In so far as he knew, Lord Darcy was the only person who, in all of history, had been given Royal permission — which amounted to a command — to appear before His Majesty armed with a gun. It was a singular, a unique, honor — and Lord Darcy was well aware of it.

But those thoughts did not distract his mind for long; of far more importance at the moment was the reason for the King’s message. Why should His Majesty be personally interested in an affair which, although it had its outré elements, was, after all, a rather ordinary murder? At least, on the surface of it, it seemed to have no connection with Affairs of State. However…

Suddenly Lord Darcy smote his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Fool!” he muttered sharply to himself. “Dolt! Moron! Idiot! Cherbourg, of course!” This, he thought, is what comes of allowing one’s emotions to be distracted by Master Sean’s plight when one should have them under full control for analyzing the problem at hand. The thing was as plain as a pikestaff once a competent mind came to focus on it.

Therefore, Lord Darcy was not in the least surprised, after the cab had swept through the gates of Westminster Palace, past the armed guard who recognized the vehicle and driver immediately, to find that a Naval officer wearing the uniform of a Commander was waiting for him in the courtyard. In fact, the lack of such a person would indeed have surprised him.

The Commander opened the door of the cab, and, as Lord Darcy stepped out, the Commander said: “Lord Darcy? I am Commander Lord Ashley and your servant, my lord.”

“And I yours, my lord,” said Lord Darcy. “Your presence here, by the by, confirms my suspicions.”

“Suspicions?” The Commander looked startled.

“That there is presumed to be a connection between the murder of a certain Georges Barbour in Cherbourg two days ago, and the murder of Master Sir James Zwinge yesterday in the Royal Steward. At least, Naval Intelligence presumes a connection.”

“We are almost certain there is a connection,” said Lord Ashley. “Will you come this way? There is to be a meeting in Queen Anette’s Parlor immediately. Just through this door, down the hall to the stairway and — But perhaps I am taking a liberty, my lord. Do you know your way about the Palace?”

“I have made it a point, my lord, to study the floor plans of the great palaces and castles of the Empire. Queen Anette’s Parlor, where the Treaty of Kobenhavn was revised and signed in 1891, is directly above the Chapel of St. Edward the Confessor — consecrated in 1633, during the reign of Edward VII. Thus, it would be up this stairway, left turn, down the hall, through the Gascon Door, right turn, fifth door on the right, easily recognizable by the fact that it still bears the gilt-and-polychromed personal arms of Anette of Flanders, consort to Harold II.” Lord Darcy gave Commander Lord Ashley a broad smile. “But to answer the question as you meant it: No, I have never been in Westminster Palace before.”

The Commander smiled back. “Nor have I.” He chuckled. “If I may say so, I find myself somewhat taken aback by this sudden soaring into a rather rarified atmosphere. Two men whom I had never met are done in — something which happens all too frequently in Intelligence work — and then, without warning, what seemed a rather routine killing is suddenly catapulted to the importance of an Affair of State.” He lowered his voice a little. “His Majesty himself will attend the meeting.” They went up the stairway and turned left, toward the Gascon Door.

“Tell me,” Lord Darcy said, “have you any theory?”

“As to who killed them? Polish agents, of course,” the Commander said. “But if you mean do I have any theory as to who the agents may be, then — no, I don’t. Could be anyone, you know. Some little shopkeeper or tradesman or something of the sort, a perfectly ordinary appearing man, is one day told by his Polish superiors, ‘Go to such-and-such a place, where you will find a man named thus-and-so. Kill him.’ He does it, and an hour later is back at his regular business. No connection between him and the dead man. No motive that can be linked personally to the killer. No clue of any kind.” They passed through the doorway and turned right.

“I trust,” said Lord Darcy with a smile, “that your pessimism is not generally shared by the Naval Intelligence Corps.”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said the Commander in a slightly apologetic tone, “I believe it is. If the killers can be found, so much the better, of course, but that will be merely a by-product of the real business, you see.”

“Then the Navy feels that there is something more dangerous going on than murder?” The two men stopped before the door with the gilt-and-polychrome arms that marked Queen Anette’s Parlor.

“Indeed we do. The King views it with greatest consternation. He’ll give you any further information.”

Lord Ashley opened the ornate door, and the two men went in.

The three men seated at the long table were immediately recognizable to Lord Darcy, although he had met only one of them before. Lord Bontriomphe was looking his usual calm, affable self.

The erect, silver-bearded old man with the piercing eyes and the magnificent blade of a nose could only be Sir Lyon Grey, in spite of the fact that he wore ordinary morning clothing instead of the formal pale-blue and silver of a Master Sorcerer.

The third man had a highly distinctive face. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, although his dark, curly, slightly disarrayed hair showed only a few threads of gray, and then only when one looked closely. His forehead was high and craggy, giving his head a rather squared-off appearance; his eyes were heavy-lidded and deep-set beneath thick, bushy eyebrows; his nose was as large as Sir Lyon’s, but instead of being thin and bladelike, it was wide and slightly twisted, as though it had been broken at least once and allowed to heal without the services of a Healer. His mouth was wide and straight, and the moustache above it was thick and bushy, spreading out to either side like a cat’s whiskers, each hair curling separately upwards at the end. His heavy beard was full, but was cut fairly short, and was as wiry and curly as his hair, moustache, and eyebrows.

At first glance, one got the impression of forbidding ruthlessness and remorseless purpose; it required a second, closer look to see that those qualities were modified by both wisdom and humor. It was the face of a man with tremendous inner power and the ability to control and use it both wisely and well.

Lord Darcy had heard the man described, and the uniform of royal blue heavily encrusted with gold merely clinched the identification of Peter de Valera ap Smith, Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Navy, Commander of the Combined Fleets, Knight Commander of the Order of the Golden Leopard, and Chief of Staff for Naval Operations.

A fourth man, standing near the Lord High Admiral, seemed about the same age, but his hair was noticeably gray, and his features were so commonplace that they paled into insignificance in comparison. Lord Darcy did not recognize him, but the uniform he wore was that of a Naval Captain, which suggested that he was connected with Naval Intelligence.

When Commander Lord Ashley performed the necessary introductions, all of Lord Darcy’s tentative identifications had proved correct, including the last; the man was Captain Percy Smollett, Chief of Naval Intelligence, European Branch.

Of the three Navy men, Lord Darcy noticed, only the Lord High Admiral wore his dress sword; he alone of the three was so permitted in the Royal Presence. Lord Darcy was suddenly intensely aware of the pistol on his right hip, concealed though it was by his morning coat.

Hardly had the introductions been completed when a door to an adjoining room opened suddenly, and a man wearing the livery of the Major Domo of the Royal Household entered.