• Robert de Lacy
• Rupert Delatz
• Ian Hawke
• Wolf Ulrich

 
 

Millbank Manor/London

Spring 1795

"Since when have we become the country's arcane policemen?" Andrew asked, exhaustion and pain evident in his voice, his arm resting in a sling as we sat down in front of the fire in the library at Millbank for an after-dinner brandy. Outside the wind was howling, bringing a late-January snow, and we were pleased to finally be inside in the warm.

It had been a difficult day. Since we had heard that a death near Edinburgh had been attributed to black magic, two weeks before, the mood in the country had been tense, but after magic had been confirmed in the death, the local Procurator Fiscal had been reluctant to do anything further. If I had been feeling charitable, I would have attributed that to fear on the part of the non-Talented about going up against a sorcerer of any hue. But that evening, I was feeling far from charitable. I was tired, if uninjured, and feeling unusually bitter towards my fellow human beings.

In lieu of anyone else, Andrew, myself and Francesco Ragoczy, with the assistance of three local mages who were part of a small group which tried to keep an eye on Talented troublemakers in Scotland (albeit they had no official standing whatsoever with the authorities), Sir Iain Brodie, who had been at Kings with Andrew; Keith Macintosh; and the Reverend Stephen Dawson, a former soldier turned Episcopal priest, had sought out and dealt with the coven of three magicians of decidedly darker hue who had been responsible for the murder.

But it hadn't been without cost. Their working area had been guarded by thugs for hire, and in the mundane fight which had ensued when we first came upon it, Brodie had been injured such that he could only act in support from then on, and Macintosh had been killed in a magical exchange with one of the criminals, albeit that his murderer also died in the conflict. The other two magicians had eventually been captured by the good Father and myself, while Francesco and Andrew had dealt with their bodyguards. Unfortunately, Andrew had taken a nasty wound to the shoulder in the process, from a tainted knife, which magical healing could only assist, rather than repair, hence the sling. All in all, any day when you lose a friend or ally feels like a bad day, even if the cause is just.

And then, to cap it all, after I had treated Iain and my son so they were both at least functional, explaining and justifying our actions to the Procurator Fiscal as we delivered the prisoners had been far from easy. I think it was only the fact that both Father Stephen and Sir Iain were both known and well respected in the area, and that I could show my credentials as an investigative magician attached to Bow Street Magistrate's Court in London, which prevented us being arrested for murder as well.

"We do it, because someone has to," I replied to Andrew's question, "and mages like ourselves, Sir Iain and his people, and Selwyn's successors in the Kent group, who are willing to deal with transgressors, are few and far between."

"I think you've let this 'serving the Light' thing go to your head, you know, Robert," he answered, and I wasn't at all sure he was joking. Underlying his tone I could detect an unaccustomed bitterness.

"Would you have preferred that group to have killed again?" I asked.

"Of course not...," he snapped, "but we can't carry on like this. Eventually, someone is going to decide that all we really are is vigilantes, and that we're no better than the people we're trying to apprehend."

"I don't see a way around that, short of changing the law to make what we do official. It has to be done."

"I know it does...it's just...getting painful," he answered with a weak smile, "and in truth, I'd really rather not end my days being beheaded as a criminal."

Hanging, of course, being reserved for the non-nobility in our society: noblemen who transgressed still had the axe to look forward to if they were caught and convicted of a capital crime such as murder or treason.

"No, neither do I. But short of lobbying the RTS to press for the enshrinement in law of some group involved in magical enforcement, and people to actually help them do that, I'm hard pressed to think how to bring it about. And while it was discussed in the past, the RTS seems to have been less open to such ideas since I left the governing council in 1775, by virtue of officially passing away."

"It would be better if they were still actually concerned about the wellbeing of mages in Britain, rather than making money from them," Andrew commented, bitterly, "which has definitely changed since your day. And for some reason they've never elected me onto the council in your stead. Maybe I'm not mercenary enough for them, having the unfashionable view that the RTS should support all mages, not just the wealthy ones. But at the moment, it seems as if the only way they're going to sit up and notice when one of us is lynched in revenge for what those of us who prefer the dark arts to the white have done."

I couldn't argue with that comment.

The problem was that it wasn't just this case. Over the last ten years there had been a number of similar incidents, and the delicate balance between the Talented and the non-Talented was being upset. The darker elements of magical society had become braver over the years, knowing that the punishments they would have suffered in the Middle Ages had gone out of style with the Stuarts, and as a consequence, they seemed more inclined to flout what little magical authority there was.

Unfortunately, the non-Talented had not only noticed, but started to react to it. While we hadn't returned to the witch-burning of the Middle Ages...yet...the spate of deaths which had been directly attributable to mages, something like thirty over the period in England alone, and probably double that if you include the British Isles as a whole, had added to the increase in suspicion and hostility towards us that had been worsening again ever since the outbreak of the French Revolution. This had not been helped by the lack of other Talented individuals willing to call them to task for abusing their abilities.

Moreover, the only formal body with respect to magical community was the Royal Thaumaturgical Society, and for reasons which escaped me, it did not seem to have the will to act as an enforcement body. Only about a hundred of the less than three thousand working mages in Britain were members, almost exclusively those who could afford the fees, which didn't necessarily mean the strongest members of the magical community. And there was a mood within the RTS that if a mage couldn't afford to join, then he wasn't worth the effort, however skilled he was in the practice of the art. In addition, those few women who had successfully graduated from mage school since it had been opened to them about twenty years before, were excluded from the Society by virtue of their sex.

Hence it usually fell some combination of Andrew, myself and latterly Francesco (since his return from Paris the previous year), aided only by anyone else we could cajole into assisting us, to deal with rogue mages and bring the perpetrators to justice. The Procurator Fiscal of Edinburgh wasn't the first upholder of the King's Law who had been too scared to pursue a black coven because of what they could do to the non-Talented if they put their mind to it.

That humanity fears what it does not understand is a pretty much universal tenet. With less than one in a thousand people having the Talent in any form, amounting to roughly eleven thousand people across both sexes, including the three thousand or so Sensitives; the thousand or so people whose Talent could not be trained in any way for one reason or another; fully-Talented women who had only been given the opportunity to study comparatively recently; and children, mages, while known of, were still generally not understood by non-mages, even after all these years.

Mostly, we were tolerated because there were things we could do which were considered beneficial, the ability to heal being far and away the most prominent; but also assisting in negotiations by virtue of being able to spot if someone was lying; or in areas such as strengthening the discipline of investigative magic, where I was personally involved in my current identity as Robert, Marquis of Tewkesbury.

But many of our other skills were treated with suspicion: for example, the ability to ward, while useful, was resented because if it hadn't been for mages existing in the first place, wards would not be necessary to protect property and privacy; and instantaneous travel was considered too expensive for the average Briton, who had it in mind that mages were more interested in making money than helping people - a notion which the RTS had done nothing to disavow them of over the last fifteen years. Even on the battlefield there were usually mages on both sides, so any advantage there was tempered as well, and those injured by magical attacks, which could potentially be even more deadly than gunfire and cannon, resented it almost more than being injured conventionally.

