All four of them were silent for a moment. Trent sat up and resumed eating his soup, which had gone quite cold. He took one slurp, put the spoon down, and pushed the bowl away. He sat back again.
"No," Thaxton said, "it didn't happen that way. No."
"But how did it happen?" Sheila said.
"No one knows. That's what makes a good mystery. Which, in a book, makes for enjoyable reading. In reality, here and now, it's frightful."
"And frightening," Sheila said. "To think the murderer is in this room. He or she is here right now, eating with us. And here we sit calmly."
"My palms are sweaty," Dalton said.
"You get that, too?" Sheila asked. "I've always had a problem with sweaty palms. I get so nervous sometimes."
"Here comes Tyrene," Thaxton said.
The Captain of the Guard came directly to the foursome's table and greeted each in turn.
"May I join you?"
"By all means," Trent said, pulling out a chair.
Tyrene sat. "I've got Mirabilis' report. It was a knife wound all right. The blade chipped a rib, penetrated the left lung, and just missed severing the pulmonary artery, making a medium-sized slit in it. Of course there was immediate hemorrhaging. But the rate of blood loss was slow enough to give the victim some time. There were signs of healing around the slit."
"Healing?" Dalton said. "How can that be?"
"Magic," Tyrene said.
"Magic?"
"Yes, healing magic, presumably cast by Oren himself. Here is what seems to have happened: When Oren realized that he'd been stabbed, he did the sensible thing. Forthwith, he left the garden aspect, where his magic wouldn't work, and went back into the castle, where it would. Now, as far as I know, Oren was no magician's magician, but as a castle resident he knew some potent enchantments, as do we all. Healing and general health-preserving spells are common, and he doubtless knew a few. He must have magicked like mad as soon as he got into Perilous, summoning all his powers. And they were nearly sufficient. He almost succeeded. However, he knew magic alone couldn't save him. Immediate surgery was required. He must have known that his heart had sustained a mortal wound. So he took a gamble. He could have returned home and gone to a hospital there, but his aspect is a ten-minute walk from the garden aspect. Dr. Mirabilis' office is just as far, and in any event the doctor is not equipped for major trauma surgery. There was a hospital close by, though, through the aspect in the alcove where you found him. He gambled in that he did not know whether that periodic aspect was open or closed at the time. He lost."
"What aspect was it?" Thaxton wanted to know.
"It's called Klingsor," Tyrene said, "and though it's not technologically developed in most respects, it does boast excellent surgeons who do wonders with relatively primitive equipment. And the hospital near the aspect specializes in trauma surgery. Oren might have survived had he made it to that hospital. But his magic wasn't strong enough. The wound was too severe, and he lost too much blood too quickly. He lost consciousness, the healing process stopped, and he bled to death."
"That explains why he left the party in a big hurry," Trent said, "why he went back into the castle, and what he was doing in that alcove."
"Yes, it does. And it puts to rest any notion that he was attacked inside the castle."
"Any report on the murder weapon yet?" Thaxton asked.
"There were no fingerprints. The instrument was completely clean."
Thaxton nodded, smiling half in regret, half in satisfaction.
"It's a common artifact," Tyrene continued, "manufactured in the Helvian aspect, and its like must be sold in a thousand street markets in that world. Cheap steel, plain boxwood haft, brass hilt. The blade barely holds an edge, but it will do the job as long as no fancy cutting is involved. Perfect knife for stabbing."
"If not for throwing," Thaxton said.
"No, it's not intended as a throwing knife, but it is balanced quite well, the only thing well-made about it. It's not entirely a stiletto, yet not quite a poniard."
"So it could have been thrown?" Dalton asked.
"I suppose," Tyrene said. "Though as of now I don't think it was. Someone stabbed the viscount at close range. That, I think, is certain."
No one asked the obvious.
"But my investigation is far from over," Tyrene went on. "I must interview anyone who could have seen what happened. And that means almost everyone at the fête. By the way, the blood on the knife matches Oren's blood type. There's no doubt it was the murder weapon."
Tyrene rose. "I have a number of people to interview. If you will excuse me… Lady Sheila, Your Royal Highness." Tyrene bowed stiffly.
"See you later, Tyrene," Trent said.
"Gentlemen," Tyrene said, then left.
"He just about came out and said he thinks I did it," Trent observed.
"I think he suspects Lady Rilma more than you," Thaxton said.
"Maybe I'm just paranoiac." Trent turned to his wife. "Are you through, darling?"
"I can't touch a thing. I'm so upset by all this."
"You really should eat something. No late-night snacks here."
She took a bite of snapper, chewed perfunctorily. "It's gone cold, and I'm tired, for some reason. Can't we ―?"
"Good evening, Your Highness ― Lady Sheila."
Trent looked up. "Damik. Hello."
Thaxton and Dalton stood.
Trent remained seated. "May I present Messieurs Dalton and Thaxton? Gentlemen, His Excellency, Count Damik of Ultima Thule."
The count clicked his heels and bowed his head. "Gentlemen."
The two hapless golfers bowed.
"Please," the count said, "be seated. I do not mean to disturb your meal, but there is something I must tell you, Trent."
"Sit down, Damik."
"Thank you so much."
"Some wine?"
"None, thank you. I've dined."
"What's up?"
"It's about all this business, of course. Tyrene suspects me."
"Whatever reason would he have?"
"Because of the succession squabble in Thule. Despite my pleas, Oren chose to throw his support to the House of Dou and against my allies and relatives, the Zoltans. He has ― had ― heavy investments in provinces controlled by the Dou clan. He chose to follow the dictates of his pocketbook rather than honor a friendship. On that basis alone, I am suspect. The fact that I also have an admittedly fetishistic love for knives and bladed weapons of every sort seems to be enough to condemn me out of hand."
"Rest easy, my friend," Trent said. "Tyrene doesn't really believe you did it."
"He doesn't? I wish he would be so kind as to point this out to me!"
"The investigation's far from over. He's not even at the hypothesis stage yet in choosing his suspects. Sure, you're on the list. So am I. Hell, lots of people hated Oren's guts."
"I didn't! That's the irony of it. I didn't hold his political decisions against him. He was a friend, though I will be the first to admit that he had many faults. But he was… he knew how to have a good time. He was a jolly fellow, sometimes."
Trent gave a half-shrug. "I wouldn't know. We never socialized."
"Yes, well, of course I understand completely why he was in bad odor with you. However, there is another disturbing fact that I wish to relate to you. I need advice."
"Shoot."
The count looked one way, then another. Leaning forward, he said quietly, "I know who the knife belongs to."
"You do?" Thaxton said, his eyebrows arching.
"I saw this person purchase the weapon when last I was in Helvius. It was at an open-air market in the village of Fliebas. I shall not name this person. At least not yet."
"You don't know that the weapon you saw being bought was the murder weapon," Trent pointed out. "Those knives are pretty common. I had one like it once, long time ago."