“I suppose that is plausible. Camelot is a bewildering castle.”
“And he says he met Lancelot, who was on his way to the kitchen for some illicit lovemaking.”
“We’ll have to see if we can find anyone who saw him.”
“Did you know Mordred was betrothed once? He says the girl ran away.”
“Imagine.”
“I asked around and got a good idea when she left. Where did Colin come from, Merlin?”
“Don’t pry, Britomart.”
They came to a place where the ground was soaked and the fog was even more dense than it had been everywhere else. Accolon looked into the carriage and told them they’d be slowing down.
“Not too much, please.” Merlin said he wanted to make Camelot by sunset tomorrow, if possible.
“We’ll do our best. But the ground is treacherous.”
“We’re anxious to get back to Camelot, Accolon.”
“Yes, sir. But-”
“But what?”
“We are being followed again.”
“Splendid.”
A moment later the sounds of scuffling came from outside the carriage. Swords clanged; voices were raised. Accolon shouted orders.
Merlin and Brit looked out to see they were surrounded by a dozen or more armored soldiers. Brit drew her sword and jumped out to join the fight. She, Accolon and their men fought bravely and managed to disable three of the attackers. Slowly, patiently, Merlin stepped outside onto the soft, damp ground and reached into his pocket. When one of the attackers came at Merlin with sword drawn, he produced one of his glass globes and smashed it into the man’s face. The man screamed, covering his face with his hands, and stumbled off into the fog. But his sword had pierced Merlin’s thigh, and some of the acid had burned his hand.
Unruffled by the commotion around him, Merlin walked around the carriage, tossing more globes in the faces of the attacking knights. One by one they screamed, covered their faces and lurched off into the mist. Soon the skirmish was over. One of Accolon’s men was badly wounded; the rest were all right except for minor cuts.
Britomart was quite all right. Out of breath, she joined Merlin. “I’ll never scoff at your little marbles again.”
“Science and reason defeat brute force every time, Brit.” He bent down and washed his burning hand in a puddle.
“Nonsense. It worked for you this time. But if there had been more of them…”
“There weren’t.”
“There might easily have been. We were lucky.”
“You and the others fought bravely, Brit. Bravely and skillfully. We all won this fight. Now let us get moving again before more attackers appear.”
“There won’t be any more. We’ve beaten them. And they have no way of knowing how many acid globes we have.”
“A good deterrent, then.”
“But we’ll have to be watchful until we reach home.”
Slowly, Accolon restored order. The wounded soldier rode in the carriage with Merlin; Brit rode his horse. And despite the fog and the unsteady ground, the party made good time. There were no more attacks.
They arrived at Camelot late the next night. The next morning, well rested, they met in Merlin’s study. He was walking on a cane and seemed unconcerned about it, and the acid burns on his right hand were bandaged. Nimue asked what had happened, and Brit explained.
“Will you be all right, Merlin? I wouldn’t like to see you walking on that stick all the time. Will your hand be scarred?”
“At my age, what difference does it make?”
“That’s an absurd attitude to take.”
Brit couldn’t resist adding, “So much for a life based on reason.”
But Merlin ignored them and unrolled Ganelin’s chart. “Now. Let’s put this together with what we’ve learned and see if we can’t make sense of it.”
SEVEN. TIN, WINE AND SILVER
“Now let us see. We think these triangles, which wander aimlessly all about the castle, represent Pellenore. Does that assumption make sense to both of you?”
Brit and Nimue nodded.
“Good. Then there are these stars, which also drift around but only on one side of the Great Hall. I surmise those stand for Mordred, right?”
Again, they indicated their agreement.
“And there are the crosses. If we were to connect them in a continuous line, we’d find them heading in a somewhat roundabout way for the refectory. Those may very well be Lancelot. That leaves our Mr. X. The Xs go in a more or less direct way toward Arthur’s tower, where the killing took place. And our most probable guess for his identity is Mark of Cornwall.”
“But Merlin,” Nimue said, “the key word in what you said is guess. Arthur wants proof. He’ll never agree to convict anyone based on guesswork with nothing concrete to back it up. Suppose the crosses are Mordred and the stars Lancelot? How can we prove it one way or the other?”
“We have statements from the suspects themselves. And we have what the servants saw, or in Gretchen’s case, more than simply saw.”
Nimue smiled at this.
“But there must be more of them. Ganelin would not have marked this chart without some basis. There must be more servants we have not identified yet who saw one or more of our suspects that night. I intend to find those servants. Ganelin found them; I will, too.”
“But-” Something was bothering Brit and it showed. “We are still simply assuming Mark is the fourth suspect. We don’t know. No one saw him, that we know of. Suppose it’s someone else? Or suppose that trail of Xs goes somewhere other than to Arthur’s tower? The chart doesn’t extend that far. And suppose Mark really is Mr. X as you call him. Just because a servant saw him in the corridor is hardly proof he committed murder.”
“Well, someone saw him-or rather someone saw some-one-because the chart is marked. Whether it was Mark… well, that seems likely to me. But that is what I want the two of you to discover.” He sat back in his chair. Nimue had never seen him quite so stern; it was clear his wounded leg and hand were causing him pain. “In Cornwall.”
Brit registered alarm. “You want us to go to Mark’s territory? After the attack we suffered?”
“Arthur is sending official word to Mark that you will be visiting him, to discuss some military maneuvers for next spring. And you will have a larger escort than the one we had. He won’t dare harm you.”
“If he is the villain.” Brit said this emphatically.
“He is.”
“How can you sound so confident?”
“Because, Brit, of the attack on you, or on Petronus, at the garrison in Corfe. The guards were killed. They would never have let Lancelot get that close to them. Or anyone else, for that matter. Except Mark. They would have recognized him as the commander of the army, and they would have let him approach, never expecting him to strike them.”
“Good point.”
Nimue studied the chart, looking doubtful. “But still, we’ll be terribly vulnerable.”
“You have the advantage of knowledge. Mark doesn’t know that we know.”
“He must suspect, at least, or why follow and attack us?”
“He knows we know he’s up to something. He can’t possibly know we think he is the murderer. And as I’ve said before, the very fact that the man we suspect is also the head of the king’s armed forces makes for a very delicate situation. How can we know what kind of loyalty he has among the other commanders, and among the troops? I can’t tell you how deeply I hope I’m wrong about this. But everything I know suggests Mark is the one.”
“I can find out about the other commanders.” Brit was looking increasingly unhappy. “I can make some discreet inquiries, among knights I know I can trust.”
“When you get back from Cornwall. And remember, you mustn’t do anything to force Mark’s hand. Be subtle, be indirect and pick up whatever you can learn. Use all the guile you have.”
“Guile isn’t much good against armed swordsmen, Merlin. ”
“No, but it is priceless against blunt stupidity.”