Gwynn saw Radolphus and Justinian exchange a grave glance. Even she could guess at some of the worries Reg’s story stirred up. The possibility that this incident would disrupt the always fragile relationship between their duke and the king. Or worse, that it would cause one or both to become less enthusiastic about protecting mages. The anarchists who’d killed the late king and plagued the current one throughout his reign were as violently opposed to magic as they were to royalty and the hereditary nobility. And so far the king, unlike many of his fellow monarchs, had supported or at least tolerated the mages within his realm. But if the king thought magicians were taking the law into their own hands, his tolerance could vanish overnight. Gwynn shuddered. They’d heard tales of mages hanged or burned at the stake in neighboring kingdoms, and some of the masters had begun to mutter that the college should go underground again.
She saw the Maestro nod to Radolphus. Then he pulled up the collar of his smoking jacket and shivered.
“Of course Master Justinian will come and deal with the problem,” Radolphus said.
“Oh, and the duke says while you’re at it, you should fix the castle warding spell,” Reg added.
“What’s wrong with it?” Radolphus asked.
“Stopped working,” Reg said, with a shrug. “At least, stopped working reliably. Goes off when there’s nothing in range then doesn’t do a thing when a bunch of Gypsies wander right through the portcullis. He’s pretty worked up about it.”
“He could hire some guards,” Justinian said.
“He has guards,” Reg said. “He wants a warding spell. He’s beginning to wonder out loud what good it does him to have a whole college full of mages in the province if he can’t get a simple spell done properly when he needs it.”
Gwynn wondered if the sudden hint of venom in Reg’s voice was an echo of the duke’s tone or reflected his own attitude toward magic.
“Of course Master Justinian will investigate the problem with the castle warding spell as well,” Master Radolphus said. “Why don’t you come with me and take some refreshment while Master Justinian is packing.”
Reg pried himself away from the hearth, stuck his hands in his pockets, and ambled out. Justinian reclaimed his chair with an injured air.
“I’m sorry, Jus,” Radolphus said, pausing in the doorway. “Pack so you can stay a few days if need be.”
Actually, Gwynn did most of the packing, filling a large trunk with the magical supplies the Maestro would require and a small carpet bag with what she might need for an overnight stay. The Maestro packed his medicines, in a satchel nearly as large and easily as heavy as the trunk.
It was midnight by the time they set out, and the six-hour trip seemed interminable, despite the relative luxury of the duke’s coach. Largely, Gwynn decided, because of Reg. Although he appeared to sleep through most of the journey, his presence prevented any interesting conversation. And even asleep, his sour face and the memory of his brusque, almost rude manner cast a pall over the party. Or perhaps it was that Reg fell asleep so easily despite the jolting of the coach while the Maestro’s attempts at much-needed slumber failed miserably. Justinian finally gave up trying and sat, glowering at Reg and muttering under his breath whenever the manservant’s snores grew particularly loud.
The Maestro put on his most gracious manner again when they arrived at the castle.
“At least we’ll have a good breakfast,” he murmured to Gwynn, when Reg had deposited them in the duke’s entrance hall and gone to announce their arrival. “The duke’s personal chef is legendary.”
“Finally,” the duke said, dashing into the hall. “Let’s get straight to work. Reg, go have the kitchen fix a couple of cold plates and bring them down to the dungeons.”
Justinian sighed and followed the duke’s stout figure down a forebodingly long, steep stairway. Gwynn trailed behind them, glancing nervously from side to side. But apart from being uncomfortably cold and damp, the maze of stone corridors beneath the castle held no particular horrors. From the length of their journey and the number of stairs they descended, the dungeons must be at the other end of the castle from the main gate and at least halfway to the center of the earth.
They finally entered a large, low-ceilinged room with a straw-covered floor. A dozen soldiers stood inside, and even in the flickering torchlight Gwynn could see that they had split into two distinct camps-the black uniforms of the king’s guards to her left and the duke’s red-and-gold colors to her right. The two groups eyed each other without liking.
“There’s the blighter,” the duke said, pointing.
Gwynn, who had never seen a murder victim before, stared curiously. It-or should that be he?-hung from one of the sets of arm and leg irons bolted to the room’s walls at regular intervals. He was slumped so Gwynn couldn’t see his face, only the blood that glistened on his body and the surrounding straw. Surely no one could lose that much blood and live.
Wait-the blood was still wet. Should it be, after the half day it had taken for Reg to fetch them?
Justinian stepped over to the body and examined it briefly, glancing once or twice with irritation at the torches. Was he annoyed by the low visibility-or was he, like Gwynn, wondering why the duke wasn’t using some form of magic light? Was this a sign that the duke’s tolerance for magic was waning?
A figure stepped out of the shadows to the Maestro’s side. From his worn black robe, Gwynn deduced he was the duke’s personal magician.
“So, what have we here?” Justinian asked.
“Dead prisoner,” the magician said. He was a thin, balding man with a look of habitual anxiety etched into his sharp features. “I cast a stasis spell on the body, soon as I could, so you could see it as near as possible to how I found it.”
“Stasis spell?” the duke shouted. “I authorized no spells! There’s been enough magical skullduggery already!”
“But surely your grace ordered him to preserve the evidence as well as possible for my arrival,” Justinian said. “That’s what a stasis spell does. It’s a lot like what happens when something’s frozen. But frozen in time instead of temperature.”
“Ah,” the duke said. “I see.”
He still looked baffled, but apparently decided to let the matter drop.
The stasis spell, Gwynn thought, would account for the still-damp blood.
“So, tell me the features of the case,” Justinian said.
As he and the castle mage talked, Gwynn decided that this magical murder was doing the Maestro good. Oh, he’d complained about the cold air and the night journey. But the puzzle before him seemed to keep him from dwelling on his cold. He coughed and sneezed a lot less often, and without any magical side effects.
And she was glad it wasn’t her job to figure out what had happened. The evidence was sparse. In fact, apart from the blood-smeared body of the dead anarchist, nonexistent. His live confederate, still chained to the opposite wall, tried to look fierce, and occasionally muttered under his breath about damned unnatural spellcasters. The dozen guards readily demonstrated that their muskets and pistols had not been fired, and the few knives they carried were free of blood, not to mention far too small to have produced the prisoner’s wound. And anyway, nothing physical could have produced the wound without piercing the prisoner’s shirt and doublet which were, apart from dirt and bloodstains, undamaged.
“Filthy black magic,” the surviving anarchist muttered, when Justinian and the castle mage had confirmed this.
“Fascinating,” Justinian murmured, as he examined the doublet.
He gestured and murmured a few words. Gwynn recognized the incantation that would strip away the stasis spell. And then another spell, less familiar to her.
Justinian paused as if listening to a sound inaudible to the rest of them, then looked around with unfocused eyes.