“Bear with me, Sir Sorcerer,” said the King. “I think we do have the facilities you mention. Could you use Lord Darcy as your target?”
“I could, Sire,” said Sir Lyon, a speculative gleam in his deep-set eyes.
“Excellent.” The King looked at Lord Darcy. “Would you consent to an experiment involving yourself, my lord?”
“Your Majesty has but to ask,” said Lord Darcy.
“Very good.” His Majesty held out his right hand. “Would you be so good as to give me the pistol you carry at your hip, my lord?”
It was as though a silent lightning bolt had struck every man at the table. Heads jerked round. Every eye focused in startled surprise on Lord Darcy’s face. The Lord High Admiral grasped the hilt of his narrow-bladed Naval dress sword and withdrew it half an inch from its scabbard.
The shock was obvious. How dare any man come into the King’s Sovereign Presence armed with a pistol?
“Peace, My Lord Admiral!” said the King. “My lord of Arcy comes armed by Our request and permission. Your pistol, Lord Darcy.”
Coolly, Lord Darcy performed an act that would have turned the stomach of every right-thinking man in the Empire. He drew a gun in the presence of His Dread and Sovereign Majesty the King.
Then he rose, leaned across the table, and presented the pistol to the King, butt first. “As Your Majesty bids,” he said calmly.
“Thank you, my lord. Ah! An excellent weapon! I have always considered the .40 caliber MacGregor to be the finest handgun yet built. Are you ready, Sir Lyon?”
Sir Lyon Grey had obviously already fathomed the King’s intentions. He smiled and swiveled the gleaming metal device around so that the bell-like muzzle pointed directly at Lord Darcy. “I am ready, Sire,” he said.
The King, meanwhile, had unloaded the MacGregor, taking all seven of the .40 caliber cartridges out and placing them on the table in front of him while five pairs of eyes watched him in fascination.
“My lord,” said the King, looking up, “I shall ask you to ignore what Sir Lyon is doing.”
“I understand, Sire,” said Lord Darcy.
“Excellent, my lord.” His Majesty’s eyes moved upwards, along the wall opposite. “Hm-m-m. Yes. My lord, I call your attention to the stained glass in yonder window — particularly to that area which depicts King Arthur holding the scroll, the scene which symbolizes the establishment of the Most Ancient and Noble Order of the Round Table.”
Lord Darcy looked at the window. “I see the section to which Your Majesty refers,” he said.
“Good. That window, my lord, is a priceless work of art. Nonetheless, it offends me.”
Lord Darcy looked back at the King. His Majesty pushed the unloaded pistol, and it slid across the polished surface to come to rest in front of Lord Darcy. Then he flipped a finger, and a single cartridge spun across the table to come to rest beside the gun. “I repeat, my lord,” said the King, “that bit of glass offends me. Would you do me the favor of putting a bullet through it?”
“As you command, Sire,” said Lord Darcy.
Had he not known that he was the subject of a scientific experiment, the scene that followed would have been one of the most humiliating in Lord Darcy’s career. It was only afterwards that he realized that a single snicker or chuckle from any of the other six men at the table would have snapped his temper. For a man who normally had such magnificent control over his emotions, such an explosion of wrath would have been almost the final humiliation. But no one laughed, for which Lord Darcy was afterward deeply thankful.
The task was a simple one. Pick up the cartridge, place it in the chamber, close the lock, aim, and fire.
Lord Darcy reached for the pistol with his right hand and for the cartridge with his left. Somehow, he caught the handgun wrong, so that he gripped it upside down, with the muzzle facing him. At the same time, his fingers closed on the cartridge wrong, so that it slipped from his grasp and skittered across the table. He reached out again, grabbed at it, and it slid away. Then, angry, he slammed his palm down on it and finally caught it.
Then there was a loud clatter. In focusing his attention on the cartridge, he had allowed the pistol to slip from the grasp of his other hand.
He set his teeth and clenched his left hand around the wayward cartridge. Then he reached out with great determination and picked up the pistol with his right hand. Fine.
Now to open the lock. His right thumb found the stud and pushed it, but his other fingers missed their grip at that point, and the gun was suddenly hanging from his forefinger, swinging by the trigger guard. He tried to swing it round so that he could grasp the butt but it slipped from his forefinger and banged to the table top again.
Lord Darcy took a deep breath. Then, with calm deliberation, he reached out and picked up the gun. This time, he used his left thumb to open the lock, but in doing so he dropped the cartridge again.
The next few minutes were a nightmare. The cartridge persisted in slipping from his grasp when he tried to pick it up, and when he did manage to pick it up it refused to go into the chamber. And just as it seemed about to slide in properly, he would drop the gun again.
Lord Darcy set his teeth; the muscles in the sides of his jaw stood out in hard relief. Moving his hands slowly and carefully, he finally managed — after many fumbles, slips, and errors — to get the cartridge into the chamber and close the lock.
His feeling of relief at having achieved this was so great that his fingers relaxed and the gun fell to the table again. Angry, he reached out, snatched it up, aimed in the general direction of the window, and -
The gun went off with a crash, long before he had intended it to.
King Arthur and his scroll remained serenely undamaged while the slug slammed into the stone wall two feet away, chipping off a large flake of stone and ricocheting up to the ceiling, where it buried itself in an oak beam.
After what seemed like an interminably long silence, Sir Lyon Gandolphus Grey said softly: “Magnificent! Your Majesty, in all our tests, no one has ever managed to load the gun, much less come that close to hitting the target. We are fortunate in knowing that we shall not find many minds so superbly disciplined — especially in the ranks of the Polish Royal Navy.”
His Majesty spun the remaining six cartridges down the table. “Reload and reholster your weapon, my lord. Please accept my apologies for any… ah… inconveniences this experiment may have caused.”
“Not at all, Sire. It has been a most educational experience.” He scooped up the six cartridges and reloaded his MacGregor with expert ease. Although the belled muzzle of the device was still pointed in his direction, Sir Lyon’s hands were no longer upon the grips.
“I congratulate you, my lord,” said the King. “All of us here, with the exception of Lord Bontriomphe and yourself, have seen this device in operation before. As Sir Lyon says, you are the first ever to succeed in loading a weapon while under its spell.” Then he looked at Sir Lyon. “Have you anything further to add, Sir Sorcerer?”
“Nothing, Sire… unless there are any questions.”
Lord Bontriomphe raised a hand. “One question, Sir Lyon.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Lord Bontriomphe gestured toward the device. “Is this gadget one that can be operated by anyone — by any layman, I mean — or does it require a sorcerer as operator?”
Sir Lyon smiled. “Fortunately, my lord, the device cannot be operated by one without a trained Talent. It does not, however, require the services of a Master; an apprentice of three years standing can operate the device.”
“Then, Sir Lyon,” said Lord Darcy, cutting off whatever it was that Lord Bontriomphe had to say, “the secret of its operation is divided into two parts. Am I correct?”