Randall Garrett - Too Many Magicians

“It is in Polish,” said Lord Darcy. “ ‘Be at the Dog and Hare at seven o’clock,’ ” he translated. “There is no signature.”

He glanced at his watch. “Three minutes of seven! Where the Devil is the Dog and Hare ?”

“Could that be ‘Hound and Hare’ ?” said Lord Ashley. “That’s a pub on Upper Swandham Lane. We can just make it.”

“You know of no ‘Dog and Hare’ ? No? Then we’ll have to take a chance,” Lord Darcy said. He turned to the Dowager Duchess. “Mary, you’ve done a magnificent job. I haven’t time to thank you further just now. I must leave you in the company of the Archbishop. Your Grace must excuse us. Come on, Ashley. Where is this Hound and Hare ?”

They walked out of the Buckler Room into the lobby of the hotel. Lord Ashley gestured. “There’s a corridor that runs off the lobby here and opens into Potsmoke Alley. A turn to our right puts us on Upper Swandham Lane. No more than a minute and a half.”

The two men pulled their cloaks about them and put up their hoods to guard against the chill of the fog outside. Ignoring the looks of several sorcerers who wondered why two men were charging across the lobby at high speed, they went down the corridor to the rear door. A Man-at-Arms was standing by the door.

“I’m Lord Darcy,” snapped the investigator. “Tell Lord Bontriomphe that we are going to the Hound and Hare ; that we shall return as soon as possible.”

In Potsmoke Alley the fog closed about the two men, and when the rear door to the Royal Steward was closed behind them they were surrounded by darkness.

“This way,” said Ashley. They turned right, feeling their way down Potsmoke Alley to the end of the block of buildings to where St. Swithin’s Street crossed the narrow alley and widened it to become Upper Swandham Lane. Here there were a few gas lanterns glowing dimly in the fog, but even so it was difficult to see more than a few feet ahead.

As he and Ashley emerged from Potsmoke Alley, Lord Darcy could hear a distant click!… click!… click!… approaching through the fog to their right, on St. Swithin’s Street. It sounded like someone wearing shoes with steel taps. To the left he could hear two pairs of leather-shod boots retreating, one fairly close by, the other farther down the street. Somewhere ahead, far down Upper Swandham Lane, he could hear a coach and pair clattering slowly across the cobblestones.

The two men crossed St. Swithin’s Street and went down Upper Swandham Lane. “I think that’s it ahead,” said Lord Ashley, after a minute. “Yes. Yes, that’s it.”

The sign underneath the gas lantern depicted a bright blue gazehound in hot pursuit of an equally blue hare.

“All right, let’s go in,” said Lord Darcy. “Keep your hood up and your cloak closed. I shouldn’t want anyone to see that Naval uniform. This way, we might be ordinary middle-class merchants.”

“Right,” said Lord Ashley, “I hope we can spot the girl. Do you know her when you see her?”

“I think so. Her Grace’s description was quite detailed; there can’t be many girls of her size and appearance wandering about London.” He pushed open the door.

There was a long bar stretching along the full length of the wall to Darcy’s left. Along the wall to his right was a series of booths that also stretched to the back of the room. In the rear there were several tables in the center of the floor, between the bar and the booths. Some men at one were playing cards, and a dart board on the back wall was responding with the thunk!… thunk!… thunk!… of darts thrown by a patron whose arm was as strong as his aim was weak.

Darcy and Ashley moved quickly to an empty spot at the bar. In spite of the number of customers the big room was not crowded.

“See anybody we know?” murmured Lord Ashley.

“Not from here,” Lord Darcy said. “She could be in one of those rear booths. Or possibly she hasn’t arrived yet.”

“I think your second guess was correct,” Ashley said. “Take a look in the mirror behind the bar.”

The mirror reflected the front door perfectly, and Lord Darcy easily recognized the tiny figure and beautiful face of Tia Einzig. As she walked across the room toward the back the identification was complete in Darcy’s mind. “That’s the girl,” he said. “Notice the high heels that Her Grace mentioned.”

And, he realized, those heels also explained those clicking footsteps he had heard on St. Swithin’s Street. She hadn’t been more than thirty seconds behind Ashley and himself.

Tia did not look around. She walked straight toward the rear as if she knew exactly where the person she was to meet would be waiting. She went directly to the last booth, near the back door of the pub, and slid in on the far side, facing the front door.

“I wonder,” said Lord Darcy, “is there somebody already in that booth? Or is she waiting for the person who sent her the note?”

“Let’s just stroll back and see,” said Lord Ashley.

“Good, but don’t get too close. I don’t want either of them to see our faces.”

“We could watch the dart game,” said Lord Ashley, “that might be interesting.”

“Yes, let’s,” said Lord Darcy. They walked slowly back to the far end of the bar.

There was someone in the booth, seated directly across from Tia Einzig. It was obviously a man, but the hood of the cloak completely concealed his face, and he kept his head bent low over the table.

Lord Darcy said: “Let’s move over to that table. I want to see if I can hear their conversation. But move carefully. Keep your face concealed without being obvious about it.”

The nearest table was further toward the front of the room than the booth that the two men were watching. They could no longer see the hooded man at all. His back was to them now and he kept his voice low, so that, while it was audible, it was not intelligible. Tia, however, was facing them, and, as Mary de Cumberland had told Lord Darcy the previous evening, the girl’s voice had abnormal carrying power, even when she did not speak loudly.

For several seconds all they could hear was the low mutter of the man’s voice, then Tia said, “If you didn’t want him dead, why did you kill him?” Her expression was hard and cold, with an undertone of anger.

More muttering, then Tia again: “You discovered that Zed, the much-feared head of Imperial Naval Intelligence in Europe, was actually Master Sir James Zwinge, and you mean to sit there and tell me that King Casimir’s Secret Service didn’t want him dead.”

A couple of angry words from the hooded man.

“I’ll talk any way I please,” said Tia. “ You keep a civil tongue in your head.”

She said nothing more for nearly a minute, as she listened to the hooded man with that unchanging stony expression of cold anger on her beautiful face. Then an icy smile came across her lips.

“No, I will not,” she said. “I won’t ask him. Not for you, not for Poland, not for King Casimir’s whole damned army!”

A short phrase from the hooded man. Tia’s cold smile widened just a trifle. “No, damn you, not for him either. And do you know why? Because I know now that you lied to me! Because I know now that he’s safe from the torture chambers of the Polish Secret Service!”

The hooded man said something more. “Signing his death warrant?” She laughed sharply, without humor. “Oh no. You’ve harassed me long enough. You’ve tried to force me to betray a country that has been good to me, and a man who loves me. I’ve lived in constant fear and terror because of you, but no longer. Oh, I’m going to sign a death warrant all right — yours! I’m going to blow this whole plot sky high. I’m going to tell the Imperial authorities everything I know, and I hope they hang you, you vicious, miserable little…”