In the year of our Lord 1795, the fact that magic could be used in the newly developing industries was only just becoming apparent, and about the only positive thing the RTS had been doing was promoting the possibilities of magic as a power source versus coal, which was slowly beginning to achieve results. The trouble was that too many people either couldn't read the newspapers and periodicals announcing our industrial progress and how magic could help Britain lead the world, or were afraid that magic would take away their jobs. Even in agriculture there was suspicion: how many farm workers would be cast out to starve if magical methods were used to improve crop yields and farmland? And Heaven help those mages who interfered with God's work to decide whether it was going to rain or not. So mages had an uphill struggle to be recognised as a benefit to society, rather than a blight upon it.

And none of this was helped by the scaremongers who had come to England fleeing the deadly situation in France, and who claimed that the reason for the huge number of deaths over there was because the Committee of Public Safety employed mages who sought out aristocrats and enemies of the state, with the sole purpose of delivering them to Madame Guillotine. I knew from personal experience that there were mages working with the revolutionary authorities, and that some of them most definitely tended towards the 'black', so while I did not believe that what was claimed was the case on the almost industrial scale which was being suggested, there had certainly been instances of it, and I could see how such a belief might have come into the consciousness of a less than educated public.

Hence we were now in a position where the status of mages was more precarious than it had been since the time of the Stuarts and Cromwell's Commonwealth, who had disagreed with the Plantagenet/Tudor attitude of supporting mages and had become more antagonistic towards us. King's College Cambridge had remained the only mage college in Britain during that period, and that was largely because the teaching of magic had been couched in other terms. It was only a few years before I was born that King William III had once again revived the idea of magic as a force for good, and had begun to turn the situation once more for the better...if the current situation could be described as better. He had re-established King's College London, and once again decreed that the teaching of magic was beneficial for society and necessary for Britain to take her place in the modern world.

However, it was a fine balance, and it was in jeopardy once more, so something needed to change, or society would splinter into the non-Talented versus the Talented. And in all honesty, I wasn't sure who would win that one: just that if the worst happened, and open hostility broke out, everyone would end up losing. The Talented would probably be wiped out, by virtue of our fewer numbers, but in the process we would likely kill many, many of the non-Talented as we tried to defend ourselves, as mages are nothing if not capable of using magic to protect themselves.

And then we'd had Scotland.

The manner of that young woman's death - tortured, brutalised and eventually sacrificed by the coven in the mistaken belief that it would find them favour with the Norse gods of old - was guaranteed to generate hostility towards the perpetrators, and by extension towards other mages. Needless to say, the whole matter had been sensationalised in the press and discussed in the public houses and coffee shops across the country. And things had taken another turn for the worst.

"You're looking pensive, Robert," Andrew commented.

"Do you blame me?" I answered, "after all, you're right. We can't go on like this. But we're going to need help changing things."

 "Do you have something in mind?"

"The magical community has a problem of credibility. What we need is some kind of formal magical code of conduct, and an obvious enforcement body, so we can be seen to be policing ourselves."

"And how on earth do you propose doing that."

"I'm still figuring that part out," I answered, "I've been thinking about this for a while. Years even. But recent events have brought it back to the forefront of my mind. For example, there is no formal licensing authority keeping track of mages after qualification, except for the records held by the individual colleges, and no form of easily identifying someone who has decided to practice 'black' magic."

"All mages get their signets when they graduate," Andrew commented, "that acts as a licence."

"Yes and no. Yes, we're all given them, and we can't legally practise magic without them. But there's no way of checking if the ring on my finger belongs to me, for example, or what my magical inclinations are. And if you have a signet, people are sufficiently wary of you that if you feel inclined, you can go pretty much anywhere or do almost anything, and no-one will query what you're doing, which can lead to an abuse of the Talent, as we saw today. Mages are human, after all, and it is human nature to use and abuse power. Especially if you think you can get away with it. We're working on some specific investigation spells for checking magical identity and licensing, and how magic is practised, which might eventually become common, but they're a long way away at this point."

"We?"

"Sir Richard Fairbrother and I."

"The Chancellor of King's College London?"

"Indeed. He's another investigative mage and we've been working together to try to define some magical forensic investigation techniques. Two heads are better than one, and all."

"And he doesn't think it odd to be working with someone as young as you're claiming to be, in developing a completely new field of magic?"

"He hasn't commented on the fact," I answered, "he's been working on extending the potential of investigative magic for a long time, and also adapting its usage to helping solve crimes, but has never had anyone to bounce ideas off before. So I think it's a relief for him to have someone to share his thoughts with. I suspect he either believes that I'm some kind of magical prodigy, which is flattering in its way, albeit far from the truth; or he's willing to accept that a 'younger' eye might bring something new to the project."

"So, do you have a solution?"

"Maybe," I replied, "we're pondering the possibility of registering the magical 'signatures' of all graduates from King's College Cambridge and King's London, and any other mage schools if they're ever founded, and adapting the signets so they can be used for identification as well as just licensing."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Well, one thing I've learned taking the investigative/forensics path, as well as the healing one, is that mages cast spells in slightly different ways."

"We've known that a long time."

"No, we've known that different schools and disciplines of magic vary, and that 'black' and 'white' vary, but this is more than that. This is something I began figuring out in Paris, before the Marquis du Harcouët had his problems with the CPS, and I've been trying to work out how to use that knowledge in my consulting for the magistrates."

"And you've come to the conclusion that we all have magical signatures?"

"Yes, and Sir Richard has confirmed my hypothesis. For example, if you cast a light spell and analyse the result, it will be very slightly different to one I cast."

"Now you've got me intrigued."

"I can show you what I mean if you'd like."

"How. My specialities are more combat orientated."

"Do you trust me?" I asked.

"Of course," he replied, his tone indicating that I shouldn't have needed to ask, which was probably true.

"Then let me show you."

"I'm still not sure I understand."

"Believe me, since you've been Duke of Worcester, I've had lots of time to think about magic and its uses and applications, hence my new-found status as a prodigy. That's why I've been helping define the forensics disciplines. And along the way I've developed...call it a teaching link. It involves one mage making a mental link with the other, through which they can show the student how something should be done."

"So we make a mental link and then what...I cast a light spell?"

"And then we analyse it, and then I cast one and we analyse that. Simple," I answered, then added, indicating his injured arm, "if you're up to it..."

"I can try," he replied, "what do I need to do?"

"Relax, put yourself into a light trance, and I'll do the work."

