Ten Little Wizards: A Lord Darcy Novel (7 page)

“If you’ll excuse my saying so, Your Lordship, much of what Lord Darcy does seems farfetched when he does it,” Master Sean said. “But it somehow never turns out that way. He seems to have a talent for jumping from an unwarranted assumption to a foregone conclusion without touching any of the ground between. I’d listen to him.”

“I stand—sit—corrected,” Marquis Sherrinford replied, nodding to Master Sean. “When a sorcerer tells me to listen, I listen.” He stood up. “Let us adjourn this meeting until such time as we have something more to tell each other. Your Grace, as we didn’t have a prayer to start this meeting, perhaps it would be appropriate to end it with a benediction.”

The Archbishop of Paris rose, and the others with him. “We are humble in Thy sight, oh Lord,” the Archbishop said in a firm, conversational voice, as of one speaking to an old friend. “And we beseech Thee to give us to see the light, so that we may know the truth regarding this vile plot and may best defend our Glorious Sovereign John the Fourth against unseen enemies. Amen.”

“Amen,” the others in the room echoed.

Castle Cristobel Station, a regular stop on the Paris-Le Havre line of the Continental and Southern, was about a quarter mile outside the main gate of Castle Cristobel. While the utility of high, thick stone walls as a defense was dwindling, what with the introduction of cannon that could hurl a thousand-pound projectile five miles, still no one in authority could quite bring himself to authorize cutting holes in the Castle wall big enough to drive a locomotive through.

At six-thirty in the morning Lord Darcy passed his suitcase up to the driver of the Castle hackney and then, rain cape buttoned up to the neck and clutching his traveling case, his walking stick, and his rain hat—the wide-brimmed, flat-top sort called a “Londoner” in France, but a “skimmer” in London—he climbed into the waiting vehicle for the short trip to the station. Master Sean, his plaid rain cloak gathered around him with the hood drawn over his head, scrambled up and, putting his symbol-decorated carpetbag on the floor between them, settled into the seat opposite.

“Sorry to drag you out for such a short trip at this hour, Edwards,” Lord Darcy called up to the driver, who could be seen adjusting his rain slicker through the open trap.

“A pleasure serving you, my lord,” Edwards called back down. “I’d have been going to meet the train anyway. What with His Highness’s coronation creeping up on us, the guests are still arriving by the trainload. And a lot of them wouldn’t walk the quarter mile to the Castle gate, even if it weren’t raining. Which it is. Won’t be too bad this morning, though. There’s only one first-class car on the morning train on Tuesdays and Thursdays. They won’t travel naught but first class.” He slammed the trap down and guided his horse out through the covered carriage yard, through the main gate, and down the short road to the station.

“I believe we’ve just been complimented, Master Sean,” Lord Darcy told his tubby traveling companion. “Goodman Edwards feels that we are not too good to travel second class. We must not disappoint him.”

“It’s all one with me, my lord,” Master Sean said. “On a longer trip I like the leg room of first class, and having the use of a club car has certain advantages for one who’d like an occasional glass of good Norman beer to keep from drying out. But for a journey of under three hours, a second-class carriage is quite suitable.”

“Ah, my old friend,” Lord Darcy said, folding his hands around the gold handle of his walking stick and leaning forward, “there’s more leg room in first class, to be sure, but there’s more poetry in second class—and more honesty in third. Well, here we are.” He pulled the Londoner squarely onto his head and, opening the hackney door, stepped out into the steady downpour. “Thank you, Edwards,” he called up to the driver. “I’ll take care of you when I get back.”

“No need of that, my lord,” Edwards said, touching his whip to his hood and ignoring the rivulets of rain washing down his face. “But thanks to ye all the same.” He handed down Lord Darcy’s leather traveling bag to him with a practiced flip, and Master Sean’s right after. As soon as Master Sean had descended and slammed the door, Edwards moved the carriage off to the waiting area by the side of the building, where there were already waiting two other Castle hackneys and a fine private coach.

Lord Darcy and Master Sean entered the station, and Lord Darcy went to the window to purchase tickets to Tournadotte. The stationmaster himself was on duty, as it was too early for any of his clerks to arrive. He was a gaunt, clean-shaven, elderly man who had to stoop down slightly to get through doorways. The blue-and-gold uniform hung from his shoulders as though it were a giant’s hand-me-down. “If ye’d like a little something to break yer fast, my lord,” he told Lord Darcy, “ye and yer companion might as well settle into the restaurant for a spell. Yer train is going to be a bit late.”

“I didn’t think the restaurant would be open so early,” Lord Darcy said. “Just how late is the train?”

