"Yes. On the back. Just one finger, lightly, in passing. I thought the person wanted to speak to me, but no, not even a look. Just a touch. It was the touch of death. I could feel it. It was like the touch of a corpse. Cold, unfeeling."
"How long before Damik's murder did this happen?"
"Just moments. Perhaps forty-five seconds. A minute at the outside."
"And somehow," Thaxton prompted, "Damik got in the way."
"Yes. But I don't understand how. I know it was magical, and that the knife or the dagger was somehow incorporeal, or ―"
"Oh, it was corporeal all right," Dalton interjected. "It was just invisible for a little while."
"I see," Dorcas said. "Of course. And the dagger was thrown?"
"Possibly," Thaxton said. "That's what we don't know."
"Your Highness," Dalton said, "why have you come to us?"
Dorcas smiled. "For sympathy. I had no one to share this with. My husband is recuperating from an illness and couldn't come to the fête. I couldn't go to my relatives; they're distrustful and might think me trying to stir up trouble. They'd rather see the whole matter dropped. Murder doesn't disturb them so much as the adverse reflection on the family. Also, I had a feeling about you two gentlemen."
"What sort of feeling?" Thaxton asked.
"That you knew even more than Tyrene. That you were closer to getting to the bottom of this than he was, as good a man as Tyrene is and as good as his intentions are. I wanted to be close to you, to reassure you that you were on the right track, although I can't give you any guidance whatsoever. All I can do is lend you my emotional support. And, finally, you're Guests. Guests seem to have special talents, sometimes. I find that fascinating."
Dalton said, "You're talking to two very untalented Guests, magically speaking. I can levitate about an ounce of weight, if I set my mind to it. Thaxton… Thaxton, old boy, exactly what can you do?"
"Not a bloody thing, I'm embarrassed to say."
Dorcas said, "Oh, I think you have great untapped potential. You've simply never explored it."
Thaxton was surprised to hear it. "You don't say?"
Dalton yawned. "Excuse me. It's way past my bedtime, I'm afraid."
"Oh, I'm keeping you up. I'm so sorry."
"Let us walk you back to your quarters," Thaxton suggested.
"Would you gentlemen consider letting me stay here for the night? I'd feel much better."
"Of course," Thaxton said. "You'll take the bed, Dalton the cot, and I can curl up in the chair."
"Oh, no, I wouldn't put you out. I intend to go into bramhara sleep, and that's usually done in a sitting position." She got up and sat back down with her legs in an improbable knot under her.
"However do you do that?" Dalton wondered.
Dorcas wrapped her arms around her upper body so tightly that she seemed to be trying to touch her hands together behind her back. "This is the position of bramhara sleep."
Thaxton said, "Uh… which is?"
"An alternative state of consciousness in which being is contingent upon discretionary choice, not imposed by ontological fiat."
"Oh, that."
"It is a restful state as well as being contemplative and transmaterial. I often go into bramhara during times of emotional stress. I'll be fine right here on this chair, gentlemen. Please just ignore me."
Dalton rose and went to the cot. He picked up the nightshirt that Ruford had laid out for him. He held it up. "I ought to have a sleeping cap with this. I'll go into the bathroom to change. But one more question, Your Highness."
"Certainly."
"How do you keep that stone on your forehead?"
"The Eye? Very easily." Dorcas unwrapped her arms. Cupping her hand in front of her face, she tilted her head down. After a second or two, the diamond dropped into her hand. She held it up. "Just a common diamond. I tune my body so that there is a natural affinity between the organic element of which it is composed, carbon, and the carbon which makes up a great deal of my body. The two naturally attract." She tilted her head back so that she was looking directly at the ceiling, then placed the diamond on her forehead. She held this position for about five seconds, then slowly brought her head back to the perpendicular. The stone stayed put.
"Remarkable," Dalton said, shaking his head. "Absolutely remarkable." He went into the bathroom and shut the door.
"If you don't mind, I'm going to stay up a bit longer and read," Thaxton said.
"Please do anything you wish," Dorcas said, and went into position again. Her eyes closed.
Thaxton lay on the bed and picked up the book.
Dalton was dreaming of a woman, a beautiful woman. She wore a white gown, a thin chemise, and was walking barefoot at the surf's edge, the breakers washing up the smooth packed sand to wet her feet. The sky was blue between white puffy clouds. She was coming toward him, sea breeze blowing the thin cloth of the gown tight against her well-formed body. She was smiling. This was her kingdom, this kingdom by the sea….
"Dalton!"
"Huhhh?"
"Dalton, old boy. Wake up!"
The woman, the sky, the sea ― all faded away.
Dalton opened his eyes. Thaxton was bending over him, hand on his shoulder.
Thaxton shook him again. "Are you awake?"
"Good God, Thaxton, what is it?"
Thaxton was excited. "I've got the solution, old boy. I know how the murder was done. And if I can get a messenger through to the castle, we may be able to find out just who the murderer is."
"God, I hope I see her again," Dalton said.
"Eh? Get up, old boy. We must go see Tyrene."
Twenty
St. Valentine's Hospital
They wouldn't let Carney into the emergency room no matter how much persuasion magic he worked, so he had to be content with word from a sympathetic nurse that Tony's condition was stable. They would operate in the next hour to get the slugs out. Tony had a good chance of pulling through.
He went back to the waiting room, where Velma was smoking and reading a two-year-old copy of Liberty magazine. He beckoned and she put out the butt, got up and came to him.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He'll pull through. This stuff" ― he patted the neck of the bottle in his coat pocket ― "probably helped."
"Is it helping you?"
"I'm as high as a Mass at St. Peter's. Let's get out of here."
"Hey, Carney."
Carney turned. It was Detective Sergeant James "Mack" Duffey of the Necropolis P.D., smiling a coldly cynical smile, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his baggy brown wool pants.
"What can I do you out of, Sergeant?"
"Want to take a look at your future?"
"Sure. Whaddya got?"
"We got Duke Holland for you. Or should I say, somebody got him? Good."
"I thought he was dead."
"He's been on his way to Hell for the past five hours. Thought you might want to pay your respects. After all, he's a colleague of yours."
"Lay on, Mack Duffey."
Duffey led him down the hall. A uniformed cop, standing guard outside a door, let them into small examination room and closed the door. Velma stayed outside.
There were two more cops in the room, along with a plainclothes clerk with a steno pad, scribbling away in shorthand. Holland lay on a gurney, shirtless, his upper body ventilated with bullet holes. Carney wondered how he could still be alive. But he was. He was talking continually in a low, breathy murmur. The stenographer seemed to be trying to take down every word.
"Delirious," Duffey said. "He's been gabbling away like that for hours."
"Can't anything be done?" Carney asked.
"Nah. The docs say it's only a matter of time."
"They came up with that prognosis all by themselves, eh?"
Duffey guffawed. "They didn't need no coachin'."
Carney laughed mirthlessly. "What's with the steno?"