I warded the room, just in case. The late Earl of Selwyn had taught me that one in the couple of years I had studied with him, before we came to the mutual and amicable conclusion that his working tradition wasn't really compatible with my more orthodox religious beliefs. Then I pulled another chair over to beside where Andrew was sitting. Following my own advice and I put up a working trance, then gently touched his wrist, and reached out to his mind. My teaching link wouldn't breach his shields, but it would allow him to initiate the connection and, to an extent, use my physical and magical senses. I talked him through the process and like the fine student he had always been, he did as I asked and the link was established.

"Interesting," he commented, "I haven't seen this one before."

"I'll teach you that as well, if you'd like...but later."

"Perhaps. Although you've at least stood in front of a class, which is more than I have," he replied, and I smiled, "okay, so what now?"

"Time for that light spell," I answered, and watched as he cast probably the simplest spell in the magician's portfolio. Then I used the link to show him how I would do a forensic examination of the residue of the spell he had just cast.

"I'm still not seeing anything I wasn't expecting to," he commented

In response, I did the casting and repeated the process. And then I saw him smile, and I knew he'd identified what I had been trying to show him.

"Fascinating. They're very similar...obviously taught within the same school...but yes, there is a subtle difference. Have you figured out what we're actually seeing?"

"We all put a little bit of ourselves into any spell we cast: part of our personal energy, as it were," I answered, "and I think that's what makes the different signatures."

"And so..."

"And so it should theoretically be possible to magically record how any given practitioner casts some simple set control spells, so they could be used as a baseline for the later identification of the work of a given mage."

"Or, for example, when examining the evidence if black magic is used in a crime," he said.

"Exactly. And then link the signature to the mage signet they're given, so it's only of use to it is given to. But to do this, we need some kind of body enshrined in law which is entitled to record the signatures - including getting people who have already graduated to return to their alma maters for registration - and to act with impunity against transgressors, for the good of both the Talented, and the non-Talented. I firmly believe that we're supposed to help the rest of humanity, not harm it."

"Thus speaks the physician and the idealist," Andrew answered, with a half smile, "it's a fine aim, Robert..."

"But..."

"But how do we do it?"

"Indeed. And that is where I need your help."

"You're the one who taught at Cambridge. You're the one with the contacts."

"No, that was Robert, Duke of Worcester, who died in 1775. Remember, now I'm merely your legitimised son and I only graduated about seven years ago..."

After the Duchy had changed hands, I'd had to return to college for form's sake, so my new identity could practice magic, and had requalified as a Doctor of Magic with investigative and healing specialities. I'd even had to do it through London, rather than my old alma mater of Cambridge, where I had taught right up to my 'death', to lessen the possibility of discovery.

"...And after that, I was out of the country for a while, and only came back after the Committee of Public Safety tried to kill me, when we arranged for you to 'acknowledge' me. So I'm way down the magical pecking order."

"Maybe if you rejoined the RTS?"

"Oh I will, before the next meeting, but enough of the governing council are sufficiently snobbish that I doubt they'll accept anything but my money any time soon, because of my base origins. You, on the other hand, are the

much-vaunted Duke of Worcester, with no stain on either your birth or your character - officially, you'll be the last de Lacy who can say that - and the highest placed Talented aristocrat in England..."

"Point taken," he answered, and was quiet for a while, looking pensive, "although given that there's only about half a dozen Talented noble families in England, highest placed isn't saying much."

"Third in overall Ducal precedence is pretty high," I pointed out, "Talented or no."

"Touché. So, I need to push to get elected to the RTS council at the next annual meeting, which I think is just after Easter, and we go from there," he answered, then added with a chuckle but also a tone of disbelief, "it'll be a cinch."

"You're also in the House of Lords...you just never attend," I pointed out, "perhaps it's time you did."

"And in the meantime, while I publicise the problem and call for a legal solution, what do you do?"

"What I can," I answered, "I hope that I can address the problem from the point of view of being a criminal consultant. Maybe I should try to get into Parliament."

"Possibly. Two voices might be better than one. But more to the point, you're in a better position than I to plead the case to others of our mutual acquaintance in the magical-academic community."

"I can raise it with Sir Richard," I answered, "maybe I can get him on board, which would cover London."

Andrew nodded, then added. "It's a pity we don't currently have that many ties to Cambridge."

"I know. Most of my contemporaries had died before my funeral," I answered, with a wry smile, "and of the ones who did get there...I'm not sure any of them are still alive."

"Harry Collier's son is still involved, though, isn't he? Alexander, wasn't it? Weren't you his godfather?"

"Same problem. His godfather died in 1775. Still, I suppose I could see if he's interested in helping. He's certainly still young enough to be hale and hearty."

"Says the old man of rising ninety-five going on thirty," Andrew said, with a smile.

"Quite. I think he has a senior professorship there now, so I'll do what I can. Maybe Francesco can help as well, although he's been away from England for a long time, so he may not have that many contacts here any more, and he probably isn't a member of the RTS."

"Hopefully, between us, we can do enough," he answered, then rose slowly to his feet, a brief grimace of pain crossing his features, "I'm going to turn in. I'll see you in the morning, Robert."

"Do I need to prescribe you any painkillers for the night?"

"It's not like you can go down the street to an apothecary at eleven o'clock at night," he pointed out.

"No, but given that I am officially a physician...I've a cordial up in my room. I'll get it for you," I answered, and did so, returning a couple of minutes later. I went to the kitchen, mixed the healing draught, and then gave it to him as he joined me.

"Take it once you're upstairs, or you won't make it back to your room," I commented.

"Then I guess I'll see you in the morning," he answered, and disappeared via teleport to the Ducal quarters.

*  *  *  *  *

And so we set to work. But it was a slow and laborious process. One positive thing was that Chancellor Fairbrother did seem of similar mind to myself when I raised the issue with him, which helped considerably. But the Royal Thaumaturgical Society didn't want to know. I was right when I'd guessed they would accept my money, but that was about as far as my influence was going to stretch with them. I just hoped Andrew could get enough votes at the April meeting so that he would be in a position to make them change, and worked on persuading various sensible minded individuals that even if they had never considered being members of the RTS before, now was a good time to reconsider so they could make a difference later in the year.

Obviously, because of his academic position, Fairbrother was already a member, and after I arranged dinner for himself and Andrew one evening, he also agreed to join our assault on the RTS council. Two members out of seven had a better chance than just one, and that year there happened to be two vacancies: one due to a death (old age) and the other because of a resignation due to ill health. In addition, Andrew took my advice and started attending the House of Lords, until he had the opportunity to make his speech calling for the establishment of an official magical oversight and enforcement department, thus bringing the issue into more public focus in the lead-up to the meeting on April 9th.

