Heart's Blood(9)

"I would say this was something more in the nature of a calamity." Grey's attempted smile came out a lopsided grimace, but he tried. "Or I'd never have bothered asking the sire to drag you away from your business."

"I am quite aware of that, milord." The solicitor's smile was far more genuine than Grey's, and seemed actually to have a bit of fondness beneath it. "And I have appreciated the lack of interruption. But I must admit, life has been a great deal more boring these last several years."

Grey grinned at the old gentleman. "I always knew I liked you, Wright. I shall have to make it a point to pay you a visit from time to time, just to liven up your life."

He did like the man. Always had. But Wright had been a reminder of too many things Grey had not liked at all, which was why he'd avoided him.

"As long as it is merely a visit, milord." Wright tipped his head in a tiny bow. "And might I suggest-? If you have reason to need my services again in future, contact me directly, without going through His Grace."

Grey felt the flush of embarrassment and thanked his Gallic ancestors for skin that refused to show it. "I shall. I suppose it's simply that I haven't been in this sort of difficulty in so long-"

"For which I am sure His Grace is grateful." Wright smiled. "As am I."

"When do we see the magistrate?" Grey was anxious to get the manacles off. Though he didn't know if going before the court would do it.

"We don't." Wright turned as a uniformed policeman with rank insignia on his sleeve climbed up to the desk.

"We don't?" When would he get out of this blasted place, then? He truly did not wish to stay the night here, even with the warding and the assistance of his spirits. Conjurers interested ghosts. They tended to come calling, and their lack of control and dangerous moods made them uncomfortable guests.

Wright handed a paper to the sergeant at his lofty height. "That is the release ticket for Greyson Carteret, the gentleman here." He indicated Grey in his manacles.

The sergeant studied the ticket, leaned forward to peer over his parapet at Grey, who tried to look as innocent as possible, then looked at the ticket again.

"Really?" Grey spoke in a stage whisper. "You're getting me out without me having to go before the magistrate? How much was the bail? I'll have my bank forward the funds-"

"That was Mr. Archaios's doing," Wright said. "I have merely expedited paperwork. And there is no bail. You have been cleared of all charges, thanks to Mr. Archaios."

Grey raised an eyebrow at Archaios, who returned an enigmatic smile.

"Don't leave me in suspense, man," Grey protested. "I don't want to have to thrash you. How did you do it?"

"I should like to see you try," Archaios said with a significant look at the manacles. "I simply convinced the magistrate that you had nothing to do with the murder."

Grey blinked. In his experience, convincing any magistrate of anything had nothing to do with simplicity. And anything to do with magic only made it worse. "Yes, but how?"

Archaios tapped his nose. "My credentials are impeccable. And the magic surrounding the murder did not smell like yours."

"You smell magic?"

"Among other things." Archaios inclined his head in his own miniature bow. He frowned then. "This magic was not conjury. It was unlike any magic I have seen."

"Yes." Grey nodded. "And-?" He knew what he sensed, and if Archaios could sense more, he wanted the details.

"This was-" The Greek shook his head, frowning. "Twisted. Corrupted. Perhaps by the death. There was conjury at its base, I believe, with some wizardry and perhaps an attempt at sorcery, but a failed attempt, if so. There may even have been some mangled hint of alchemy in it. But it wasn't your magic. Yours is bright and clear, almost like bells ringing but-"

"But not." Grey nodded. He knew the impossibility of describing magic with ordinary words.

"Exactly. The magic used in the murder of Angus Galloway was nothing like. I've never encountered anything similar, or anyone who might have worked it." Archaios's scowl deepened. "I do not care to ever encounter it again."

"Then we'd best get me out of here so I can catch the fellow." Grey lifted his manacles, hopeful of release.

The sergeant ignored him. "Says here to wait for an order from the magistrate."

"Oh. Yes." Wright nodded. "An order transferring an investigation to the Briganti. It has nothing to do with the order of release."

The sergeant folded his hands. "We'll wait, all the same."

