“Forty-eight hours,” said Lord Darcy thoughtfully. He looked at his watch. “That would be, give or take an hour or so, at approximately the same time Master Sir James was killed. Interesting.”

“There’s one thing, my lord,” said Master Sean, “which you might find even more interesting.” He knelt down and pointed at some bits of material lying on the corpse’s shirt front. “What does that look like to you?”

Lord Darcy knelt and looked. “Sealing wax,” he said softly. “Bits of blue sealing wax.”

Master Sean nodded. “That’s what they looked like to me, my lord.”

Lord Darcy stood up. “I hate to put you through another session of such grueling work, Sean, but it must be done. I must know the time of his death, and—”

Master Sean took one more look at the dead man’s shirt front, and then stood up himself. “And something more about those bits of blue sealing wax, eh, my lord?”

“Exactly.”

“Well,” said Lord Bontriomphe, “at least this time we know who killed him.”

“Yes, I know who killed him, all right,” Lord Darcy said. “What I don’t understand is why.”

“You mean, the motive?” Lord Bontriomphe asked.

“Oh, I know the motive. What I want to know is the motive behind the motive, if you follow me.”

Lord Bontriomphe didn’t.

Another half hour of meticulous investigation revealed nothing of further interest. The murder of Paul Nichols appeared to be as simple as that of Sir James had been complex. There was no locked door, no indication of Black Magic, no question as to the method of death. By the time he was finished looking the area over, Lord Darcy was convinced that his mental reconstruction of the murder was reasonably accurate. Paul Nichols had been enticed into the workshop, knocked unconscious, strangled with a handy piece of upholsterer’s cord, and dumped into the small lumber room. Exactly what had happened after that was not quite as clear, but Lord Darcy felt that subsequent data would not drastically change his hypothesis.

Satisfied, Lord Darcy left the remainder of the investigation to Lord Bontriomphe and Master Sean. Now, he thought to himself, what to do next? Go to the Palace du Marquis first and pick up a gun, he decided. He had mentioned to Lord Bontriomphe that he had lost his own weapon in the Thames, and Bontriomphe had said, “I have another in my desk, a Heron .36. You can use that if you want; it’s a good weapon.” Lord Darcy decided that one good stiff drink would probably stand him in good stead before he took a cab to the Palace du Marquis. He went to the Sword Room and ordered a brandy and soda.

There was still a state of tension in the hotel, and the Convention seemed to have been held in abeyance. Of all the sorcerers he had seen that morning, with the exception of Master Sean himself, not one had been wearing the silver slashes of a Master. Lord Darcy saw a familiar face further down the bar, a young man who was giving his full attention to a pint of good English beer. With a slight frown, Lord Darcy picked up his glass and walked down to where the other man was sitting.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said. “I should have thought you would be out on the chase.”

Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal looked up, a little startled. “Lord Darcy! I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he said. The smile on his face looked a little sad. “They didn’t ask me to help find Master Ewen,” he said. “They’re afraid a journeyman couldn’t hold his own against a Master.”

“And you think you could?” Lord Darcy asked.

“No!” Lord John Quetzal said excitedly. “That’s not the point, don’t you see? Master Ewen may be a more powerful sorcerer than I am, I don’t argue with that. But I don’t have to face him down. If he uses magic when he’s cornered, another, more powerful sorcerer can take care of him then. The point is that I can find Master Ewen. I can find out where he is. But nobody listens to a journeyman sorcerer.”

Lord Darcy looked at him. “Now let me understand you,” he said carefully. “You think you can find where Master Ewen is hiding now?”

“Not just think; I know! I am positive I can find him. When you brought the Damoselle Tia in last night, she stank to high Heaven of Black Magic.” He looked apologetic. “I don’t mean a real smell, you understand, not the way you’d smell tobacco smoke or” — he gestured toward Lord Darcy’s glass — “brandy, or something like that.”

“I understand,” said Lord Darcy. “It is merely a psychic analogy to the physical sense which it most nearly resembles. That is why people with your particular kind of Talent are called witch-smellers.”

“Yes, my lord; exactly. And any given act of black sorcery has its characteristic ‘aroma’ — a stink that identifies the sorcerer who performed it. You asked me Wednesday night if I suspected anyone, and I refused to tell you. But it was Master Ewen. I could detect the taint on him even then. But now, with an example of his work to go on, I could smell him out anywhere in London.”

He smiled rather sheepishly. “I was just sitting here trying to make up my mind whether I should go out on my own or not.”

“You could detect the stink of Black Magic on the Damoselle Tia,” Lord Darcy said. “How did you know that it was not she who was practicing the Black Art?”

“My lord,” said Lord John Quetzal, “there is a great deal of difference between a dirty finger and a dirty finger-mark.”

Lord Darcy contemplated his drink in silence for a full minute. Then he picked it up and finished it in two swallows.

“My Lord John Quetzal,” he said briskly. “Lord Bontriomphe and his Armsmen are searching for Master Ewen. So are Sir Lyon and the Masters of the Guild. So are Commander Lord Ashley and the Naval Intelligence Corps. And do you know what?”

“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?”