By mid-March, when the membership rolls of the RTS were closed, and would not be reopened until after the meeting, we'd managed to persuade about forty of our various Talented acquaintances to join the society. It still amounted to a pretty paltry percentage of the working mages in Britain - just under five percent - but at least it was an improvement. I'm not entirely sure what the RTS made of the sudden influx of new members, but they didn't object to the extra fees, and thankfully they didn't veto the candidacies of either Andrew or Fairbrother for the council. Sir Maxwell Phillips, one of the die-hards against change on the council, did try to impose a condition that no-one who had been a member for less than three months could actually vote at the meeting, but in the end he was forced to retreat on that issue, after pressure from both the new members and some of the older ones who had never had the courage to speak up before but now saw the possibility of change.

And then we were hit by a turn of events which we had suspected may happen eventually, but had hoped we were wrong. In the middle of March, for the first time in living memory, a group of non-Talented individuals attacked and severely beat a mage for no more reason than that he was a mage. The attackers were apprehended quickly, but the incident marked a change in the status quo.

*  *  *  *  *

Late in the evening on March 29th, a runner came to my residence near Hyde Park to fetch me in my capacity as a semi-official consultant to Bow Street Magistrate's Court. Wilson, the butler, was initially far from inclined to let him in, given that it was around half-eleven, but I heard the raised voices as the runner tried to demand admittance. I opened the drawing room door and looked out, to see Wilson standing firmly in the doorway, attempting to stare down a lad of about seventeen.

"Can I help you?" I asked, and I saw my butler step away, whereupon the lad came in.

"I have a message for My Lord of Tewkesbury," he said to me, "I'm not allowed to give it to anyone else."

"You've found him," I answered, "who are you and what is so important that you come knocking at the door at this hour of night?"

"I'm Tam Johnson, My Lord. My da asked me to bring you," he replied, "there's been a murder in St James."

"Do you have any more details?"

"Just that they found the poor bugger about 'alf an hour ago, and I was told to fetch you as soon as I could," came his response.

"And what does your father have to do with this?"

"He's one of the senior constables and I 'elp him out sometimes."

"Let me get my coat," I answered, but by then Wilson was ahead of me, trying to make up for his earlier stubbornness, and handed my coat and hat to me almost as I asked for them. I thanked him and told him not to wait up for me. He replied with a nod, and then he opened the door for us and Tam and I went out into the night.

I managed to hail a hackney carriage which was going down Park Lane, to save us the walk down to Piccadilly. True, it wasn't that far, but it was a chilly night and there were snowflakes drifting in the air, albeit that they weren't lying as yet. My companion ordered the driver to take us to St James's Square, and he urged his horse into motion.

We travelled briskly, and soon arrived at the Square, one of the most prestigious addresses in London. I knew it somewhat: I had various friends who lived in the area, even some in the square itself, and several of the best tailors in London were nearby on Jermyn Street, as well as up on Savile Row. Moreover, the previous autumn I had attended the unveiling of a life-sized equestrian statue of King William III, Protector of the Talented, in the central gardens.

We dismounted from the carriage at the north entrance to the garden and I paid the driver, before Tam called out to someone in the gardens. Moments later, a florid, flustered looking constable came over, and while I didn't recognise him, he obviously knew me, as I saw him relax as he saw me.

"Thank ye for coming, My Lord," he began, as he opened the gate, "'tis a bad business."

"I suppose I'd better take a look, constable..."

"Johnson, sir. Will Johnson."

"Of course," I replied, and followed him into the garden, where I could see people near the plinth of the statue, including a couple of constables holding lanterns, and an ominous looking dark lump at their feet.

"Aren't the gates normally locked at night?" I asked.

"Yes, sir. But the residents have keys, and so they comes in when they wants."

"And you think the victim is a resident?"

"That's what we're guessing, yes sir. Over here..."

As we got closer, I could better make out the crumpled form by the constables' feet, and cursed slightly: they'd got so close to it that it would make it harder to find anything out from around the body. Not that there was likely to be much trace of anything useful, given how frozen the ground was.

As they saw me they stepped back, and I knelt beside the body, carefully avoiding getting covered in the copious amount of still-tacky blood around the head of the corpse. In my capacity as a physician, my first assessment was that the man had been beaten to death. Then, having made sure I knew what position he'd been found in, so I could estimate attack angles and so on, I part rolled him over. As I did, I caught my breath. I knew him.

"My Lord?" Johnson senior asked, obviously noting my surprise. 

"These are the mortal remains of Sir Maxwell Phillips, Baronet," I answered, my heart sinking at the possibility that this might be another strike of the non-Talented versus the Talented.

As well as being on the RTS governing council, Phillips was probably one of the richest men in England, and a very obvious advocate of magic in industry, making him quite high profile for a mage. He also disagreed fundamentally with what Andrew and I were trying to do, and had been a target for criticism, both from the likes of us and from those people who were always willing to believe the worst of mages. Indeed, he'd had a run-in with Andrew at the House of Lords, after my son had made his speech calling for action, as well as over the issue of voting eligibility for the RTS meeting.

"I believe you're correct that he lived here in the Square," I continued, getting to my feet, "but I don't remember which number."

"I'll get the lads to ask around."

"While they're at it, see if anyone heard anything. This can't have been quiet."

"Of course, sir," came the answer, and he started giving orders to the other constables. Off to one side I saw the lad who'd fetched me staring at the dead man. I guess it was the first time he'd seen a body.

"Who found him?" I asked, "Presumably the same thing holds true: only residents of the square would have a key to the gates. So who was in the gardens at eleven pm on a snowy March night?"

He considered this for a moment, looking a little puzzled, and then said.

"Actually, My Lord. I don't rightly know. I responded to one of the constables blowing his whistle."

"Who?"

"Allen, sir. Do you want to talk to 'im?"

"Either myself or the magistrate will, certainly."

"I'll let 'im know."

"Thank you constable. Now, if you'll excuse me?"

"Of course, sir. I'll just wait to see if any of the lads come back with where 'e lived."

I nodded, and then I turned my attention back to the body, to see what I could read from it. While forensic magic was still a far from exact science, I hoped I would be able to get some kind of feelings and impressions, even if an exact identity for his attackers was highly unlikely. I knelt back down beside the body and started to work, trying to ignore the snowflakes still blowing haphazardly in the wind.

The first thing that hit me was a naked, drunken violence from three or maybe four sources, overlain with some kind of unnatural antagonistic emotion. However, there was also a guiding intelligence present, and he or she exuded pure hatred aimed at Sir Maxwell. I tried to screen out the man's pain as first fists and feet hit him, and then a club of some sort was used which had split his skull open like an eggshell, and had caused the fatal wound. Maybe a railing from the fencing around the Square?

"Can you look around for any breaks in the fence?" I asked, and the young man pulled himself out of the horrified fascination he was staring at me with, and nodded.

"Yes, My Lord."

Once he had gone, I returned to my work. Phillips had been attacked here. But what had he been doing in the central gardens in the middle of the night? Bringing my abilities as a physician back into play, I returned to the body to see if I could learn anything else. After some consideration, I decided that there had been five attackers, all male, one of them left handed like myself. The left hander was the one who was in control of what happened, and had encouraged his companions to beat their victim ever harder, before finally striking the coup de grace himself.

