Lord Darcy leaned back and laughed.
“May I ask,” the Duchess said acidly, “what is so funny, my lord?”
“My apologies,” said Lord Darcy, smothering his laughter. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. You must credit it to our Moorish friend. ‘Sidi al-Nasir’ indeed! How lovely. I have a feeling I shall like this gentleman.”
“Would it be too much,” Her Grace said pleasantly, “for you to let us in on the joke?”
“It is the felicitous choice of name and title,” Lord Darcy said. “Translating broadly, Sidi al-Nasir means ‘My Lord the Winner.’ How magnificently he has informed the upper class gamblers of London that the advantage is with the house. Yes, indeed, I think I shall like My Lord al-Nasir.” He looked at the Duchess. “Do you have entry into his club?”
“You know I do,” she said. “You would never have mentioned it to me otherwise.”
“True,” said Lord Darcy blandly. “But now that you are in on our little trap, I shall not deny you the further enjoyment of helping us close it solidly upon our quarry.” He looked at Lord John Quetzal. “My lord,” he said, “the quarry is cornered. We now have but to devise the trap itself.”
Lord John Quetzal nodded smilingly. “Indeed, my lord. Oh, yes indeed. Now, to begin with…”
The night was clear. Each star in the sky above shone like a separate brilliant jewel in the black velvet of the heavens. A magnificent carriage bearing the Cumberland arms pulled up in front of the Manzana de Oro, the footman opened and bowed low before the polychrome and gilt door, and four people descended. The first to alight was no less than Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. She was followed by a tall, lean, handsome man in impeccable evening clothes. The third passenger was equally tall — a dark-faced man wearing the arms of the ducal house of Moqtessuma. All three bowed low as the fourth passenger stepped out.
His Highness the Prince of Vladistov was a short, round gentleman, with a dark, bushy, heavy beard and an eyeglass screwed into his right eye. He descended from the coach in silence with great dignity, and acknowledged his companions’ bows with a patronizing tilt of his head.
Her Grace of Cumberland nodded to the brace of doormen who stood at rigid attention at either side of the entrance to the Manzana de Oro, and the four of them marched inside. At the inner door, Her Grace’s escort spoke to the majordomo. “You may announce to My Lord al-Nasir — Her Grace, Mary, Dowager Duchess of Cumberland; Lord John Quetzal du Moqtessuma de Mechicoe; His Most Serene Highness, Jehan, Prince of Vladistov; and myself, the Lord of Arcy.”
The majordomo bowed low before this magnificent company and said, “His lordship shall be so informed.” Then he glanced at the Dowager Duchess. “Your pardon… uh… Your Grace vouches for these gentlemen?”
“Of course, Goodman Abdul,” said Her Grace imperiously, and the party of four swept across the threshold.
Lord Darcy held back and, as Lord John Quetzal caught up with him, whispered, “Is he here?”
“He’s here,” said Lord John Quetzal. “I can place him within ten feet now.”
“Good. Keep smiling and follow my lead. But if he moves, let me know immediately.”
They followed Her Grace and the magnificently attired Prince of Vladistov into the interior.
The anteroom was large — some thirty feet broad by twenty feet deep — and gave no hint that the Manzana de Oro was a gambling club. The decor was Moorish, and — to Lord Darcy, who had seen Southern Spain, North Africa, and Arabia — far too Moorish. The decor was not that of a public place in the Islamic countries, but that of the hareem. The walls were hung with cloth-of-gold — or what passed for it; the archways which led off it were — embroidered was the only word — embroidered with quotations from the Qu’ran — quotations which, while very decorative because of the Arabic script, were essentially meaningless in the context.
The floor was inlaid with Moorish tile, and exotic flowers set in brazen pots of earth were tastefully placed around the walls. In the center of the room, a golden fountain played. The water moved in fantastic patterns, always shifting, never repeating, forming weird and unusual shapes in the air. The fountain was lined with lights whose colors changed and moved with the waving patterns. The water flowed down over a series of baffles that produced a shifting musical note in the air.
Well-dressed people in evening clothes stood around exchanging pleasantries.
Her Grace turned and smiled. “Shall we go to the gaming rooms, gentle sirs?”
The Prince of Vladistov glanced at Lord Darcy. Lord Darcy said, “Of course, Your Grace.”
She gestured toward one of the side doors that led off the anteroom and said, “Will you accompany me?” and led them through the arched doorway to their right. The gaming room was even more flamboyant than the anteroom. The hangings were of gold, embroidered with purple and red, decorated with scenes from ancient Islamic myth. But their beauty formed only a background to the Oriental magnificence of the room itself, and the brilliant evening dress of the people who played at the gaming tables stood out glitteringly against that background.
A number of sharp-eyed men moved unobtrusively among the gaming tables, observing the play. Lord Darcy knew they were journeymen sorcerers hired to spot any player’s attempt to use a trained Talent to affect his chances. Their job was not to overcome any such magic, but merely to report it and expel the offender. The effect of any untrained Talent present in the players could be expected to cancel out.
The Prince of Vladistov smiled broadly at Lord Darcy and said, in a very low tone, “I’ve twigged to Master Ewen meself, my lord — thanks to Lord John Quetzal’s aid. Sure and we have him now. He’s in the room to the right, just beyond that arch with the purple scribblings about it.”
Lord Darcy bowed. “Your Highness is most astute,” he said. “But where the Devil is Sidi al-Nasir?” It was a rhetorical question to which he did not expect an answer. Mary of Cumberland had assured him that al-Nasir invariably greeted members of the nobility when they came to his club, and yet there had been no sign of the Moor.
The Prince of Vladistov answered Lord Darcy’s rhetorical question. “He seems to be in his office. We can’t be sure, Lord John Quetzal and I, but we both agree that that’s where he seems to be.”
Lord Darcy nodded. “All right, we’ll work it that way.” He moved up and smiled at the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. “Your Grace,” he said very softly, “I observe that the gentleman who was at the door has followed us in.”
She did not turn her head. “Goodman Abdul? Yes. By this time he is probably wondering why we have not gone to the gaming tables.”
“A good question, from his point of view. We shall take advantage of it. Go over and ask him where Sidi al-Nasir is. Insist upon speaking to the Sidi. You have brought, after all, a most important guest, the Prince of the distant Russian principality of Vladistov, and you see no reason why el Sidi should not greet him as he deserves. Pour it on thick. But make sure his back is toward us.”