Ten Little Wizards: A Lord Darcy Novel Read Online Free Page B

wire-rim spectacles. “Take this seriously, Lord Peter, but not personally. Somewhere in this kingdom there must be a man more competent and more loyal than yourself, and more able at his job, but l have not met him.” He picked up the stiff sheets of paper and shook them, making them rattle. “We must act. Go find His Grace the Archbishop of Paris, Richard of Normandy, Sir Darryl Longuert, and Lord Darcy, and ask them to do me the honor of meeting with me in the Map Room at four o’clock, Do it personally; we want as few ears and mouths privy to this as possible. And return yourself, of course.”
    “Of course, my lord,” Lord Peter said. He bowed and turned away, his footsteps ringing hollowly on the tile floor as he strode toward the ceremonial doors of state, the fastest way to the private quarters where he would probably find His Grace the Archbishop. His perusal of the Queen’s Corridor would have to wait.
    “Now,” Marquis Sherrinford said, sticking the offending letter in in the inner pocket of his dress tunic and turning back to the other papers on his table. “I have an appointment with that Italian healer fellow at one o’clock. Probably can’t help me, but I’d better go. Which gives us twenty more minutes to devote to this, Harbleury; let’s get to it.”
    * * * * * * *
    Twenty minutes later Harbleury tapped his master on the shoulder. “It is time for your appointment, my lord,” he said.
    “What? Oh, yes. Suppose I’d better go. Damn nuisance, though. This fellow—what’s his name...?”
    “Count d’Alberra, my lord. Very highly recommended, my lord.”
    “Yes. Well, I suppose anything’s better than the damn headaches. It’s just that I can’t afford the time right now.”
    “You never can, my lord,” Harbleury told him. “Your cloak, my lord.”
    “You’re right as usual, Harbleury,” Marquis Sherrinford said, rising and letting his assistant help him on with the ornate cloak. “Tidy things up here and go prepare the Map Room for our four o’clock meeting. And—thank you.”
    Marquis Sherrinford left the throne room, traversed the Great Hall, and buttoning his cloak around him against the rain, left the main building. He crossed the outer bailey of Arthur Keep—which was now actually an inner bailey, as construction over the centuries had surrounded Arthur Keep with new layers of castle. He was pleased to see that the drainage system was working well and the bailey was staying fairly puddle-free even under this heavy assault of spring flooding. He must remember to commend the Castle maintenance crew.
    Against what had been the bailey’s outer wall nestled the monastery of Saint Stephain, where pious, dedicated, and Talented men had studied and advanced the healing arts for the past five hundred years. He approached it and knocked at the tiny front door, over which, deeply chiseled, were the words sed libera nos a malo : “but deliver us from evil.” After a moment a lay brother opened the door and admitted him.
    Some of the greatest healers of the past centuries had been Stephainites. In the fourteenth century the Stephainite monk Saint Hilary Robert had the flash of insight that showed a mathematical relationship within certain healing arts. Then he spent the next twenty years of his life working out exactly what that relationship was. When he was done, he published the Mathematicka Manticka , establishing the logical basis for the laws of magic, and the physical world was never again the same.
    Not everyone had the Talent, for unknown reasons, but those who did could study his principles and achieve consistent, reproducible results. Healers could practice the Laying On of Hands, and with the license of the Mother Church, confidently expect to help many, if not most, of their patients. The art of healing was the first of the magical arts to be exploited, and perhaps was the best understood to this very day.
    Over the centuries men and women had come to the Stephainite