The Sidi al-Nasir shrugged, still keeping his hands well above the table. “Whatever may have happened,” he said, “I assure you that this sorcerer is no longer in my employ. However, my information leads me to believe that you are rather eager to locate him. It is possible I may be of some assistance to you in your search. I might be in a position to inform you as to Master Ewen’s present whereabouts. After all, we are all of us reasonable men, are we not?”
“I am afraid your information is superfluous, my lord…” Lord Darcy began.
At that point the door of the office was flung open and Lord John Quetzal burst in. “Look out! He’s moving! He knows he’s being betrayed!” he shouted.
Even as he spoke, the rear door was swinging open. Master Ewen MacAlister ran out, heading for the door that led to freedom. Only Lord John Quetzal stood between him and that door. The black sorcerer gestured with one hand toward the young Mechicain.
Lord John Quetzal threw up his hand to ward off the spell that had been cast, but his journeyman’s powers were not the equal of those of a Master. His own shielding spell softened the blow, but could not completely stop it. He staggered and fell to his knees. He did not collapse, but his eyes glazed over and he remained in his kneeling position, unmoving.
But his moment of resistance, slight though it was, was enough to slow Master Ewen’s flight. The bogus Prince of Vladistov was already in action. Master Sean O Lochlainn ripped off his false beard and allowed his eyeglass to drop to the floor.
Lord Darcy did not move. It took every ounce of his self-control to keep his pistol fixed firmly on the Sidi al-Nasir. The Moor also remained motionless. He did not even glance away from the muzzle of Lord Darcy’s pistol.
The black sorcerer spun around to face Master Sean and gestured with one hand, describing an intricate symbol in the air with a flourish of his fingers, his features contorted in a strained grimace.
Lord Darcy and everyone else in the room felt the psychic blast of that hastily conjured spell. Master Ewen’s hours in hiding had obviously been spent in conjuring up the spells he would need to defend himself when the time came.
Master Sean O Lochlainn, toward whom the spell was directed, seemed to freeze for perhaps half a second. But he, too, had prepared himself, and he had the further advantage of having known the identity of his prey, while Master Ewen had no way of knowing — except by conjecture — who would come after him.
Master Sean’s hand moved, creating a symbol in the air.
Master Ewen blinked, gritted his teeth and, from somewhere beneath his cloak, drew a long white wand.
No one else in the room, not even Lord Darcy, could move. They held their positions partly because of the psychic tension in the air around them, partly because they wanted to see the outcome of this duel between two master magicians, but primarily because the undirected corona effects of the spells themselves held them enthralled.
Except for Master Sean, no one there recognized the white wand that Master Ewen drew. But Master Sean saw it, recognized it as having been made from a human thigh bone, and in an instant had prepared a counterspell. The thighbone-wand was thrust out, and Master Ewen’s lips moved malevolently.
The corona effect of the spell went beyond the immediate area. Outside in the gaming rooms, the players seemed to freeze for a moment. Then, for no apparent reason, the heavy bettors put their money on odds-on bets. One young scion of a wealthy family put fifty golden sovereigns on a bet that would have netted him a single silver sovereign if he had won.
And in al-Nasir’s office, Lord John Quetzal suddenly blinked his eyes and looked away, Lord Ashley started to draw his sword, Sidi al-Nasir himself moved groggily away from his desk; and Lord Darcy’s hand quivered on the grip of the Heron .36, keeping it aligned on the Sidi, but not firing.
But Master Sean had warded off the effectiveness of even that spell, which was designed to make him take a stupid chance.
With great determination, he stalked toward Master Ewen, and his voice was hard and cold as he said, “In the Name of the Guild, Master Ewen — yield! Otherwise I shall not be responsible for what happens.”
Master Ewen’s reply contained three words — words which were furious, foul, and filthy.
Again that whitened thighbone-wand stabbed out.
And again Master Sean stood the brunt of that terrible psychic shock. Without a wand, without anything save his own hand, Master Sean made the final effective gesture of the battle.
But not the final gesture, for Master Ewen repeated himself. He stepped forward, and again jabbed with his chalk-white wand.
Then he stepped forward once more.
Another jab.
Another step.
Another jab.
Another step.
Master Sean moved to one side, watching Master Ewen.
The jabs of the black sorcerer’s wand were no longer directed toward the tubby little Irish sorcerer but toward the point in space where he had been.
Master Sean took a deep breath. “I’d better catch him before he runs into the wall.”
Lord Darcy did not move the muzzle of his weapon from Sidi al-Nasir. “What is he doing?” he asked.
“He’s trapped in a time cycle, my lord. I’ve tied his thought processes in a knot. They go round and round through their contortions and end up where they started. He’ll keep repeating the same useless motions again and again until I pull him out of it.”
In spite of Master Ewen MacAlister’s apparently thaumaturgical gestures, everyone could feel that the corona effect was gone. Whatever was going on in the repeating cycle inside Master Ewen’s mind, it had no magical effect.
“How is Lord John Quetzal?” Lord Darcy asked.
“Oh, he’ll be all right as soon as I release him from that daze spell.”
“Magnificently done, Master Sean,” said Lord Darcy. “My Lord Ashley,” he said to the Naval Commander, “will you be so good as to go to the nearest window, identify yourself, and shout for help? The place is completely surrounded by the Armsmen of London.”
CHAPTER 21
Sir Frederique Bruleur, the seneschal of the Palace du Marquis, brought three cups of caffe into My Lord de London’s office. The first was placed on the center of My Lord Marquis’ desk, the second on the center of Lord Bontriomphe’s desk, the third on the corner of Lord Bontriomphe’s desk near the red leather chair where Lord Darcy was seated. Then Sir Frederique withdrew silently.
My Lord Marquis sipped at his cup, then glowered at Lord Darcy. “You insist upon this confrontation, my lord cousin?”
“Can you see any other way of getting the evidence we need?” Lord Darcy asked blandly. He had wanted to discuss the problem earlier with the Marquis of London, but the Marquis insisted that no business should be discussed during dinner.
The Marquis took another sip at his cup. “No, I suppose not,” he agreed. He focused his gaze upon Lord Bontriomphe. “You now have Master Ewen locked up. Securely, I presume?”
“We have three Master Sorcerers keeping an eye on him,” Lord Bontriomphe said. “Master Sean has put a spell on him that will keep him in a total daze until we get around to taking it off. I don’t know what more you want.”
The Marquis of London snorted. “I want to make certain he doesn’t get away, of course.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It has now been three hours since you made your arrests at the Manzana de Oro. If Master Ewen is still in his cell I will concede that you have him properly guarded. Now: What information did you get?”
Lord Bontriomphe turned a hand palm up. “Master Ewen admits almost everything. He knows we have him on an espionage charge; he knows that we have him on a charge of Black Magic; he knows that we have him on a charge of thaumaturgical assault and attempted murder against the person of the Damoselle Tia Einzig.