Powers of Detection Page 2

  Gwynn saw Radolphus and Justinian exchange a grave glance. Even she could guess at some of the worries Reg’s story stirred up. The possibility that this incident would disrupt the always fragile relationship between their duke and the king. Or worse, that it would cause one or both to become less enthusiastic about protecting mages. The anarchists who’d killed the late king and plagued the current one throughout his reign were as violently opposed to magic as they were to royalty and the hereditary nobility. And so far the king, unlike many of his fellow monarchs, had supported or at least tolerated the mages within his realm. But if the king thought magicians were taking the law into their own hands, his tolerance could vanish overnight. Gwynn shuddered. They’d heard tales of mages hanged or burned at the stake in neighboring kingdoms, and some of the masters had begun to mutter that the college should go underground again.

  She saw the Maestro nod to Radolphus. Then he pulled up the collar of his smoking jacket and shivered.

  “Of course Master Justinian will come and deal with the problem,” Radolphus said.

  “Oh, and the duke says while you’re at it, you should fix the castle warding spell,” Reg added.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Radolphus asked.

  “Stopped working,” Reg said, with a shrug. “At least, stopped working reliably. Goes off when there’s nothing in range then doesn’t do a thing when a bunch of Gypsies wander right through the portcullis. He’s pretty worked up about it.”

  “He could hire some guards,” Justinian said.

  “He has guards,” Reg said. “He wants a warding spell. He’s beginning to wonder out loud what good it does him to have a whole college full of mages in the province if he can’t get a simple spell done properly when he needs it.”

  Gwynn wondered if the sudden hint of venom in Reg’s voice was an echo of the duke’s tone or reflected his own attitude toward magic.

  “Of course Master Justinian will investigate the problem with the castle warding spell as well,” Master Radolphus said. “Why don’t you come with me and take some refreshment while Master Justinian is packing.”

  Reg pried himself away from the hearth, stuck his hands in his pockets, and ambled out. Justinian reclaimed his chair with an injured air.

  “I’m sorry, Jus,” Radolphus said, pausing in the doorway. “Pack so you can stay a few days if need be.”

  Actually, Gwynn did most of the packing, filling a large trunk with the magical supplies the Maestro would require and a small carpet bag with what she might need for an overnight stay. The Maestro packed his medicines, in a satchel nearly as large and easily as heavy as the trunk.

  It was midnight by the time they set out, and the six-hour trip seemed interminable, despite the relative luxury of the duke’s coach. Largely, Gwynn decided, because of Reg. Although he appeared to sleep through most of the journey, his presence prevented any interesting conversation. And even asleep, his sour face and the memory of his brusque, almost rude manner cast a pall over the party. Or perhaps it was that Reg fell asleep so easily despite the jolting of the coach while the Maestro’s attempts at much-needed slumber failed miserably. Justinian finally gave up trying and sat, glowering at Reg and muttering under his breath whenever the manservant’s snores grew particularly loud.

  The Maestro put on his most gracious manner again when they arrived at the castle.

  “At least we’ll have a good breakfast,” he murmured to Gwynn, when Reg had deposited them in the duke’s entrance hall and gone to announce their arrival. “The duke’s personal chef is legendary.”

  “Finally,” the duke said, dashing into the hall. “Let’s get straight to work. Reg, go have the kitchen fix a couple of cold plates and bring them down to the dungeons.”

  Justinian sighed and followed the duke’s stout figure down a forebodingly long, steep stairway. Gwynn trailed behind them, glancing nervously from side to side. But apart from being uncomfortably cold and damp, the maze of stone corridors beneath the castle held no particular horrors. From the length of their journey and the number of stairs they descended, the dungeons must be at the other end of the castle from the main gate and at least halfway to the center of the earth.

  They finally entered a large, low-ceilinged room with a straw-covered floor. A dozen soldiers stood inside, and even in the flickering torchlight Gwynn could see that they had split into two distinct camps—the black uniforms of the king’s guards to her left and the duke’s red-and-gold colors to her right. The two groups eyed each other without liking.

  “There’s the blighter,” the duke said, pointing.

  Gwynn, who had never seen a murder victim before, stared curiously. It—or should that be he?—hung from one of the sets of arm and leg irons bolted to the room’s walls at regular intervals. He was slumped so Gwynn couldn’t see his face, only the blood that glistened on his body and the surrounding straw. Surely no one could lose that much blood and live.

  Wait—the blood was still wet. Should it be, after the half day it had taken for Reg to fetch them?

  Justinian stepped over to the body and examined it briefly, glancing once or twice with irritation at the torches. Was he annoyed by the low visibility—or was he, like Gwynn, wondering why the duke wasn’t using some form of magic light? Was this a sign that the duke’s tolerance for magic was waning?

  A figure stepped out of the shadows to the Maestro’s side. From his worn black robe, Gwynn deduced he was the duke’s personal magician.

  “So, what have we here?” Justinian asked.

