“Human sacrifice — or, at least, the advocation of it is not unknown here,” Master Sean pointed out.

Lord John Quetzal nodded. “I know to what you refer. The so-called Ancient Society of Holy Albion. Their ringleaders were cleaned up in May of 1965, as I recall — or early June.”

“Aye,” said Master Sean, “and that hasn’t got rid of all of ’em by any means. Black magic isn’t as uncommon as you might think, either. The story wasn’t released to the public, but as a Journeyman o’ the Guild, you may have read about the case of Laird Duncan of Duncan, back in ’63.”

“Oh, yes. I read your write-up of it in the Journal. That was in connection with the mysterious death of the late Count D’Evreux. I should have liked to have been there when Lord Darcy solved that one!” There was a light in his obsidian eyes.

“What has your interest in forensic sorcery got to do with black magic?” asked the Irish sorcerer.

“Well, as I said, there is a lot of Huitsilopochtelie worship in the remoter parts of the Duchy — in fact, it gets worse farther south; my noble cousin, the Duke of Eucatanne, is constantly troubled by it. If it were just peasant superstition, it wouldn’t be so bad, but some of those people have genuine Talent, and some of the better educated among them have found ways of applying the Laws of Magic to the rites and ceremonies of Huitsilopochtelie. And always for evil purposes. It’s black magic of the worst kind, and I intend to do what I can to stamp it out. They don’t confine their activities to the remote places where their temples are hidden; their agents come into the villages and terrorize the peasants and into the cities to try to disrupt the Government itself. That sort of thing must be stopped, and I will see that it is stopped!”

“A formidable ambition — and a laudable one. Do you—”

“Ah! Master Sean!” said an oily voice from just to the left and behind Lord John Quetzal.

Master Sean had noticed the approach of Master Ewen MacAlister, hoping — in vain, as it turned out — that Master Ewen would not notice him. He had enough troubles as it was.

“Master Ewen,” said Master Sean with a forced smile. Before he could introduce Lord John Quetzal, Master Ewen, who totally ignored the journeyman sorcerer, began talking.

“Heard you had a bit of a set-to with Sir James yesterday, Sean, eh? Heheh.”

“Hardly a set-to. We—”

“Oh, I didn’t mean a quarrel. What were you arguing about, though? Nobody seems to know.”

“Because it is nobody’s business,” snapped Master Sean.

“Of course not, heheh. Of course not. Still, it must have been something hot, or the Grand Master wouldn’t have broken it up.”

“He didn’t ‘break it up’, as you put it,” Master Sean said through set teeth that were wreathed in a false smile. “He merely arbitrated our discussion.”

“Yes. Heheh. Naturally.” The lanky, sandy-haired Scot smiled toothily. “But I don’t blame you for being angry at Sir James. He can be pretty stiff at times. Heheh. Cutting, I mean. Sharp-tongued, he is.”

“Quite sharp-tongued,” said Lord John Quetzal in agreement. “I’ve felt the bite of it, myself.”

Master Ewen MacAlister turned and looked at the young Mechicain as if seeing him for the first time. “It is not proper,” he said chillingly, “for a Journeyman to interrupt the conversation of Masters, nor for a Journeyman to criticize a Master. And one would be wise in any case not to criticize the Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London.”

Lord John Quetzal’s face became wooden, mask-like. He gave a courteous bow. “I beg your pardon, Master. I have erred. If you will excuse me, Masters, I have an appointment. I trust I may see you again, Master Sean.”

“Certainly. How about lunch? I have some things I’d like to talk over with you.”

“Excellent. When?”

“Noon, sharp. In the dining room.”

“I shall be there. Good day, Master Sean, Master Ewen.” He turned and walked away, proudly, even a little stiffly.

“Good day, your lordship,” Master Sean said to his retreating back.

Master Ewen blinked. “ ‘Your lordship,’ you said? Who is the boy?”

“Lord John Quetzal,” said Master Sean with a malicious smile, “is the son of His Gracious Highness, Netsualcoyotle, Duke of Mechicoe.”

Master Ewen paled visibly. “Dear me,” he said in a low voice, “I do hope he wasn’t offended.”

“Your ingratiating ways will eventually make you many friends in high places, Master Ewen. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I, too, have an appointment.” He walked away, leaving MacAlister staring after the Mechicain lad and worrying his lower lip with his long horsey upper teeth.

Master Ewen’s snobbery, Sean thought, would keep him from ever getting anywhere, no matter how good a magician he was. A Master had a perfect right to tick off a Journeyman, but for important things, not trivial ones. On the other hand, if one does exercise that right, one shouldn’t go all puddingy just because the one ticked off happens to have high-ranking relatives. Master Sean decided he needed something to take the bad taste out of his mouth.

He looked at his wrist watch. Nine twenty-two. He still had time for a cool, foamy beer before his appointment. He headed for the private saloon bar that had been reserved for the Convention members and their guests. Five minutes later, with a pint of good English beer firmly ensconced in his round Irish belly, Sean was climbing the stairs to the upper floor. Then he walked down the hall toward the room that had been assigned to Master Sir James Zwinge, Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London.

At precisely half past nine, Sean rapped on the door. There was no answer, but he fancied he could hear someone moving about inside so he rapped again, more loudly.

This time, he got an answer, but certainly not the one he had been expecting.

The scream was hoarse and reverberating, and yet the words were clear enough. “Master Sean! Help!”

And then came another sound which Sean recognized as that of someone — or something — heavy falling to the floor of the room.

Sean grabbed the door handle and twisted. To no avail; the door was locked firmly.

Other doors, up and down the corridor, were popping open.

At precisely 7:03 that evening, Lord Darcy, Chief Investigator for His Royal Highness, Richard of Normandy, stepped out of a cab at the front door of the immense town house of my lord the Marquis of London. In Lord Darcy’s hand was a large suitcase and in his eye was a purposeful gleam.

The soldier at the door, wearing the bright yellow uniform of the Marquis’ Own Guard, asked him his business, and Lord Darcy informed the guard in a quiet, controlled voice that My Lord Marquis was expecting Lord Darcy from Rouen.

The guardsman looked at the tall, rather handsome man with the lean face and straight brown hair and wondered. In spite of the name and the city he gave as his residence, the gentleman spoke Anglo-French with a definite English accent. Then the guardsman saw the cold light that gleamed in the eyes and decided that it would be better to check with Lord Bontriomphe before he asked any questions.

Lord Bontriomphe was at the door in less than a minute, ushering Lord Darcy in.

“Darcy! We weren’t expecting you,” he said with an affable smile.

“No?” Lord Darcy asked with a smile that had the hardness of chilled steel about it. “Am I to presume that you expected me to receive My Lord Marquis’ message and then take off on a pilgrimage to Rome?”

Lord Bontriomphe noted the controlled anger. “We expected you to call us on the teleson from Dover,” he said. “We would have had a carriage meet you at the station when the train pulled in.”

“My Lord Marquis,” said Lord Darcy coolly, “has not indicated that he was willing to pay for any expenses; therefore I assumed that such expenses would come out of my own pocket. Weighing the cost of a teleson message against the cost of a cab made me prefer the latter.”