Grey supposed he did not want free-roaming magicians in his police station. Fortunately, the wait was not long. A clerk hurried in with a paper and handed it to the sergeant, who read it, matched it to his release ticket, and handed it over to Wright, who handed it to Grey, who read it.

The court officially found that as magic was determined to be worked in the causing of the death of Angus Galloway, the matter and the results of all investigations heretofore conducted in it were to be forthwith turned over to the Briganti of the Magician's Council of Great Britain. It had stamps and seals and signatures bristling from the bottom, giving it an official enough look. Like all the other transfers Grey had seen.

He handed it to Archaios as the sergeant rose ponderously from his seat and climbed down the steps from his perch, rattling a massive set of keys. Grey held out his hands and finally, finally, the manacles were unlocked and removed.

The sergeant gave him a long, stern look of warning before turning to climb back up to his place of authority. There, he stamped the release ticket and wrote something in his book. Another factotum appeared with Grey's hat and walking stick, produced a book to sign that the belongings had been returned, and it was done. Grey was a free man.

Wright picked up a battered briefcase from the floor and retreated with the others toward the door. "What will you do now?"

Grey placed his hat carefully on his head. The ache was much improved but not entirely gone. He opened the police station door and went through it first-he had to get shut of this place-then held it, inviting the others through with a flourish. "The Briganti will begin the ferreting out of truth straightaway. As soon as all the reports've been sent over."                       
       
           



       

Archaios gave a little bow, which was more a tip of the head as he came out the door. "Any further assistance I might provide, please do not hesitate to ask."

"Believe me, I shall not." Grey grinned and winked. "But first-" He released the door as Wright reached the street. "First, I have a new apprentice to see to."



PEARL PACED THE front parlor in Magister Carteret's town house, from the claw-foot red velvet sofa to the massive carved walnut mantelpiece to the layered, bobble-trimmed crimson brocade drapes, and back again. Whoever had decorated his parlor had been enamored of drama and dark colors and more. More of everything.

The rows of bobble fringe hanging from the drapes were only the beginning. Everything was tasseled, beaded, and bedecked within an inch of its life. Past that. It was trimmed to death.

But her magic-master's failures as an interior decorator-whether he'd chosen everything himself, or simply failed to restrain whoever had-did not have Pearl pacing and muttering to herself. The decor distracted her from her frustrations.

The butler had received Mr. Carteret's letter naming her his apprentice and secretary. He had accepted Magister Tomlinson's introduction of her as Pearl Parkin, the person named in the letter. And then the butler, McGregor, had proceeded to ignore her.

Oh, not entirely. He installed her in a parlor and had tea brought. He answered her summons. He intercepted her if she attempted to penetrate farther into the house, escorting her politely but firmly back into the parlor. And he refused every other request, demand, order, or hysterical rant from her with the bland "when Magister Carteret returns."

There was, however, one thing she could do without McGregor's interference. It didn't take her above an hour or two to realize it, either. The parlor possessed a writing desk, one with every kind of writing implement in existence, and ink in a myriad of colors. Pearl could have filled in the blanks in her apprenticeship papers with names that looked as if they were written in blood, whether they actually were or not.

She confined herself to sensible black, carefully writing her own name in the "hereinafter referred to as APPRENTICE" blank, and as many of Mr. Carteret's names as she could remember in the "master" blank. Then she filled in the rest of the blanks as best she could, stopping to do arithmetic when necessary.

When the ink was dry, she folded the papers, sealed them with a bit of wax she found in a pigeonhole, and sat down in the dainty, fringe-trimmed desk chair to think. She had tried already to escape the house, frustrated by her situation, determined to win out over any man who thought he had her beat. She hadn't succeeded in getting out the front door when she tried, even leaving behind her coat. The butler had thrown himself bodily across the exit, like some sacrificial virgin. Not that she knew if he was or not. But there was more than one way out, and she was determined to get Mr. Carteret's signature on those papers today.