Lord Darcy said.

Sir Darryl nodded. “Yes, my lord. That reminds me.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “This was pinned to my jacket by Bowers when he assaulted me.”

Lord Darcy unfolded it and passed it around. “Cute,” he commented.

Seven little wizards practicing their wizard tricks

One misread his formula—and now there are six.

“I confess that I am surprised, my lord,” Sir Darryl said. “This case is going to have to be studied. Usually—indeed, almost always—a person who has been thrummed loses all initiative. He is thenceforth no danger to himself or his community. Clearly in this case we misjudged.”

“Perhaps not,” Lord Darcy commented, looking thoughtful. For a long moment he was silent, and then he turned to Lord Peter. “My lord, if I’m right, there is immediate danger of another murder. We have to speak to His Majesty the King immediately!”

“I’ll go find Marquis Sherrinford,” Lord Peter offered.

“I’d rather not do this through the Marquis,” Lord Darcy said. “I think that, between us, we can get an audience with His Majesty. And we need his help to prevent what might be a grave threat to the Empire.”

“Come with me,” Lord Peter said.