“Very well, then.”
Master Sean took two wands from his symbol-decorated carpetbag, walked over to the corpse which lay near the edge of the desk, and stood over it. “I’m ready, lad. Go ahead. Watch your spells.”
The young Mechicain blew gently on the lumps of charcoal in the bottom of the thurible until they flared red-orange, then, his lips muttering a special spell, he poured the aromatic contents of the golden cup over the glowing coals. Immediately a dense cloud of white smoke rose toward the ceiling. Lord John Quetzal quickly fitted the perforated cap down over the bowl, locked it in place, and picked up the thurible by its clutch of chains. His left hand held the end of the chains, his right hand held them about halfway down, allowing the thurible to swing free. He moved over to the nearest wall, swinging the censer in a long arc, allowing the dense smoke to drift toward it.
He moved along the wall step by step, swinging the thurible rhythmically, his lips moving in time with it, and the dense smoke drifted along the walls and billowed upwards, spreading a clinging, heavy fragrance through the room.
While his assistant performed the censing, the Master Sorcerer stood immobile over the body, a long wand of glittering crystal in each hand, his arms flung wide to provide the psychic umbrella which would protect the corpse from being affected by the magical ritual that John Quetzal was enacting.
The Irish sorcerer’s pose did not seem strained. There was an aura of strength about him; he seemed taller, somehow; and his thick torso had an appearance of hardness about it. The light from the gas lamp glittered and flickered in the depths of the two crystal wands, flashing sparkling rainbows about the room.
The smoke from the censer avoided the area under Master Sean’s control. It billowed in great clouds, but there seemed to be an invisible force that kept that portion of the room totally clear of the tiny particles. Those microscopic bits of fragrant ash moved toward walls, furniture and ceiling, each clinging in its individual way — but none came near the powerful figure of the Master Sorcerer who shielded one area of evidence from their effect.
Three times, the young sorcerer made the circuit of the room with his swinging thurible, and except for that one specially protected area, the air grew dimly blue with smoke.
Then, while Master Sean still remained unmoving, he went back to the table, placed the hot, smoking thurible on the iron tripod, removed the perforated cap, and replaced it with a solid cap which cut off the flow of smoke and smothered the burning coals.
From his own symbol-decorated carpetbag, he took a silver wand with a knoblike thickening at one end. Grasping it by the other end, he turned and traced symbols in the air toward each wall in turn.
As he did so, the fog of smoke moved even more strongly toward the walls, and the air quickly cleared.
After a moment, Lord John Quetzal softly said: “It is finished, Master.”
Master Sean looked around the room, lowered his arms, walked over and put the two crystal wands back in his carpetbag. Then he surveyed the room once more.
“A fine job, my lad,” he said. “Indeed a fine job. Now, can you tell me what happened here?”
Lord John Quetzal looked. Although both sorcerers were using their eyes, it was not their eyes with which they saw. To a man without the Talent, the psychic patterns wrought by the acts which had taken place within the room, and brought out by the censing process, would have been totally invisible. To a man with the Talent they were quite clear.
But while Lord John Quetzal could perceive the patterns, he had not yet had enough training to interpret them. Master Sean sensed his hesitation. “Go ahead, lad,” he said. “Rely on your hunches. Make a guess. ’Tis the only way you can check on your perceptions, and thereby progress from supposition to certainty.”
“Well,” Lord John Quetzal began uncertainly, “it looks like—” He stopped, then said: “But of course that’s ridiculous. It just couldn’t be that way.”
Master Sean let out his breath in an exasperated manner. “Oh, lad, lad! You’re trying to second-guess yourself. You’re trying to make a logical interpretation before you’ve subjectively absorbed the data. Now I’ll ask you again. What does it seem to you happened?”
Lord John Quetzal took another look. This time he pivoted slowly, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in every bit of his surroundings. Then, carefully, he said: “There was no one else in this room but Sir James…” He hesitated.
“That’s correct, absolutely correct,” said Master Sean. “Go on. You still haven’t said what it is that looks paradoxical.”
Lord John Quetzal said, in a faintly puzzled voice, “Master, it looks to me as though Sir James Zwinge were killed twice. Several minutes — perhaps as much as half an hour — intervened between the murders.”
Master Sean smiled and nodded. “You almost have it, lad. I think the results of the autopsy will bear you out. But you haven’t analyzed the full significance of what is there.” He made a broad sweeping gesture with his arm. “Take a good look at what the patterns show. There are two strong patterns superimposed chronologically. Two successive psychic shocks occurred while our late colleague was alone in this room. And, as you’ve pointed out, they were separated in time by half an hour. The first, d’you see, was when he was killed; the second occurred when he died.”
CHAPTER 13
The broad doors that led from the lobby of the Royal Steward Hotel to the main ballroom were closed but not locked. There was no sign upon the door that said Convention Members Only; at a Sorcerers Convention such signs were unnecessary. The spell on those doors was such that none of the lay visitors who were so eagerly thronging to the displays in the lobby would ever have thought of entering them — or, if the thought did occur to them, it would be dismissed in a matter of seconds.
Sir Thomas Leseaux and the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland pushed through the swinging doors. A few feet inside the ballroom Lady de Cumberland stopped and took a deep breath.
“Trouble, Your Grace?”
“Good Heavens, what a mob!” said Mary de Cumberland. “I feel as though they’re breathing up all the fresh air in London.”
The ballroom presented a picture that was both peaceful and relaxed in comparison with the lobby. The room was almost the same size but contained only a tenth as many people. And instead of the kaleidoscopic variety of color in the costumes displayed in the lobby, the costumes in the ballroom were of a few basic colors. There was the dominating pale blue of the Sorcerers, modified by the stark black-and-white of the priestly Healers, and the additional touch of episcopal purple. The dark rabbinical dress of the occasional Jewish Healer was hardly distinguishable from that of a priest, but an occasional flash of bright color showed the presence of a very few Hakime, Healers who were part of the entourages of various Ambassadors from the Islamic countries.
“Visitors Day,” said Sir Thomas, “is simply something we must put up with, Your Grace. The people have a right to know what the Guild is doing; the Guild has the duty to inform the people.”
Mary turned her bright blue eyes up to Sir Thomas’ face. “My dear Sir Thomas, there are many acts that human beings must perform which are utterly necessary. That does not necessarily mean that they are enjoyable. Now, where is this lovely creature of yours?”
“A moment, Your Grace, let me look.” Sir Thomas, who was a good two inches taller than the average, surveyed the ballroom. “Ah, there she is. Come, Your Grace.”
The Dowager Duchess followed Sir Thomas across the floor. The Damoselle Tia was surrounded by a group of young, handsome journeymen. Mary of Cumberland smiled to herself. It was obvious that the young journeymen were not discussing the Art with the beautiful apprentice. Her ’prentice’s smock was plain pale blue, and was not designed to be alluring, but on the Damoselle Tia…