“We’ve opened the restaurant early for the Le Havre-Paris Express, which is making a special stop here all this month on account of the coronation. It was due here over an hour ago, but the Good Lord only knows when it will arrive. The Eure and the Seine have both overflowed their banks west of here, and the whole valley is turning into a lake. It doesn’t stop the trains, of course; the water’s only a foot or two deep at the worst, and the roadbeds are all raised. But it does slow them down something awful. They have to keep an eye out for washouts, ye see.

“As to yer train, the local to Le Havre, Yer Lordship, it won’t be much more than an hour late, as it’s going in the other direction. But I can’t speak for the express. It’s bad business. Trains are supposed to run on time.” And with that article of faith stated, he nodded dolefully to Lord Darcy and moved off.

Lord Darcy and Master Sean went into the small, deserted restaurant attached to the waiting room, and the young attendant brought them a basket of newly baked rolls, a tub of fresh butter, and cups of steaming hot caffe with good, fresh Normandy cream. Lord Darcy leaned over and inhaled the steam rising from the caffe. “A truly magical elixir,” he said. “The discovery of this wonderful bean alone makes the hardship and expense of the exploration of New France worthwhile. Some sorcerer should devote time to discovering the magic of a cup of caffe.”

“There are things one should just accept on faith, my lord,” Master Sean replied, breaking open a roll and applying butter liberally to the interior.

“I think some weather wizards are going to lose their jobs over this,” Lord Darcy commented, indicating the rain streaming down outside the window.

“That’s not fair, my lord,” Master Sean replied. “They simply predict the weather, they don’t cause it.”

“That is so,” Lord Darcy agreed. “But six or eight months ago, shortly after His Highness—the King’s Uncle Edouard, Prince of Gaul—passed on, when the Privy Council picked the date for the coronation of Duke Gwiliam, a senior official weather wizard predicted that the weather at this time would be suitable. I remember distinctly reading it in the Court Gazette at the time. ‘Suitable’ was the very expression. Heads will roll.”

“Weather prediction is not an exact branch of magic,” Master Sean said, defending his unknown colleague. “The equations are very difficult. And the further into the future a weather wizard tries to see, the murkier his answers become.”

“Heads will roll,” Lord Darcy reiterated, taking a large gulp of hot caffe. “The Privy Council are not a forgiving group.” He buttered another roll.

An hour and fifteen minutes later the local to Le Havre finally pulled in and Lord Darcy and Master Sean boarded. The journey to Tournadotte, normally a trip of under three hours, took just over five hours. For the last hour the scenery outside resembled a vast lake, out of which were thrust small islands that had been hills, trees, farmhouses, and occasional bewildered cows and sheep. The water didn’t seem to be much over a foot deep, but it covered most of the ground in this essentially flat valley.

The Tournadotte station was larger than Lord Darcy had remembered. The train, wheezing and spitting smoke, entered a large, glass-covered shed where six tracks came together before exiting in various directions. It was, Lord Darcy knew, the main nexus where the trains from the south intersected with the direct Paris line.

Prefect of Police Henri Vert himself, in a rather disheveled uniform, was waiting for them on the platform, at the head of three armsmen. “It’s good to see you again, Lord Darcy, Master Sean,” he said, enthusiastically shaking hands with each of them. “Good to see you. Glad I could be here to meet you. Almost didn’t hear you were coming. The Castle just got through to my office an hour ago. Said they were trying all night. The teleson is very unreliable in this weather.”

“It’s a real pleasure to see you again, Prefect Henri,” Lord Darcy said. “You’re looking very fit.”

“For one of my years, you mean, my lord?” Prefect Henri asked, twisting the ends of his mustache with a practiced gesture of thumb and forefinger. “Well, there’s none of us getting any younger. Although I must say that you don’t look any different than when we worked together twenty years ago. A bit more distinguished, perhaps. And you, Master Sean, you’re getting positively younger. It must be the influence of all that good magic you surround yourself with. I’ve heard it said that the practice of magic keeps one from growing old.”

Master Sean laughed. “I think that means that it takes magical art to keep one from looking like he or she is growing old. But time catches up with all of us, with or without the Talent.”

“We can’t stay in Tournadotte long, unfortunately, Prefect Henri,” Lord Darcy said. “Perhaps overnight at most. So the sooner we get to work on these murders, the sooner we can find time to sit down and talk.”

“Ah,” Prefect Henri said, “it was the murders that brought you, and the murders that you are anxious to arrive at. Well, I shall not detain you. I, also, am anxious.” He waved his arm to one of the uniformed armsmen behind him and pointed to the luggage. “Jean, take our guests’ bags into the boat. We shall be off.”

“Boat?” Lord Darcy asked.

“It is the only way to get around,” Prefect Henri said gaily. “A flat-bottomed scow that is used for hauling pigs across the Eure in dryer times. Now we have requisitioned it, and for the past three days it’s been used for hauling armsmen about the town.” He led the procession into the station proper and across to the main entrance.

