“No, my lord,” said Lord John Quetzal, putting down his empty beer mug, “what?”
“You and I are going to make them all look foolish. Come with me. We must fetch a cab. First to the Palace du Marquis, and then, my lord — wherever your nose leads us.”
CHAPTER 20
It took hours.
In a little pub far to the north of the river, Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal stared blankly at a mug of beer that he had no intention of drinking.
“I think I have him, my lord,” he said dully. “I think I have him.”
“Very good,” said Lord Darcy.
He dared say nothing further. During all this time he had followed Lord John Quetzal’s leads, making marks on the map as the young Mechicain witch-smeller came ever closer to the black sorcerer who was his prey.
“It’s not as easy as I thought,” said Lord John Quetzal.
Lord Darcy nodded grimly. Witch-smelling — the detection of psychic evil — was not the same as clairvoyance, but even so the privacy spells in London had dimmed the young Mechicain’s perceptions.
“Not easy, perhaps,” he said, “but just as certain, just as sure.” His lordship realized that the young journeyman had not yet perfected his innate ability to its utmost. That, of course, would come with time and further training. “Let’s go through it again. Tell me the clues as you picked them up.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the young Mechicain. After a moment he began: “He’s surrounded by those who will help him — Master Ewen is, I mean. But they will not risk their own lives for him.
“There is a tremendous amount of psychic tension surrounding him,” Lord John Quetzal continued, “but it has nothing to do with him personally. They don’t know that he exists.”
“I understand, my lord,” said Lord Darcy. “From the descriptions you have given me, it appears to me that Master Ewen is surrounded by generally un-Talented people who are attempting to use the Talent.” He spread his map of London out on the table. “Now, let’s see if we can get a fix.” He tapped a spot on the map. “From here” — he moved his finger — “in that direction, eh?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Lord John Quetzal.
“Now,” Lord Darcy moved his finger further down the map. “From here” — he moved his finger again — “to there. Eh?”
“Yes.”
Lord John Quetzal knew direction and magnitude, but he seemed unable to give any further information. Time after time Lord Darcy had gone through this same routine — so many times that it seemed monotonous, repetitive.
And yet, each time, more information came to the fore. At last, Lord Darcy was able to draw a circle on the map of London, and tap it with the point of his pencil.
“He is somewhere within that area. There is no other possible answer.” Then he reached out and put his hand on the young journeyman’s shoulder. “I know you’re tired. Fatigue is the normal condition of an Investigator for the King.”
Lord John Quetzal straightened his shoulders and looked up suddenly. “I know. But” — he tapped the spot that Lord Darcy had circled — “that’s quite a bit of area. I thought that I could locate him precisely, exactly.” He took a deep breath. “And now I find that…”
“Oh, come,” Lord Darcy said. “You give in too easily. We have him located; it is simply that you do not realize how closely we have surrounded our quarry. We know the general area, but we do not have the exact description of his immediate surroundings.”
“But there I cannot help,” Lord John Quetzal said, the dullness coming back into his voice.
“I think you can,” said Lord Darcy. “I ask you to put your attention upon the symbols surrounding Master Ewen MacAlister — not his actual physical surroundings but his symbolic surroundings.”
And then Lord Darcy waited.
Suddenly Lord John Quetzal looked up. “I have an intuition. I see…” Lord John Quetzal began again. “It is the blazon of a coat of arms, my lord: Argent, in saltire, five fusils gules.”
“Go on,” said Lord Darcy urgently, making a rapid notation on the margin of the map.
Lord John Quetzal looked out into nothing. “Argent,” he said, “in pale, three trefoils sable, the lower-most inverted.”
Lord Darcy made another note, and then put his hand very carefully on the top of the table, palm down. “I ask you to give me one more, my lord — just one more.”
“Argent,” said Lord John Quetzal, “a heart gules.”
Lord Darcy leaned back in the booth, took a deep breath and said, “We have it, my lord, we have it. Thanks to you. Come, we must get back to Carlyle House.”
Half an hour after that, Her Grace, Mary, the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland, was looking at the same map. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. She looked at the young Mechicain. “Of course. Argent, in saltire, five fusils gules.” She looked up at Lord Darcy. “The five of diamonds.”
“Right,” said Lord Darcy.
“And the second is the three of clubs. And the third, the ace of hearts.”
“Exactly. Do you doubt now that Master Ewen is hiding there?”
She looked back down at the map. “No, of course not. Of course he’s there.” She looked up at him. “You went no further, my lord?” Then she glanced at Lord John Quetzal and corrected herself. “My lords?”
“Was there any need?” Lord Darcy asked. “My Lord du Moqtessuma has assured me that if Master Ewen leaves his hiding place he shall know it. Right, my lord?”
“Right.” Then he added, “That is, I cannot guarantee his future movements, but if he should go very far from there I should know it.
“One thing I do not understand,” Her Grace said frankly, “is why My Lord John Quetzal did not immediately recognize the symbolism.” She looked at the young Mechicain nobleman with a smile. “I do not mean this as a reflection upon your abilities. You did visualize the symbols — and yet you translated them in terms of heraldry rather than in terms of playing cards. Undoubtedly you could explain why, but with your permission I should like to know how Lord Darcy knew.”
“It was information you did not have,” Lord Darcy said with a smile. “The night before last when we were discussing Mechicoe, while you were dressing, we had a short discussion of gambling and recreation in Mechicoe. I observed that not once did Lord John Quetzal mention playing cards — from which I gathered that they are very little used.”
“In Mechicoe,” said Lord John Quetzal, “a deck of cards is generally considered to be a fortune-telling device, used by unlicensed wizards and black sorcerers. I am not familiar with the card deck as a gambling device, although I have heard, of course, that it can be used as such.”
“Of course,” said Lord Darcy. “Therefore, you translated the symbols you saw in terms of heraldry, a field of knowledge with which you are familiar. But your description is quite clear.” He looked at the Duchess. “And, therefore, we came to you.” He smiled. “If anyone knows the gambling clubs of London, it is you.”
She looked back down at the map. “Yes,” she said. “There’s only one such club in that area. He must be there. It’s the Manzana de Oro.”
“Ah,” said Lord Darcy. “The Golden Apple, eh? What do you know of it?”
“It is owned by a Moor from Granada.”
“Indeed?” said Lord Darcy. “Describe him to me.”
“Oh, he’s an absolutely fascinating creature,” said Her Grace. “He’s tall — as tall as you are — and quite devilishly handsome. He has dark skin — almost black — flashing eyes, and a small pointed beard. He dresses magnificently in the Oriental fashion. There’s an enormous emerald on his left ring finger, and a great ruby — or perhaps it is a spinel — in his turban. He carries at his waist a jeweled Persian dagger that is probably worth a fortune. For all I know he is an unmitigated scoundrel, but in his manners and bearing he is unquestionably a gentleman. He calls himself the Sidi al-Nasir.”