"My Lord, there's an 'ole in the south-west corner," young Johnson said as he returned.

"Show me."

I fell into step beside him, and he led me over to the corner in question. Three of the cast iron railings had been pulled from their mountings, which had to have taken some doing, given that they were welded steel. Two still lay nearby, and from their shape and size, I now knew what the murder weapon looked like.

"Good work," I said to the lad, who gave a weak smile.

Then I brought my magical senses back up to analyse the break for anything that might help me, certain that this was connected, rather than coincidence. After a few moments, I concluded that it had been made by a work gang, probably that afternoon, which either implied very bad luck on Sir Maxwell's part, or premeditation on that of his murderer. Maybe it wasn't a crime of hatred against the Talented, but something directly personal. Looking further, I found dried blood on one of the fallen railings; and then rather more in the gap itself, which was still tacky, as if someone pretty much covered in the stuff had squeezed out.

Concentrating harder, I read what I could from it: the study of blood typing was already in its infancy, thanks to a pair of investigative healers, and I had read the monograph they had published on the subject a few months before with great interest, although as yet I hadn't had a chance to meet them to discuss it. As I recalled what they indicated should be looked for, I came to the conclusion that the two samples were from different people.

Then, before I could say anything else, I heard a scream from back near the statue. Cursing, I strode back in that direction, to see a sobbing woman standing over the body. For some reason the constables hadn't stopped her approaching it, although one was now standing beside her, attempting to offer comfort. As I came closer, I recognised her for Lady Maxwell. Unfortunately, as our eyes met, she also recognised me.

"Tewkesbury. You...you...you bastard," she said, pulling free of the constable who was trying to calm her and charging at me. I froze out of surprise as much as anything else, and she started landing blows on my chest with her clenched fists, and scratching at my face. "It's your fault. You killed him..."

Truly baffled, I caught her wrists and looked at her, although I could see the constables eyeing me up with interest. I could also feel blood moving sluggishly down my left cheek, where she'd connected with it with her overly sharp nails.

"Madame, you're overwrought," I answered, and as I met her gaze, I willed her to quieten. Her mind was surprisingly strong, but I had the edge.

"No. It's your fault," she answered, still firmly, but with less emotion, "You couldn't just leave things be, could you? You had to start rocking the boat, rather than just leaving mages to deal with mages out of the public forum."

"And exactly how does that mean I killed your husband?" I asked, suppressing the urge to point out that mages didn't deal with mages, which was the root of the entire current problem.

"Your father sent him the letter asking him to meet you out here this evening."

"What?" I asked, startled as the revelation caught me completely by surprise.

"It came this evening, just before dinner. The Duke of Worcester asked Maxwell to meet him by the statue at ten. And now you're here, and my husband is dead. Obviously you did his dirty work for your bloody father as he was too much of a coward to come and do it himself."

"Lady Phillips," came a new voice, and I glanced over to see Sir Bernard Carsten, one of the magistrates based at Bow Street, approaching where we were standing, "would you be willing to allow me to accompany you to retrieve this letter?"

"If it helps convict my husband's murderer, yes," she answered, staring pointedly at me.

"Lady Phillips. I am sorry for your loss, but we are not responsible," I answered, still trying to keep my tone firm, but Carsten raised a hand.

"De Lacy, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to stay here," he said, and gestured for Johnson to join us, "constable, please make sure that My Lord Marquis doesn't leave until I return."

Johnson seemed surprised at the request, but nodded. "Of course, sir."

"Sir," said another of the constables, addressing Carsten, "Doctor Bryce is here, and he wonders if you've finished with the body."

"Tell him to wait," came the answer, and then the magistrate took Lady Phillips's arm, and escorted her back to her house. As they went I put my hand to my cheek and it came away red. I concentrated on bringing up a healing spell, and was just wiping away the blood with a handkerchief when another man approached me.

"What was that about, Robert?" Sebastian Bryce asked, coming over to me. He was the coroner for Bow Street. We'd been through King's together when I'd requalified and had worked together closely since I'd been semi-officially attached to the magistrate's court, and I considered him a friend.

"It appears I'm a suspect," I answered.

"That sounds unpleasant."

"This whole business is unpleasant," I answered, "but I suppose he's doing what he must as an accusation has been made. Of course, if they decide to arrest me, the fact that I've done the initial investigation is going to prove a problem for them."

"Somewhat," he answered with a weak smile, "why don't you let me know what you've found while we're waiting for Sir Bernard to come back."

I nodded, and briefed him on the position in which I'd found the body and what else I'd discovered, as we crossed once more to the fallen form. Johnson tagged along beside me like a rather puzzled shadow, obviously unwilling to interrupt us, even though he probably thought he should.

"Presumably the blood on the gap in the fence is Sir Maxwell's?" he asked, as he performed a similar examination of the body to the one I had about three-quarters of an hour before.

"I didn't have a chance to check before Lady Phillips started throwing accusations around, but my assessment is they got bloody when they killed him, and transferred it as they left."

"And you think it was premeditated?"

"A bogus message from the Duke or Worcester bringing him out here in the middle of the night? A convenient hole in the fence. Oh yes, it was premeditated."

"Then hopefully it isn't connected to the attack on Davey Cavendish the other week," he answered, quietly, echoing my own feelings.

"I'd guess that it was arranged by someone who is au fait with the discussions and debates running up to the RTS meeting. How many people outside the magical community know that my father argued with Sir Maxwell over the matter."

"The whole House of Lords, of course," Bryce commented, wryly.

"Touché," I answered, "but records of debates still aren't that generally available. No, my suspicion is that there's a mage involved in this somewhere. From the emotions I was reading from the site, though, I suspect that he selected the group he chose to do his dirty work from those among the general populace who don't like us very much, and were therefore easy to persuade. You've got to appreciate his sense of irony."

"In that and the location he picked for the murder," Bryce commented, "William III was, after all, the King who made mages respectable again. I wonder why Sir Maxwell didn't defend himself? Did he even have his shields up?"

"Not that I could detect," I answered, "but then I, for one, don't usually have my shields running unless I'm actually expecting trouble, although I might be revising that for the near future. However, I also doubt he would have expected a physical attack from my father who, let's be honest, isn't a young man, despite the youth spells. I am at a loss as to why Sir Maxwell would have come himself, though, rather than just sending a servant out to fetch his guest and have the meeting in the warm. It also worries me that no-one heard anything."

"It's not as if St James's Square is a major thoroughfare," Sebastian pointed out, "and the houses are well built. It would have needed a lot of shouting for the sound to carry, especially with snow in the air, given how much it can dull the sound."

"I suppose so," I answered, and in fairness he had a valid argument. How much noise do you make as you beat a man to death? I was considering the options, when I heard Sir Bernard's footsteps returning.

