A Study in Sorcery: A Lord Darcy Novel Page 7

  Lord Darcy bowed. “I think Master Sean and I can be settled in by then, Your Grace. Thank you.”

  Very good, my lord,” his grace said. He turned and called, “Lady Irene?”

  A slim young woman stepped from the group to Lord Darcy’s left and approached the throne. Lord Darcy’s first impression was of light-blue skirts and a cloud of blond hair. She curtsied to His Grace and turned to Lord Darcy and extended her hand. “Cousin. How good to see you again.”

  Indeed, my pleasure,” Lord Darcy said. “You’ve, ah, changed a lot since we last met. I don’t think I would have recognized you.”

  Lady Irene laughed. “I surely have,” she agreed. “A woman does change from the time she’s seven until she’s twenty-six.”

  “Has it been that long?” Lord Darcy asked. “Come, show Master Sean and myself to our chambers, and we’ll talk over old times.”

  Lady Irene led the way along the complex of corridors in the Residence to the suite of rooms that had been put aside for Lord Darcy and Master Sean. When they were safely inside the entrance door, she closed it behind her and leaned up against it. “We really are related, you know, my lord, although we’ve never met, and the degree of consanguinity is considerably wider than would normally be embraced by the term ‘cousin.’”

  ”Lady Irene Eagleson?” Lord Darcy said. “I am delighted to discover such a beautiful and charming relative, but I confess that the details of the relationship elude me.”

  “My mother, the Baroness Saltire, is the first cousin of the Duchess Pemberton, my lord. And, as the duke is your mother’s brother, that makes us—um, second cousins once removed.”

  Lord Darcy laughed. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Genealogy has never been my strong point, although once or twice I’ve had to bone up on it for a case I was working on. Master Sean, meet my cousin Lady Irene. I’ve known her since she was in pigtails. Or, at any rate, I’m sorry that I haven’t.”

  “ ‘Tis a pleasure, my lady,” Master Sean said.

  “I’m not sure why I’m supposed to have known you for ever so long,” Lady Irene said, “but it’s going to make me quite popular with the ladies in town. You two are quite the most eligible bachelors to have arrived at New Borkum for some time. You are unmarried, aren’t you, Master Sean?”

  “Aye, my lady,” Master Sean said, looking rather alarmed. “But I believe that magicians make very poor husbands.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Coronel Hesparsyn grunted and stirred in his bedroll. Somebody was shaking him by the shoulder. He opened one eye. It didn’t help; the world around him was pitch-black. For a second he was disoriented. Then memory—and responsibility—returned. “All right, I’m awake,” he said in a low voice. “What is it?”

  “Corporal Buchanan, sir,” came the whisper in the dark. “Corporal of the guard tonight, sir. Leftenant MacPhearling ordered me to wake you. He thinks something is about to happen, sir.”

  “What?” the coronel asked, pushing himself out of his bedroll and sitting up.

  “He’s not sure, sir.”

  Coronel Hesparsyn resisted the impulse to say, “Well, come back when he is sure.” That was merely his subconscious, in a desperate desire for more sleep, searching for some excuse. Years of Legion discipline had trained him to override such bodily needs. Instead he said, “Thank you, Corporal. Tell the leftenant that I’ll be right along,” and reached for his boots.

  The first vague hints of the approach of dawn were showing in the eastern corner of the star-washed sky as Coronel Hesparsyn left his tent, and a damp, predawn March chill seeped through his woolen uniform and enveloped his slowly waking body. He trotted to the command tent, slapping his hands against his arms in an effort to warm them up.

  The red glass was in place over the alcohol lamp in the command tent; red light was least damaging to night vision. Leftenant MacPhearling and Leftenant Duggen, the Duty Officer, were sitting at the small table. The magic officer held a small, gold dowsing fork over a crude map tacked to the table-top.

  “No, no, stay seated, gentlemen,” Coronel Hesparsyn said, as his two officers started to rise when he entered the tent. “Keep at whatever you’re doing, and tell me what’s happening.” He went over to the large caffe pitcher that was kept in the tent, and poured himself a steaming cupful. The caffe was kept hot by casting a variant of the preservation spell over it.