  “Dead prisoner,” the magician said. He was a thin, balding man with a look of habitual anxiety etched into his sharp features. “I cast a stasis spell on the body, soon as I could, so you could see it as near as possible to how I found it.”

  “Stasis spell?” the duke shouted. “I authorized no spells! There’s been enough magical skullduggery already!”

  “But surely your grace ordered him to preserve the evidence as well as possible for my arrival,” Justinian said. “That’s what a stasis spell does. It’s a lot like what happens when something’s frozen. But frozen in time instead of temperature.”

  “Ah,” the duke said. “I see.”

  He still looked baffled, but apparently decided to let the matter drop.

  The stasis spell, Gwynn thought, would account for the still-damp blood.

  “So, tell me the features of the case,” Justinian said.

  As he and the castle mage talked, Gwynn decided that this magical murder was doing the Maestro good. Oh, he’d complained about the cold air and the night journey. But the puzzle before him seemed to keep him from dwelling on his cold. He coughed and sneezed a lot less often, and without any magical side effects.

  And she was glad it wasn’t her job to figure out what had happened. The evidence was sparse. In fact, apart from the blood-smeared body of the dead anarchist, nonexistent. His live confederate, still chained to the opposite wall, tried to look fierce, and occasionally muttered under his breath about damned unnatural spellcasters. The dozen guards readily demonstrated that their muskets and pistols had not been fired, and the few knives they carried were free of blood, not to mention far too small to have produced the prisoner’s wound. And anyway, nothing physical could have produced the wound without piercing the prisoner’s shirt and doublet which were, apart from dirt and bloodstains, undamaged.

  “Filthy black magic,” the surviving anarchist muttered, when Justinian and the castle mage had confirmed this.

  “Fascinating,” Justinian murmured, as he examined the doublet.

  He gestured and murmur
ed a few words. Gwynn recognized the incantation that would strip away the stasis spell. And then another spell, less familiar to her.

  Justinian paused as if listening to a sound inaudible to the rest of them, then looked around with unfocused eyes.

  “No taint of magic,” he murmured, with a puzzled look.

  “As I said, my spells couldn’t detect anything either,” the castle mage said, a little defensively.

  “Your spells couldn’t detect a turd in your soup tureen,” the duke said. “Leave this to a real mage.”

  But the duke’s tone made Gwynn glance in his direction. The duke looked—scared would be an exaggeration, perhaps. But definitely uneasy. It was one thing to see his personal mage baffled. No spellcaster of any real power would settle for a post as a mere castle mage. But to see the powerful Master Justinian baffled—that would make anyone uneasy. Gwynn’s own stomach tightened a bit at the thought.

  “A fascinating puzzle,” Justinian said.

  He gestured again, then frowned. Gwynn and the castle mage were probably the only ones who realized that his spell had fizzled. They looked at each other with alarm.

  Justinian sighed and rubbed his forehead as if it hurt. Gwynn felt a little reassured. Obviously his stuffed-up head was bothering him. He’d do better when he felt better.

  Although he could be in for a miserable few days in the meantime.

  “So what are we standing about for?” the duke asked.

  “Your grace—” the castle mage began.

  “Now that the expert’s here, shouldn’t you be seeing about the wards?” the duke asked.

  The castle mage looked, if possible, even more anxious.

  “I’ve already tried everything I know,” he protested. “I was hoping Master Justinian . . .”

  “Of course,” Justinian said. “My assistant will go and . . . um . . . begin running the tests I’ve planned to diagnose the problem with the castle warding spell, while I work on the murder.”

  “Me?” Gwynn wanted to squeak, but she managed to hold her tongue in front of the duke.

  “Ah, there you are, Reg,” the duke ordered, seeing that his manservant had arrived carrying a covered platter. “Show her to the gatehouse.”

  “Just pretend it’s a class exercise and try to find out what’s wrong with the wards,” Justinian murmured, picking up her small carpet bag and handing it to her as carefully as if it were full of volatile potions. “If the duke’s magician hasn’t brought down the castle walls trying to fix it, you’re not likely to do any harm. If you fix it, marvelous; if not, I’ll deal with it when I’m finished with this.”

  Gwynn nodded and followed Reg back to the gatehouse. It took fifteen minutes—the castle was more like a small city.

  “Latest expert on warding spells,” Reg said, turning her over to the captain of the guard, who, after quirking one eyebrow, seemed to accept Gwynn’s expertise. Or perhaps he was just happy to see Reg leave.

  “Not sure what you can do about the damned thing,” the captain said. “Works one minute and not the next. Apparently that’s a lot harder to fix than if it just flat out didn’t work.”

  Unfortunately, he was right, Gwynn soon realized. Intermittent problems were the worst. She ran tests all morning, and the warding spell worked perfectly. The guards could come and go at will without setting off the alarm bells, but they rang furiously whenever an intruder entered the castle—intruders being represented, for test purposes, by a motley collection of peddlers, minstrels, and Gypsies unfortunate enough to show up at the castle that day.