"Ah, Bryce...I'd like you to take a look at this, because I can't let de Lacy, here, see it."

"In what way?"

"Magical, of course," he snorted, as if it was self-explanatory.

"That isn't my area of speciality, Sir Bernard."

"No, but presumably you were taught something along those lines at college?"

"Not to the degree that Robert was, but I'll try," he replied, and took the letter. He stepped away from me, and concentrated for a few minutes, before looking up at both of us once again, his expression apologetic, "I'm sorry. I can't be sure. It has magical traces on it, but I can't be more specific, I'm afraid."

"Ah well. Can't be helped," came Carsten's reply and he looked at me, "you realise, of course, that I can't let you study the letter until we're a little clearer on what happened here?"

"Magistrate," I answered, with as much patience as I could muster, "if I was responsible for this, you've already lost all your evidence. I've been working magic here for the better part of two hours."

"Which is all the more reason why I can't let you have the letter," he answered, and glanced over at Bryce.

"Can you suggest someone who may be able to give a second opinion of what happened here?"

"Perhaps Chancellor Fairbrother at King's," Bryce answered, "although I will say that I've found no evidence that Robert has done anything untoward during his investigation of this site."

"Noted, Doctor, thank you. You might as well remove the body now. Fairbrother hopefully won't still need it in situ."

Sebastian nodded and called his people over, while Carsten looked at me.

"So what am I going to do about you, de Lacy? Lady Phillips had a valid point. If your father is responsible for this, he could well have sent you to do his dirty work for him."

"Do you believe it?"

"That's irrelevant. The charge has been levelled, and it has to be investigated. I'm sure you appreciate that: you've been working with the court for a while now."

He was right, however much I disliked it, so I nodded in response.

"So, I must either take you into custody, or release you on your own recognisance to appear before me tomorrow, once Chancellor Fairbrother has made his assessment of this location. And of course, the trouble with arresting mages, is making sure they don't escape from custody while the facts are being determined."

"Unless they're taken to the Tower," I answered, disliking the possibility which was being suggested. The Tower was the only prison in London warded well enough to hold a sorcerer, and I didn't fancy spending the night in that august establishment, "will you accept my parole? After all, it wouldn't help my cause one iota to pull a disappearing act."

"I suppose that's true enough. All right then. You will return to your place of residence and there you will stay until you present yourself at Bow Street at two o'clock sharp tomorrow afternoon...this afternoon."

"You have my word," I replied, solemnly.

"Good. Constable Johnson, please see My Lord Marquis back to his house."

"At once, sir," came the answer, although he obviously wasn't too sure how to achieve it.

"I could teleport us, if you'd like, constable," I commented. He looked at me for a moment, obviously deciding whether that was a good idea or not, and then nodded slightly. Taking that as a yes, I rested my hand on his shoulder, then brought the front door of the townhouse to mind and transferred us there. It took him a moment or two to regain his bearings, but once he recognised where we were he seemed to relax.

"Until tomorrow, constable," I said, finally, and headed up the stairs to let myself in, so he could honestly tell his superiors that he'd seen me into the house.

As I entered I glanced at the grandfather clock in the hall. 2.15. It had been a long night, and I was ready to turn in: Forensics spells were bloody tiring to cast. So I turned down the lamps which Wilson had left burning for me and headed upstairs for what I felt was a well earned rest.

*  *  *  *  *

I had planned to sleep late the following morning, but in the event I was awoken by a knock at the bedroom door at around eight-thirty.

"My Lord," came the slightly apologetic voice of Sanders, the footman, "the Duke of Worcester is here."

I groaned. Either it was coincidence, or Andrew had somehow heard about the night before, although short of someone going to Millbank in person to tell him, I wasn't sure how he could have.

"Did he say why?"

"No, sir."

"Tell him I'll be down shortly," I answered.

"I shall let him know, sir."

I headed downstairs about fifteen minutes later, after washing, shaving and dressing, to find Andrew in the dining room with a pot of coffee in front of him and two cups, one of which was in use.

"Late night?" he asked, innocently, as he sipped his coffee.

"Something like that."

"You need to stop the all-night partying, Robert," he commented, lightly, noting the healing scar on my cheek, "honestly, a man of your age."

"Would that it had been anything so enjoyable," I answered, helping myself to some of the coffee, "some of us were working last night...oh, and being accused of murder."

I'd timed it so he nearly choked on his coffee.

"The possibility of my spending the night in the Tower was even raised."

"You are joking?" he asked, incredulous.

"I wish I were," I replied, and regaled him with the details of what had happened in St James's Square. He listened in silence, a variety of expressions crossing his face, from surprise, to anger, to disbelief.

"So to sum up," he said, finally, "Sir Maxwell Phillips, who I publicly argued with about two weeks ago, is now dead and his widow has accused you of murdering him on my orders."

"Pretty much," I answered, "and I imagine that Sir Bernard, the investigating magistrate, is going to want to talk to you, too. As I'm seeing him this afternoon, perhaps you would care to join me."

"I presume you didn't do it."

"Of course I didn't do it," I snapped, "thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I had to ask, Robert."

"No, Andrew," I answered, annoyance in my tone, "you didn't."

"Why?" he asked, after a pause, "because you're my father? You asked me if I trusted you not that long ago."

"On the other hand, you should know me better than that after all these years."

"I know that when you set your mind to something, you pretty much don't let anything get in your way."

"But I wouldn't murder an innocent man over it," I replied, hotly, "and even if I had, I wouldn't have dragged you into it. You're my son and my friend, and I love you, and I'm supposed to protect you."

I lapsed into silence, slightly embarrassed, as Wilson brought in breakfast. It was rare that I actually opened up like that to Andrew, so unwilling to meet his rather surprised gaze, I applied my full attention to bacon and eggs until the butler had left once more.

"Robert, I'm sorry," he said, finally, "do you have a theory? Or even a plan on how to get out of this one?"

"Carsten was far from convinced that I was responsible," I replied, more calmly, "...and hopefully Fairbrother will confirm it this morning, so that this afternoon is merely a formality. After that, maybe we can get down to the crux of the business."

"Which you think is...?"

"Someone's trying to stir up trouble. I just haven't figured out yet whether their aim is to sow discord between mages and non-mages, or to stop any change in the RTS's policy on enforcement by either killing or making life very difficult for the major parties involved, or whether whoever it is is just pissed off at someone."

"IE you and me? But then why attack Phillips. Wouldn't one of us or Fairbrother a better target if his intention is anything to do with the RTS?"

"Maybe...but discrediting the people who have been most actively involved in enforcement up until now? It could make sense to someone."

"The question is who," he answered, looking pensive.

"Indeed it is," I replied, then asked, "so what coincidence brought you down to London this morning?"

"Business. I've been asked to consult with Horse Guards on provision of magical forces should Britain get any further embroiled in the mess on the Continent. There is, as they say, a war on."