  “I’m not sure, Coronel,” Leftenant MacPhearling said, peering down at the roughly drawn chart. “There’s all sorts of activity going on around the perimeter of the camp, but I can’t pinpoint just what it is.” Holding the dowsing fork gingerly between the ring-finger and thumb of each hand, he moved it over the surface of the map, watching it carefully as it dipped and jumped. “There are people out there—many people—moving around in small groups.”

  “Horses?” the coronel asked.

  “Yes, I think so. The dowser is tuned to people, but I’m getting a response that appears to be some kind of large animal. So, unless the elk are migrating early this year, there are probably horses out there.”

  “Hmm,” the coronel said, looking at his two officers. Unspoken but in everybody’s thoughts was the fact that the local tribes were superstitious about fighting at night. They would not attack until dawn. But dawn was rapidly approaching.

  “Coronel, are we really going to fight to protect those—Azteques?” Leftenant Duggen asked. “That’s not exactly a popular idea with the troops now.”

  “I know,” Coronel Hesparsyn said. “Frankly, it’s not a popular idea with me, either. But His Grace, Duke Charles of Arc, would probably be rather annoyed if we allowed his treaty party to get slaughtered on the way to New Borkum to sign the treaty.”

  “So we have to prevent the chaps we like from attacking the chaps we don’t like,” Leftenant Duggen said. “Isn’t that the way it always is?”

  “It is not for us to decide Imperial policy,” Coronel Hesparsyn said. “His Imperial Majesty’s government is slowly and subtly applying external pressure, trying to turn the Azteque nation into one we can like better. But it won’t help to get their treaty party, which includes Lord Chiklquetl, who is one of the highest of their assorted high priests, murdered and scalped.”

  “That’s so, sir,” Leftenant Duggen admitted.

  “On the other hand, sir,” Leftenant MacPhearling added, “it isn’t going to be a good thing for our relations with the local natives if a bunch of them get slaughtered in the attempt. Which I believe is a distinct possibility; I think Lord Chiklquetl and his boys have something up their long, flowing sleeves.”

  “That’s interesting, Leftenant,” Coronel Hesparsyn said. “Have you any idea what it could be?”

  “Not in the slightest, sir. But I don’t trust those fellows while they’re in my sight, much less when they’re out of it.”

  “What are they doing now—can you tell with that silver stick?” Hesparsyn asked.

  Leftenant MacPhearling played his dowsing fork over the map for a little while as the others watched. “Well, they’re awake,” he said. “Or at least many of them are. I can’t tell what they’re doing, but they don’t seem to be moving around much.”

  “They know of the gathering warriors?”

  “Of course they do,” Leftenant MacPhearling said. “Probably better than I.”

  “They’ll certainly be outnumbered some three or four to one by whoever is out there,” the coronel said. “Maybe better. But their warriors are quite good, I understand. How does their battle magic stack up against the locals?”

  “I’d be guessing,” Leftenant MacPhearling said. “But I think they’ll pretty much cancel each other out. As you know, it’s hard to use magic effectively in the heat of a battle. Their priest-magicians should be able to do a good job of defending themselves, but I don’t think they’ll be able to do much damage to their opponents in the process. Not nearly as much as the warriors are going to do with the variety of edged and pointed implements they carry. Th
e magical efforts of the two sides should balance.”

  Coronel Hesparsyn shook his head. “What a wonderful position to be in,” he said. “Caught between two groups that hate each other.” He went to the tent flap and spoke through it to the guard outside. “Trooper, will you get the herald? And wake up the cook; tell him to put on an urn of caffe for the men and something to break their fast.”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said. “Cook’s up, sir. Been up for hours. You can smell the biscuits.”

  Of course, the coronel realized. Silly of him. The cook’s day normally started well before dawn, so that the men could have something of a hot breakfast. Too little recognition was given to the cooks in this man’s legion.

