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.

“He admits to all that, but refuses to admit to a charge of murder. Until Master Sean put him under a quieting spell, he was talking his head off — admitting everything, as long as it would not put his neck in a noose.”

“Pah! Naturally he would attempt to save his miserable skin. Very well. What happened? I have your reports and Lord Darcy’s reports. From the facts, the conclusions are obvious. What do you say?” He looked straight into Bontriomphe’s eyes.

Lord Bontriomphe shrugged. “I’m not the genius around here. I’ll tell you what Chief Hennely thinks. I’ll give you his theory for what it’s worth. But mind you, I don’t consider that it is accurate in every detail. But Chief Master-at-Arms Hennely has discussed this with Commander Lord Ashley and with Captain Smollett, so I give you their theory for what it’s worth.”

The Marquis glanced at Lord Darcy, then looked back at Lord Bontriomphe. “Very well. Proceed.”

“All right. To begin with, we needn’t worry about the murder in Cherbourg. It was committed by a Polish agent detailed for the purpose, simply because they discovered that Barbour was a double agent — and our chances of finding the killer are small.

“The killer of Master Sir James is another matter. Here, we know who the killer is, and we know the tool he used.

“We know that the Damoselle Tia was being blackmailed, that Master Ewen threatened to have her uncle tortured and killed if she did not obey orders. Defying those orders, she went to Sir James Zwinge, and told him everything — including everything she knew about Master Ewen. Naturally, MacAlister had to dispose of Sir James, even though that would mean that a new head of the European Intelligence network would be appointed, and that the Poles would have to repeat all the work of discovering the identity of his successor as soon as the Navy appointed one.”

He looked over at Lord Darcy. “As to how it was done, the important clue was that half-moon bloodstain that you pointed out to me.” He looked back at the Marquis. “You see that, don’t you? It was a heel print. And there was only one pair of shoes in the hotel that could have made such a print — the high-heeled shoes of Tia Einzig.

“Look at the evidence. We know, from Master Sean O Lochlainn’s report, that Master Sir James was stabbed — not at 9:30 when he screamed — but at approximately nine o’clock, half an hour before. The wound was not immediately fatal.”

He glanced back at Lord Darcy. “Sir James lay there, unconscious, for half an hour — and then, when he heard Master Sean’s knock, he came out of his coma long enough to shout to Master Sean for help. He lifted himself up, but this last effort finished him. He dropped and died. Do you agree?”

“Most certainly,” said Lord Darcy. “It could not have happened in any other way. He was stabbed at nine — or thereabouts — but did not die until half past.