While we had both served in the British Army at various times over the last fifty years, the last time I had seen active service was in my previous incarnation, whereas he'd actually fought since he became Duke of Worcester, including the tail end of the American Revolutionary War, and was known to the military as an experienced combat mage.

"There usually is somewhere," I replied, and we settled to finishing breakfast.

After Andrew had headed off to his meeting, I spent the morning working in the library, writing up my report on the night before, in case I was retained as the investigative expert in Maxwell's death, rather than charged with it. He returned for a light lunch, and then Jacobs brought round the coach round for the journey down to Bow Street. For all that I knew I was innocent of all charges, I was still nervous as I walked into the court building, and was somewhat relieved when one of the constables met us and took us through to a side room, rather than arrested me the moment I crossed the threshold. Inside, Carsten, Bryce and Fairbrother were waiting for us.

"Andrew...this is a surprise," Sir Richard said, smiling and crossing to take my son's hand, "did Robert contact you about last night?"

"No. I had business in town anyway, but he gave me the news when I arrived this morning. Any progress? Are we being locked in the Tower to await beheading?"

"No, you are not, Your Grace," Carsten answered, obviously annoyed at what he perceived as Andrew's flippancy over something exceedingly serious, "Chancellor Fairbrother has confirmed your son's initial forensic findings, and has stated that he believes the letter which was allegedly received from you to be a forgery."

"I imagine Lady Phillips isn't pleased," I commented, as Carsten crossed to his desk, reached into a file on his desk and pulled out the offending document.

"Not particularly," he replied, coming back and handing the letter to Andrew for his opinion, "understandably, she wants the perpetrators to be brought to justice, and she's certainly fixed on you as the culprit. The issue of who informed the constabulary about the body is proving a thorny issue, too. No-one can remember who told them."

Andrew settled down to read the letter, and as he did, I couldn't resist glancing at it over his shoulder.

"Your thoughts, Your Grace?" Carsten asked as Andrew finished.

"It's not a bad copy of my signature, but it certainly isn't genuine. And the writing, while it bears a passing resemblance to my hand, certainly isn't mine. Not that Sir Maxwell would have necessarily realised that, as we weren't in the habit of engaging in written correspondence."

"Any sign of a seal?" I asked him, and he handed me the letter, but there was no sign of wax anywhere on it.

 "That would seem to further imply a forgery, then," I commented, "my father usually seals his letters."

"Even a note inviting someone to a meeting?" Carsten asked, looking at Andrew.

"Especially a note inviting someone to a meeting," Andrew answered, "how else would someone know it was genuine. That's something I learned during the Revolutionary War, when not doing so nearly got me killed. Signatures can be forged - this is a case in point - but seals are harder."

"Obviously it didn't bother Sir Maxwell," Carsten commented.

"The thing I don't understand, is why he would have gone out to such a meeting on such a flimsy request," Andrew said, "especially from me."

"Has anyone other than Sebastian checked the letter for magic yet?" I asked.

"I did," Richard answered, "there is a trace something on it, but I thought I'd leave it to you for a second opinion."

I brought up my magical senses and examined the note in my hand. Underneath the signs of Fairbrother's investigation there was a second magical signature. I concentrated harder and had the impression it was some kind of healing-based spell, probably mental, cast by someone who was trying to cover his tracks. I mentally filed the signature away for future reference. I'd know this mage if I saw his work again.

"Maybe some kind of suggestion spell?" I offered, "it would explain why Sir Maxwell went out to the meeting."

"Presumably it would need to be a reasonably powerful mage to make that kind of suggestion to him?" Carsten pointed out, although I detected the wariness of someone who wasn't Talented trying to set comfortable limits on what he thought someone with Talent could do. In response, I saw Fairbrother nod his head.

"Especially without being there to do it in person," he supplied.

"It would explain how the murder was staged," Andrew commented, "but it also seems to confirm the involvement of a mage, even if he or she wasn't physically present."

"I saw no sign of magic use at the site," I offered, "Richard?"

"Only yours and Sebastian's," he answered, "so whoever it was didn't use magic in the actual killing, albeit if they swung a fencepost at someone, it wouldn't show up as magical."

"Do we have any way of identifying him later?" Carsten answered.

"I think I've separated what was left of his or her magical signature on the letter from Richard's."

"Magical signature?" he asked, curious. As the only non-mage in the room, we were about to get onto territory which he probably wouldn't be familiar with.

"Robert and I have been developing a technique to identify the individual mage who casts any given spell," Fairbrother supplied, "we've had a reasonable amount of success, with the help of willing guinea pigs like Sebastian, here, who have let us test our theories. Although I must admit that my colleague, here, has got the fine tuning down better than I have."

I nodded to him to acknowledge the compliment.

"So you can tell which sorcerer cast which spell?" Carsten said to confirm his understanding.

"As long as we have a reference marker," I answered, "and thereby hangs the rub. There is currently no record of reference markers. We're hoping we can change that in the future, with the co-operation of the mage colleges, but it doesn't help us now."

"But in summary, if we see the mage responsible for this cast a spell again, you can positively identify him?" Carsten asked, "with enough accuracy that it can be proven in court?"

"Yes, Sir Bernard," I answered, promptly.

"So we have to hope he slips up. And in the meantime, we need to try to track down anyone who saw Sir Maxwell's assailants fleeing from the Square. Given that they were covered in blood, I would hope they might have been noticed."

"That one is for the constabulary to figure out," Bryce answered.

"Well, gentlemen," said the magistrate, standing up, and we followed suit, "thank you for coming in today. This has been an interesting discussion, and if there's any more progress, we'll let you know."

And with murmurs of goodbyes, we headed back out to Covent Garden. For now, the matter was in the hands of others.

*  *  *  *  *

As Easter came and went, the matter of Sir Maxwell's death remained unresolved. Andrew attended the funeral, feeling he ought to for form's sake, although I decided it was wiser for me to stay away. When he reported on what had happened, I knew I had made the right choice: Lady Phillips had again accused him of complicity in the murder, despite the evidence to the contrary. She'd even gone so far as to impugn Sir Bernard Carsten's honour and honesty by pointed out that I worked for him, and that it would therefore be embarrassing for him to admit that one of his people might have killed her husband.

In the meantime, the RTS meeting drew ever closer. By the close of nominations, five candidates had declared their interest in the now-three seats on the council. Apart from Andrew and Sir Richard, the other three were RTS old guard, allies of Sir Maxwell's. All we could hope for was that the new members who were likeminded with ourselves would manage to persuade some of the existing members to vote for change. Still, at least there was some cause for optimism, given that there had been support across both old and new members to defeat Sir Maxwell's motion regarding voting eligibility.

The RTS meeting was scheduled for the evening of April 9th, so Andrew, Sir Richard, Sebastian Bryce, Francesco (who had seen the sense of what we were trying to do and had agreed to help) and myself arranged to gather at the townhouse at 9pm the night before, for a final discussion of our strategy, and what we wanted to achieve. As it turned out, however, nothing is ever plain sailing.