  Within three minutes Captain Humphrey Flagg, the Company Herald and second-in-command, came into the tent. A tall, solidly built man with a rugged, ugly face, the captain was one of the most reliable and capable officers Coronel Hesparsyn had ever served with. He somehow lacked that quality of leadership that would make him a top-rate commanding officer, but he seemed to know it and never let it worry him. “Yes, sir?” he said. “Fine time to wake a man up.”

  “These things get passed down the line, Flagg,” Coronel Hesparsyn said, holding out a cup of caffe for him. “If I get up, you get up.”

  “So I’ve noticed, Coronel,” the big man said, smiling and taking the tin cup in his hands. “Well, what’s it to be today, fellows?” he asked, turning to the two officers hovering over the table. “Furious battle to defend the indefensible? Are the clouds of war marshaling against us?”

  “So it would seem, Captain,” Leftenant MacPhearling told him.

  “The hordes are gathering around us, with hatred in their hearts toward their Azteque cousins,” Coronel Hesparsyn said. “The leftenant believes our Azteque friends have something up their collective sleeves. Personally, I think that they merely suffer from an overweening conceit. But, in either case, we’re going to be in the middle.”

  Leftenant Duggen looked up at the coronel. “The Legion’s Pride,” he said without thinking.

  “How’s that, son?” the coronel asked.

  “I was just remembering the poem, sir,” Duggen told him, looking embarrassed. “‘The Legion’s Pride,’ by Lord Dif.”

  “That’s right, Leftenant,” Coronel Hesparsyn said, remembering. “It does, ah, reverberate in the present situation, doesn’t it?” Lord Dif, often called the unofficial poet laureate of the Legion, had written the ditty called The Legion’s Pride on the occasion of the Border Wars of the German Principalities, around 1892.

  “I would say so, sir,” Leftenant Duggen said. In a clear, low voice, he recited:

  It was a border skirmish,

  A thousand on either side,

  But the Legion was sent to maintain the peace,

  To stand between them and keep the peace

  And pay the price they demand for peace,

  And that was the Legion’s pride.

  The Legion stood between them,

  Taking neither side,

  And the Legion stayed till the fighting ceased,

  Stayed in place till the fighting ceased,

  And some were killed, but the fighting ceased

  And that was the Legion’s pride.

  I stood that day with the Legion,

  The precious few who defied

  The border barons and made them cease

  And stayed to uphold the Legion’s peace

  And I paid the price for the Legion’s peace

  For I was one that died.

  All you sons of the Legion

  Scattered far and wide,

  Mark well the coin of the Legion’s peace

  The awful price of the Legion’s peace

  And if you must pay for the Legion’s peace

  Lay you it down with pride.

  “Yes,” Leftenant MacPhearling said. “A rather trite poem, I’ve always thought. But, when it’s staring you in the face—”

  ”Just so,” the captain said. “What was, shall be. The wheel turns, but it is a wheel. And shortly comes the dawn. I’d better go and wake the men.”

  “Without blowing reveille,” the coronel told him. “No bugle calls.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Captain Flagg said.

  “See that the men get some breakfast, if we can manage it, Humphrey,” Coronel Hesparsyn said. “At least a biscuit and a mug of caffe. Biscuits should be ready; cook’s been up for hours.”

  “Right, Coronel,” Captain Flagg said, saluting and pushing his way out of the tent.

  The coronel held his wristwatch up to the red lens on the alcohol lamp and peered at it. “Five thirty-five,” he said. “About twenty minutes to dawn. The tribes won’t attack for at least half an hour after that, and probably more like an hour.” He rubbed his hands over his face and brushed his thinning hair back. “We have one hour to decide what to do. Then, I fear, the clouds of war will indeed be upon us.”

  “The clouds—” Leftenant MacPhearling looked up. “Coronel, I may have an idea.”

  “I would welcome that,” Coronel Hesparsyn told him. “How do we get out of this mess with honor—and most of our troops—intact? I can’t come up with an answer that isn’t magic, Leftenant, so magic it will have to be. Is there a spell that would do the job?”

  “There may be,” Leftenant MacPhearling told his commander. “I’ve been looking at this wrong, sir. We’re not interested in fighting these people—on either side.”

  “Not by choice,” the coronel agreed.