“I didn’t realize that the flooding was that bad,” Lord Darcy said. “What about the townspeople? Are they being evacuated?”

“No need,” Prefect Henri said as they exited the station. “The water is only a foot or so deep on the main street, unless you step into a hole. All the town’s functions are, ah, functioning. Much of the town is on high land, or at least higher land. We have another two or three feet to go before the situation is serious here. Some other villages on lower-lying land have already been evacuated. His Highness Duke Richard has set up several evacuation centers throughout the Duchy, which are well-equipped with food, bedding, extra clothing, and all the necessities.”

“Of course,” Lord Darcy said. Duke Richard’s skills as an administrator were well established. Normandy was in good hands during this damp crisis.

The rain had temporarily settled down to a fine mist, against which his wide-brim Londoner offered no protection, so Lord Darcy folded it and put it between the straps of his traveling case. He followed Prefect Henri into the scow, which was a large, rectangular construct about twenty feet long and ten feet wide with a perfectly flat bottom and sloping sides. Large iron rings at the front and back showed that it must have normally been pulled back and forth across the Eure River by ropes when it was transporting pigs. Now it was being poled along through the main street of Tournadotte by two muscular armsmen standing at the rear.

“We will put you up at the inn, the
Gryphon d’Or
, where I, myself, am staying,” Prefect Henri said. “I have made it my headquarters for the duration of the flooding emergency. It is also, as I wrote you, the scene of the crime.”

“Always nice to have things close at hand,” Lord Darcy agreed, watching the village shops passing as the scow was poled by them. The villagers seemed to be taking the involuntary turning of their village into a lake very well. The shop entrances were built a few stone steps above the street and, though their basements were probably flooded, they were mostly open for business. There were a few other small boats on the street, a few men on horseback, their mounts carefully picking their way along, and quite a few townsfolk determinedly pushing their way through the knee-deep water.

“It looks as though a little flooding is not, ah, damping the spirits of this village,” Lord Darcy commented.

“Your Norman peasant is of a hardy breed, my lord, as you will remember from when you lived among us,” Prefect Henri said. “The Norman stock is the backbone of the Empire.” He stared belligerently at Lord Darcy, as though daring him to dispute the statement.

Lord Darcy laughed and patted the chief on the back. “I would not challenge an article of faith, Prefect Henri,” he said. “And besides, you may well be right.”

The
Gryphon d’Or
was five blocks from the station, three down Main Street and two to the right, in the direction of higher ground. The scow was landed about half a block from the inn and tied securely to a fence railing. A double row of planks had been placed over the sea of mud to the inn courtyard. Lord Darcy traversed them gingerly, right behind Prefect Henri, and Master Sean followed. Two armsmen brought up the rear, carrying the luggage.

The inn itself, a typical solid Gwiliamian structure, over two hundred years old and in the shape of a U, was above the floodline. The inner courtyard was fronted by the three-storey main building and flanked by two continuous lines of stables and outbuildings.

The owner of the inn, Goodman Lourdan, a stocky, angular, totally bald man in a white apron that covered him from neck to knees, was waiting for them in the courtyard and looking anxious. He came forward to meet them, and Prefect Henri performed the introductions. “Ah, Lord Darcy!” Goodman Lourdan said, “Master Sean O Lochlainn! It is an unbelievable honor and a pleasure to meet each of you.” He grabbed Lord Darcy’s hand and shook it firmly, then turned to Master Sean and did likewise. “Welcome to the
Gryphon d’Or
. I could only wish that we meet under more auspicious circumstances. I have admired both of you for many years. Professionally, that is, of course. I hope I haven’t offended you. But you understand. Of course you understand. It must get tiresome. I will try not to ask you too many questions.”

Goodman Lourdan led the way into the front hall of the inn, continuing to talk enthusiastically to his two new guests. Master Sean responded politely, but was clearly puzzled. Lord Darcy seemed to be secretly amused.

“I have followed your cases with interest for years, my lord,” Goodman Lourdan told Lord Darcy. “You and, of course, Master Sean. The mysterious murder of Master Sorcerer Zwinge; the strange death of the Count de la Vexin; the impossible murder of Lord Aflen; the incredible disappearance of the barque
Lady Jeanne
in Portsmouth Harbour—Your Lordship and Master Sean did masterful work in solving them. Incredible. Have you ever thought of writing your memoirs, my lord? Here, Jonquil, take His Lordship’s luggage up to his room. And Master Sean’s. They have rooms fourteen and fifteen. See that the connecting door is unlocked. Hurry now! May I offer you a drink at the bar, my lord, or would you rather go up to your room and freshen up first?”