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…

And then the Dowager Duchess noticed something that had escaped her attention before: the Damoselle Tia was wearing arms which declared her to be an apprentice of His Grace, Charles Archbishop of York.

To Mary of Cumberland, the Damoselle Tia appeared somewhat taller than she had when the Duchess saw her leaving Master Sir James’ room on the previous morning. Then she saw the reason. Tia was wearing shoes of fashion that had arisen in the southern part of the Polish Hegemony and had not yet been accepted in the fashion centers either of Poland or of the Empire. They were like ordinary slippers except that the toes came to a point and the heels were lifted above the floor by a spike some two-and-a-half inches long. Good Heavens, thought Mary to herself, how can a woman wear such high heels without ruining her feet?

Was it, she wondered, some psychological quirk? Tia was a tiny girl, a good inch less than five feet tall without those outré heels, and a good foot shorter than the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland. Did she wear those heels simply to increase her physical height?

No, Mary decided; Tia had too much self-assurance, too much confidence in her own abilities, to need the false prop of those little stilts. She wore them simply because they were the fashion she had become used to. They were “native costume,” nothing more.

“Excuse me,” said Sir Thomas Leseaux, pushing his way through the crowd that surrounded Tia. Every one of the journeymen looked thrice at Sir Thomas. Their first look told them that he did not wear the blue of a sorcerer. A layman, then? Their second look encompassed the ribbons on his left breast which proclaimed him a Doctor of Thaumaturgy and a Fellow of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society. No, not a layman. Their third look took in his unmistakable features, which identified him immediately as the brilliant theoretical sorcerer whose portrait was known to every apprentice of a week’s standing. They stepped back, fading away from Tia in awe at the appearance of Sir Thomas.

Tia had noticed that the handsome young sorcerers who were paying court to her seemed to be vanishing, and she looked up to discover the cause of the dispersion. Mary de Cumberland noticed that Tia’s eyes lit up and a smile came to her pixieish face when she saw the tall figure of Sir Thomas Leseaux.

Well, well, she thought, so Tia reciprocates Sir Thomas’ feelings. She remembered that Lord Darcy had said “Sir Thomas is in love with the girl — or thinks he is.” But Lord Darcy was not a Sensitive. Since she herself was sensitive to a minor degree, she knew that there was no question about the feeling between the two.

Before Sir Thomas could speak the Damoselle Tia bowed her head. “Good afternoon, Sir Thomas.”

“Good afternoon, Tia. I’m sorry to have dispersed your court.

“Your Grace,” continued Sir Thomas, “may I present to you the Damoselle Tia. Tia, I should like you to know my friend, Mary, Duchess of Cumberland.”

Tia curtsied. “It is an honor to meet Your Grace.”

Then Sir Thomas looked at his watch and said, “Good Heavens! It’s time for the meeting of the Royal Thaumaturgical Society.” He gave both women a quick, brief smile. “I trust you ladies will forgive me. I shall see you later on.”

Mary de Cumberland’s smile was only partly directed toward Tia. The rest of it was self-congratulatory. Lord Darcy, she thought, would approve of her timing; by carefully checking the meeting time of the R.T.S., she had obtained an introduction by Sir Thomas and his immediate disappearance thereafter.

“Tia,” she said, “have you tasted our English beer? Or our French wines?”

The girl’s eyes sparkled. “The wines, yes, Your Grace. English beer? No.” She hesitated. “I have heard they compare well with German beers.”

Her Grace sniffed. “My dear Tia, that is like saying that claret compares with vinegar.” She grinned. “Come on, let’s get out of this solemn conclave and I’ll introduce you to English beer.”

The Sword Room of the Royal Steward was, like the lobby, thronged with visitors. In one of its booths, the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland lifted the chilled pewter mug.

“Tia, my dear,” she said, “there are many drinks in this world. There are wines for the gourmet, there are whiskies and brandies for the men, there are sweet cordials for the women, and there are milk and lemonade for children — but for good friendly drinking, there is nothing that can compare with the honest beer of England.”

Tia picked up her own mug and touched it to Mary’s. “Your Grace,” she said, “with an introduction like that, the brew of England shall be given its every opportunity.”

She drank, draining half the mug. Then she looked at Mary with her sparkling pixie eyes. “It is good, Your Grace!”

“Better than our French wines?” asked Mary, setting down her own mug half empty.

Tia laughed. “Right now, much better, Your Grace; I was thirsty.”

Mary smiled back at her. “You’re quite right, my dear. Wine is for the palate — beer is for the thirst.”

Tia drank again from her mug. “You know, Your Grace, where I come from, it would be terribly presumptuous for a girl of my class even to sit down in the presence of a duchess, much less to sit down and have a beer with her in a public house.”