“My lords and gentlemen!” he said firmly. “His Imperial Majesty the King!”

The six men were on their feet. As the King entered, they bowed low rather than genuflecting. This was a nice point of etiquette often misunderstood. His Majesty was dressed in the uniform of the Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Navy. Had he worn full regalia or ordinary street clothes, a genuflection would have been in order; but in Army or Navy uniform he was wearing the persona of a military officer — an officer of the most exalted rank, true, but an officer, nonetheless, and no military officer rates a genuflection.

“My lords and gentlemen, please be seated,” said His Majesty.

John IV, by the Grace of God, King and Emperor of England, France, Scotland, Ireland, New England, and New France; Defender of the Faith, et cetera, was the perfect model of a Plantagenet King. Tall, broad of shoulder, blue of eye, and blondly handsome, John of England was a direct descendant of Henry II, the first Plantagenet King, through Henry’s grandson, King Arthur. Like his predecessors, King John IV showed all the strength, ability, and wisdom that was typical of the oldest ruling family in Europe. In no way but physically did he resemble the members of the wild, spendthrift, unstable cadet branch of the family — now fortunately extinct — which had descended from the youngest son of Henry II, the unhappy Prince John Lackland who had died in exile three years before the death of King Richard the Lion-Hearted in 1219.

The King sat at the head of the table. To his left sat, in order, the Lord High Admiral, Captain Smollett, and Lord Bontriomphe. To his right were Sir Lyon, Commander Lord Ashley, and Lord Darcy.

“My lords, gentlemen, I think we all understand the reason for this meeting, but in order to get the facts straight in our minds, I will ask My Lord High Admiral to explain what we are up against. If you will, my lord.”

“Certainly, Sire.” My Lord High Admiral’s voice was a faintly rasping baritone which, even when it was muted, sounded as though it should be bellowing orders from the quarterdeck instead of holding a quiet discussion at Westminster Palace. He looked round the table with his piercing seaman’s gaze. “This concerns a weapon,” he said bluntly. “That is, I call it a weapon. Sir Lyon doesn’t. But I’m only a Navy man, not a sorcerer. We all know that sorcery has its limitations, eh? That’s why magic can’t be used in warfare; if a sorcerer uses magic to destroy an enemy ship, he has to use Black Magic, and no sane sorcerer wants to do that. Besides, Black Magic isn’t that effective. The Polish Royal Navy tried to use it back in ’39, and our counter-spells nullified it easily. We blasted ’em out of the water with cannon while they were trying to make their spells work. But, as I understand it, this is not Black Magic.” He looked over at the Grand Master. “Perhaps you’d better explain, Sir Lyon.”

“Very well, my lord,” said the Master Sorcerer. “Perhaps, to begin with, I had best make it clear to you that the line between what we call ‘Black’ magic and what we call ‘White’ magic is not as clearly defined as many people suppose. We say, for instance, that the practice of the Healing Art is White Magic, and that the use of curses to cause illness or death is Black Magic. But, one may ask, is it White Magic to cure a homicidal maniac of a broken leg so that he may go out and kill again? Or, contrariwise, is it Black Magic to curse that same maniac so that he dies and kills no more? Well, in both cases — yes. It can be so proven by the symbological mathematics of the Theory of Ethics. I won’t bore you with the analogy equations themselves; suffice it to say that, in such widely diverse cases, the Theory of Ethics is quite clear.

“This is summed up in the aphorism that every first-year apprentice sorcerer knows by heart: Black Magic is a matter of symbolism and intent.”

Sir Lyon smiled and turned his right palm up in a gesture of admission. “So, of course, is White Magic — but it is the Black against which we must warn.”

“Quite understandable,” said Captain Smollett.

“I shan’t go into this further,” said Sir Lyon, “except to say that the Theory of Ethics does allow one to interfere with the actions of another, when that other is bent upon destruction. As a result, we have perfected the… er… ‘weapon’ which my lord the High Admiral has mentioned.” Sir Lyon glanced round the table again, his deep-set brilliant eyes looking at each man in turn. Then he bent over and took an object from beneath the table and placed it on the polished oaken surface for all to see.

“This is it, my lords and gentlemen.”

It was an odd-looking device. The main bulk was a brass cylinder eight inches in diameter and eighteen inches long. This cylinder was mounted on a short tripod which held it horizontally four inches off the table top. On one end of the cylinder, there were two handles, fitted so that the cylinder could be aimed by gripping with both hands. From the other end there projected a smaller cylinder, some three inches in diameter and ten inches long. The last four inches flared out to a diameter of six inches, making a bell-like muzzle.

Lord Bontriomphe smiled. “That’s a very oddly shaped gun, Sir Lyon.”

The Grand Master chuckled dryly. “Your lordship perceives, of course, that the device is not a gun — but, in a way, the analogy is an apt one. I cannot demonstrate its operation here, of course, but the explanation of its operation—”

“One moment, Sir Lyon.” The King’s voice cut in smoothly.

“Sire?” The Grand Master Sorcerer’s eyebrows lifted. He had not expected His Majesty to interrupt at that point.

“Can the device be operated against a single man?” His Majesty asked.

“Of course, Sire,” said Sir Lyon. “But Your Majesty must understand that it works to inhibit only a single type of operation, and we have not the facilities here to—”

“Bear with me, Sir Sorcerer,” said the King. “I think we do have the facilities you mention. Could you use Lord Darcy as your target?”

“I could, Sire,” said Sir Lyon, a speculative gleam in his deep-set eyes.

“Excellent.” The King looked at Lord Darcy. “Would you consent to an experiment involving yourself, my lord?”

“Your Majesty has but to ask,” said Lord Darcy.

“Very good.” His Majesty held out his right hand. “Would you be so good as to give me the pistol you carry at your hip, my lord?”

It was as though a silent lightning bolt had struck every man at the table. Heads jerked round. Every eye focused in startled surprise on Lord Darcy’s face. The Lord High Admiral grasped the hilt of his narrow-bladed Naval dress sword and withdrew it half an inch from its scabbard.

The shock was obvious. How dare any man come into the King’s Sovereign Presence armed with a pistol?

“Peace, My Lord Admiral!” said the King. “My lord of Arcy comes armed by Our request and permission. Your pistol, Lord Darcy.”

Coolly, Lord Darcy performed an act that would have turned the stomach of every right-thinking man in the Empire. He drew a gun in the presence of His Dread and Sovereign Majesty the King.

Then he rose, leaned across the table, and presented the pistol to the King, butt first. “As Your Majesty bids,” he said calmly.

“Thank you, my lord. Ah! An excellent weapon! I have always considered the .40 caliber MacGregor to be the finest handgun yet built. Are you ready, Sir Lyon?”

Sir Lyon Grey had obviously already fathomed the King’s intentions. He smiled and swiveled the gleaming metal device around so that the bell-like muzzle pointed directly at Lord Darcy. “I am ready, Sire,” he said.

The King, meanwhile, had unloaded the MacGregor, taking all seven of the .40 caliber cartridges out and placing them on the table in front of him while five pairs of eyes watched him in fascination.