  Gwynn hated to disappoint the Maestro, but she was beginning to think he’d have to solve the problem. Though she’d keep trying for a while, since obviously his own work on the murder wasn’t going well. She saw him crossing the courtyard occasionally, always with a slightly more worried look on his face. She didn’t want to bother him yet.

  Besides, she was a little worried about what would happen when Justinian saw the warding spell’s control device: a perfect little miniature of the duke’s castle, complete with a working drawbridge and portcullis. Justinian’s intense passion for disassembling small mechanical objects was matched only by his complete inability to reassemble them. What if the Maestro decided he needed to take the model apart to repair the spell? Gwynn tried not to think about it.

  If she hadn’t been so worried, she’d have found the model castle fascinating herself. You could keep track of everything that went on in the castle—outdoors, at any rate—by watching the small, ghostly figures that moved around in it. Gwynn spotted the tiny image of Master Justinian standing on one of the ramparts and paused to watch. From the slumped set of his shoulders, she deduced that things were still going badly. She sighed, turned her back on the model, and tried to think.

  “There really doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it,” Gwynn muttered.

  “Useless things, these magical devices,” said Reg, from the doorway. Gwynn jumped; she hadn’t heard him come in. And his presence was the last thing she needed. He had a personality like a cold, wet drizzle.

  Suddenly the bells began ringing. Gwynn and the captain ran to the front of the miniature castle. They could see a group of small, ghostly figures entering it. A troop of wood trolls, armed with scythes and machetes. And yet, glancing out of the window of the guardhouse, which overhung the real gate, they saw no trolls entering the castle. Nothing was entering the castle, not even a chipmunk.

  “It was working fine a minute ago,” the captain said.

  “If you say so,” Reg said, with a shrug. “I’ve never seen it work right myself.”

  “Send some of the Gypsies in and out of the gate,” Gwynn said.

  The captain shouted some orders down into the courtyard. The wards ignored the Gypsies plodding in and out, though they continued to show the purely imaginary trolls wandering about the courtyard.

  Or were they imaginary? Gwynn decided to cast a quick illusion-stripping spell on the courtyard. Permanently dispelling illusions was a job for a master mage, of course, but Gwynn thought that if any magically cloaked trolls lurked in the courtyard, she could probably make them visible for a second or two.

  “Watch the courtyard and tell me what you see,” she told the captain and Reg.

  And then she gestured.

  “I don’t see anything,” Reg said. The captain shook his head as well.

  Of course they didn’t see anything, Gwynn thought. The spell had fizzled. And yet, this morning, when she had cast the same spell on the courtyard as part of her tests, it had worked perfectly. The only illusion she’d dispelled this morning was a passing courtier’s toupee spell, but her illusion-stripping incantation had worked, just the same.

  What was different now?

  “I don’t hold with magic,” Reg said, lounging in the window. “Useless stuff. Never works the way it’s supposed to.”

  Gwynn suddenly remembered how the Maestro had been able to sneeze without ill effect when Reg had been in his study. And in the coach, all the way from the college to the duke’s castle.

  “I want you to help with something,” she told Reg. She rummaged through her carpet bag and handed him a small crystal. “Here, take this. Go down to the gate, walk out and keep going in as straight a line as you can until I call for you to stop.”

  “Whatever you like,” Reg said, with a sneer. He shoved the crystal in his pocket and sauntered out.

  “Keep the Gypsies going in and out,” Gwynn told the captain.

  Gwynn glanced back and forth between the miniature castle a
nd the outside world as Reg left the castle and ambled toward the edge of the wood. The tiny trolls appeared to be setting the model of the stables afire. The Gypsies were nowhere to be seen in the model, although she could see them well enough in the real world, marching back and forth through the gates with resigned expressions on their faces. When Reg was about a thousand yards from the castle gate, the phantom trolls suddenly vanished from the model and the Gypsies appeared.

  “Do you see that?” she asked the captain.

  “Now it’s working,” he said.

  “Let him get to the edge of the woods, then call him back.”

  The captain did so. When the manservant got within about a thousand yards of the castle, the images of the Gypsies winked out in the model, and the phantom trolls reappeared. They seemed to have captured the keep and were throwing tapestries and furniture into the moat.

  “I think you may be on to something,” the captain said. “What is that crystal?”

  “An excuse to get him out of range,” Gwynn said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Could you send someone to fetch Master Justinian?” Gwynn asked.

  From the cloud of camphor that arrived with him, Gwynn deduced that the Maestro’s cold was no better, and judging from the expression on his face, Gwynn suspected his investigation was still going badly, too. She winced when she saw the duke trailing in his wake, looking like a thundercloud about to spew lightning.

  “This better be important,” the duke snapped as he entered the room.

  “A moment, your grace,” Justinian said, and drew Gwynn to one side.

  “I’m sorry I’ve interrupted your work,” she began.

  “I’m not,” Justinian said, rubbing his forehead again. “I’m in no shape to be doing magic. One minute my spells work, the next they fizzle. And even when they work, I’m not finding anything that could account for that poor benighted man’s death.”