She heard Tia gasp, “I… I’ll speak to him. Would you excuse me, Your Grace?”

“Of course, my dear. Waiter, would you refill our mugs?”

Mary watched as Tia rose and walked over to the bar. She could see the stranger’s face and Tia’s back, but in the hash of emotion that was washing back and forth through the room, it was impossible to interpret Tia’s emotions. As for the stranger, there was no way for her to catch his words. His face seemed immobile, his lips seemed hardly to move, and what movements they did make were covered by the heavy moustache. The entire conversation took less than two minutes. Then the stranger bowed his head to Tia, rose, and walked out of the Sword Room.

Tia stood where she was for perhaps another thirty seconds. Then she turned and came back to the booth where the Dowager Duchess of Cumberland waited. On her face was a look which Mary could only interpret as grim joy.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” she said. “A friend. We had not seen each other for some time.” She sat down and picked up her tankard.

Then she said suddenly, “Pardon me, Your Grace. What o’clock is it?”

Mary looked at the watch on her wrist “Twelve after six.”

“Oh, dear,” said Tia, “Sir Thomas told me specifically that I should wear evening costume after six.”

Mary laughed. “He’s right, of course. We should both have changed before this.”

Tia leaned forward. “Your Grace,” she said confidingly, “I must admit something. I’m not used to Angevin styles. Sir Thomas was good enough to buy me some evening dresses, and there is one in particular I have never worn before. I should like to wear it tonight, but” — her voice sank even lower — “I don’t know how to wear the thing properly. Would Your Grace be so good as to come up and help me with it?”

“Surely, my dear,” Mary said with a laugh, “under one condition.”

“What’s that, Your Grace?”

“The dress I have to wear normally requires a battalion of assistants to get it on. Do you think you can substitute for a battalion?”

The statement was untrue; the Duchess was perfectly capable of dressing herself, but Lord Darcy had asked her to keep an eye on this girl and, even though she was not certain that it was still necessary, she would obey his orders.

“I can certainly try, Your Grace,” said Tia, smiling. “My room is two flights up.”

“Good, we’ll go up and strap you into your finery, then go down one flight and strap me into mine. Between the two of us we’ll have every sorcerer in the place groveling at our feet.”

The Duchess signed the bill that the waiter presented, and the two women left the Sword Room.

Tia turned the key in the door to her room. She pushed open the door and stopped. On the floor, just beyond the door, was an envelope. She picked it up and smiled at the Duchess. “Excuse me, Your Grace,” she said, “the dress I was telling you about is in the closet over there. I would like Your Grace to give me your opinion on it. It’s the blue one.”

Mary walked over to the closet, opened it, and looked at the array of dresses, but before she could say anything she heard Tia’s voice behind her. She could not understand the words of the girl’s short expletive, but she could feel the anger in them. Slowly she turned around and said, “What seems to be the trouble?”

“Trouble?” the girl’s eyes flashed fire. Her right hand crumpled the envelope and then with a convulsive gesture threw it into the wastebasket nearby. “No trouble, Your Grace, no trouble at all.” Her smile was forced. She walked over to the closet and looked at the dress. She stared at it without saying anything.

Mary of Cumberland stepped back. “It’s a lovely dress, Tia,” she said quietly. “You’ll look magnificent in it.” With one lightning-like movement she reached out to the wastebasket, grabbed the piece of paper Tia had thrown away, and slipped it into her pocket. “Yes,” she said, “a very beautiful dress.”

Mary could sense the girl’s hesitation and confusion. Something in that note had upset her, had changed her plans, and now she was trying to think of what to do next.

Tia turned, a pained look on her face. “Your Grace, I don’t… I don’t feel well. I should like to lie down for a few minutes.” For a moment, Mary de Cumberland thought she should offer her services as a Healer. Then she realized that that would simply add to the confusion. Tia had no headache. She simply wanted to get rid of her guest. There was nothing Mary could do.

“Of course, my dear. I understand. I shall,” she smiled, realizing she was repeating Sir Thomas’ words, “see you later on, then. Good evening, my dear.”

She went out into the hall and heard the door close behind her. What now? she thought. There was no way of intruding on Tia without making her intrusion obvious. What to do next?

She went down the stairs. Halfway down she took out the note that had been under Tia’s door, the note she had retrieved from the wastebasket. She opened it and looked at it.

It was in a language she could not identify. Not a single word of it was understandable. The only thing that stood out was a number that was easily recognizable.

7:00.

Nothing else was comprehensible.

CHAPTER 14

Lord Darcy leaned back in the hard, straight-backed chair that apparently epitomized Admiralty furniture and stretched his back muscles. “Ahhh-h-h…” he exhaled audibly. He felt as though weariness had settled into every cell of his body.

Then he leaned forward again, closed the folder on the table in front of him, and looked across the table at Lord Ashley.

“Doesn’t tell us much, does it, my lord?”

Lord Ashley shook his head. “No, my lord. None of them do. The mysterious FitzJean remains as mysterious as ever.”

Lord Darcy pushed the folder away from him. “Agreed.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “We have no clue from Barbour as to FitzJean’s identity. The Admiralty staff at Cherbourg Naval Base did not even know of Barbour’s existence. Unless something unexpected turns up, we will get no further information about FitzJean from that end.”

“Do you see any clues at this end, my lord?”

“Well, look at the data.” Lord Darcy gestured toward the pile of folders. “Only three men, presumably, know how to build and how to activate the confusion projector: Sir Lyon Grey, Sir Thomas Leseaux, and the late Sir James Zwinge. Of course, it is possible that that information was stolen from them, but let us explore the first possibility that suggests itself: Could it have been one of them?”

The Commander frowned. “It’s hard to imagine that such respected and trusted men could betray the Empire.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Darcy. “It is difficult to imagine why any highly-placed officer could betray the Empire. But it has happened before, and we must consider the possibility.

“What about Sir Thomas, for instance? He worked out the theory and the mathematics for this device. What about Sir Lyon, or Sir James? They collaborated on working out the thaumaturgical engineering technique which made the device a working reality.

“If you had to pick one of the three, my lord, which would it be?”

The Commander leaned back in his chair and looked up, away from the low-hanging gas lamp, at the shadowed beams of the high ceiling.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “first off, I’d eliminate Sir Thomas. Since the basic discovery was his, it would have been much simpler all around for him to have sold it directly to His Slavonic Majesty’s Government in the first place, if he needed money that badly.”

“Agreed,” said Lord Darcy tonelessly.

“Sir Lyon,” Commander Ashley continued, “has plenty of money in his own right. I don’t say that a quarter of a million silver sovereigns would mean nothing to him, but it hardly seems enough to entice a man in his position to commit treason.”