  “We’re interested in keeping them from fighting,” the leftenant continued, talking faster and with more expression as the ideas worked themselves out in his mind. “We want to create conditions that will prevent a battle. This is a special case, and certain magical techniques are available to us that are not usable by the, ah, combatants.”

  “What are you suggesting, Leftenant, a rain dance?” the coronel asked, smiling.

  “No, sir,” Leftenant MacPhearling said. “As you know, a rain dance requires a lot of preparation, for which we have insufficient time. And, besides, the success rate is only about thirty per cent. And I have a feeling these two groups might not stop fighting when they get wet. But perhaps, sir, the rain isn’t necessary! After all, neither will be expecting anything from us, beyond the usual spells of self-defense. Anything we do will come as a complete surprise.”

  “And you’ve thought of something we can do?” Coronel Hesparsyn asked.

  “I believe so, sir. Something we couldn’t do if we ourselves were fighting. But we’re not. Something that wouldn’t stop them if they were ready for it. But they won’t be.”

  “Tell me about it, Leftenant,” the coronel said.

  * * * *

  Coronel Hesparsyn swung easily onto his mount. The surrounding area, he noted without conscious thought, was a rolling grassy plain with a slight downhill slope from left to right. About a mile ahead of him, to the north, was a line of old, massive evergreen trees, which looked like the edge of an extensive forest. To his right, about two miles off, was the river, which was unfordable at this point.

  The sun had risen in the east, as expected, and was blazing earnestly in a clear blue sky, with only the faintest traces of clouds way overhead.

  The Azteques had finished their morning exercises, and were lining up to continue the march as though nothing were out of the ordinary. The only hint that all was not as it had been yesterday was that each of the priests—high and low—was painted with gaudy, contrasting red and blue stripes all over his body. The red, Coronel Hesparsyn strongly suspected, was some mixture of the priests’ own blood. The warriors—exactly six hundred and twenty-seven of them for some reason steeped in Aztequean mythology—had only restrained, simple designs on their faces; but the coronel noted that they were wearing the hardened leather greaves and armlets that they normally carried in their packs.

  Across the horizon to the left, spaced about ten yards apart, a line of copper-skinned, sil
ver-armored warriors from the local tribes stood stolidly, watching the Azteques as they prepared to move. Each of them carried a spear, and either a bow or what looked suspiciously to Coronel Hesparsyn like one of the new Dumberly-FitzHugh repeating rifles. He’d have to look into that when—if—he got back to Fort St. Michael. If somebody was supplying the natives with Dumberly-FitzHughs, somebody would have to be spoken harshly to.

  The local warriors made no motion to approach, and the Azteques ignored them completely as they finished their preparations to move on.

  The main force of locals must be in those woods ahead of them, Coronel Hesparsyn decided. But the Azteques must surely realize that also, and would not enter the woods. Never let your opponent pick the time and place of battle. The Azteques would stop in the field before the woods and change to their battle formation. The locals would shoot arrows at them from the woods, but with little effect because of the distance. The Dumberly-FitzHugh repeating rifles, if that’s what they were, might have more effect, but they were not designed for distant aimed fire. So the tribesmen would have to come out and fight. But they could pick when and where along the Azteque line to strike hardest. It was like a giant chess game—one where the pieces at risk didn’t get taken off the board but merely lay where they had fallen and bled to death.

  And what, Coronel Hesparsyn wondered, will we be doing?

  The interesting thing was that neither side seemed to care. Probably both sides hoped that the Legion would simply not interfere in something that was none of its business.

  Unfortunately, Coronel Hesparsyn couldn’t agree.

  The coronel, along with his company serjeant, rode along the double column of mounted men, giving each man and horse a rapid but keen-eyed inspection. Three hundred smartly dressed, battle-ready men on three hundred well-trained, powerful mounts. Each man holding a steel-pointed eight-foot lance rigidly upright in its holder by his right stirrup. The steel tip of each lance was carefully wrapped in rags that had been soaked in cooking oil and tallow mixed with certain other oils and essential powders supplied by Leftenant MacPhearling.