That afternoon, I was back at Bow Street, offering some final opinions on a separate case I had been working on, which had led to the apprehension of a group of sailors who had been involved in smuggling wine, cognac and lace from France, when Constable Johnson knocked on the door of the magistrate's office.

"Lord Magistrate, My Lord Marquis, please forgive the intrusion, but there's something you should hear."

Curious, I glanced at Carsten and we both got to our feet to follow the constable to the room where they had been interrogating the sailors. As we entered one of them, a wiry-looking man with mousy hair, looked up at us. I noticed that there was a healing scar over his right eye, which also showed signs of a fading shiner.

"You the magistrate?"

"I am. State your name."

"Dirk. Dirk Simms."

"And why do you wish to speak to me?" Carsten answered.

"I got summat ta say."

"Go ahead."

"If I tells you, will you stop 'em 'anging me?"

Smuggling was a very serious, not least because it helped the enemy in France more than it did England, and it was true that hanging was the usual penalty. So what did he think he knew which might save him. Simms was far from the first person to try to bargain information to get out of a capital punishment, and many before him had failed.

"That depends on what you have to say," came Carsten's reply.

"It's about the wizard wot died."

I looked at Carsten, who glanced at me in return, and Simms had our full attention. By reflex, I brought up a truth reading spell, suspecting this could be important, and then stood back to listen to what he had to say.

"I know who done him in."

"Don't you say a bloody word, Dirk Simms," shouted another of the sailors, trying to get up but being pressed firmly down again by Johnson, although this didn't stop him continuing to struggle, "'specially in front of a stinking mage."

A gob of spit landed close to my foot as the other sailor underlined his dislike of my profession, which earned him a strike across the mouth from Johnson for his troubles. Carsten threw the constable a firm glance, indicating his displeasure at his actions, but said nothing.

"Perhaps we should have this conversation elsewhere?" I suggested, "before things get unpleasant."

"Agreed," answered Carsten, and signalled for Constable Allen to bring Simms through to another room. As we moved out, the argumentative sailor attempted to throw a kick in my direction, but failed to reach. Understandably, once he was away from his co-defendants, Simms seemed to relax somewhat.

"So, will you stop 'em 'anging me?" he asked, again.

"Tell us what you know," answered the magistrate, still giving no guarantees. Simms obviously noticed this, but in the end decided to go on with his story regardless.

"We'd jus' got in from a trip, and woz 'anging around near the ship when this fella comes up to us an' asks if we want ta make some extra cash."

"Who was us?"

"Misen, Pat Carr...that were 'im next door...Tam Taylor 'n Ratty Watts. 'E said 'e 'ad a job for a group o' folks who wasn't going ta ask too many questions. That didn' bother us, so we agreed ta help. So 'e took us to the Compasses, an' told us what 'e wanted us ta do. That's when 'e told us 'e wanted someone beaten, and didn' seem too fussed if we didn' stop in time."

Carsten looked at me and I nodded. It was the truth so far.

"Well, I didn' like the sound o' that and got up ta leave. But next I knows I was sittin' back down, good as gold, an' he was tellin' us what to do. There woz this bloke wot owed him money and wasn't gonna pay up, cos he was a mage and e' thought he was better'n us. So 'e wanted an example made of 'im. 'E told us ta go ta that posh Square by the King's palace, pretend we woz workers and make an 'ole in the fence. If anyone asked, we were ta say that we woz mendin' it. An' then he told us ta be in the Square by ten that evenin', an' the bloke 'e wanted taught a lesson to would come to us."

"And it didn't occur to you to argue?" Carsten said, "or worry you that you were going to attack a sorcerer?"

"It were like I didn' have a choice," he answered, "the others thought it were a good idea - a quick way o' getting' ten shillings apiece, and Pat, 'e's 'ated mages since one got 'im kicked out of his lodgin' 'cos 'e didn' bow 'n scrape enough - and it were like I were trapped in myself 'n couldn' argue. So we did as 'e said."

I nodded to Carsten again. As far as Dirk Simms was concerned, he was telling the truth, with the possible exception of not liking the idea of beating someone, albeit he genuinely had tried to leave.

"What happened?" the magistrate asked.

"So we turns up at the Square an' we waits. Pat, 'e wondered 'ow we'd know the guy we was supposed to beat, but Tom figgered it wud be obvius. As it were a cold night we keeps ourselves warm with a flask 'o rum as we waited in the bushes. An' then we sees this posh bloke unlocking one of the gates. This is 'im we thinks, and when 'e stops at that big nobby statue, we went over to 'im and did wot we'd been told. An' then the guy wot paid us showed up, and in 'is 'and was one o' the railings we'd taken out o' the fence. He stood aroun' for a bit, making it sound like we wasn't doin' the job fast enough, an' then 'e swung it real hard at the posh guy, an' he fell. Then 'e gave us our money, an' we left."

"Why didn't you come to us with this before," the magistrate demanded.

"I couldn'. When I tried ta tell a constable, I found misen turnin' around an' walking away. An' then you arrests me for smugglin' an' I realises that I wants ta tell ya' this more than I wants ta be 'ung."

"Assessment, Robert?" Carsten asked, looking at me.

"He's telling the truth. I'd like permission to check if he's been under a compulsion, which would explain the lack of freewill in the matter, and see if he can remember his employer."

"Be my guest."

I sat down opposite Simms and looked into his face.

"My name is Robert de Lacy. I am a sorcerer in the employ of Bow Street Magistrate's Court. I want you to assist me by letting me look at you magically."

"Why should I let a bloody mage in my 'ead?"

"Because letting me do this is the only thing that's going to stop you hanging for the murder of Sir Maxwell Phillips," I replied.

He stared at me for a moment, and then nodded, and I set to work. I brought up my magical senses and checked to see if there were any signs of lingering magic on the man. After some probing, I found traces of what was probably a suggestion or compulsion spell, serving the joint purpose of forcing him to go along with the murder and rendering him incapable of telling anyone about it afterwards. It has been a quick and dirty casting, but the mage who had been strong, and the spell had been effective. It was only Simms's fear of his own life when he was arrested for smuggling which had allowed him to break through it. In addition, the magical signature matched that of the enchantment on the letter which had sent Sir Maxwell to his fate.

Encouraged by the possibility that we might be making progress, I probed a little deeper, to see if Simms remembered anything about the man who had hired him. In return I got an image of a roughly dressed, light haired man in his early thirties, with a light beard and grey eyes. When I read the memories of the murder itself, they agreed with his testimony. While he and his companions had beaten Phillips, they hadn't intended to killing him. Once their paymaster arrived, he had tried to encourage them to attack more viciously, and when he decided that they weren't doing the job properly, he swung the railing he'd been carrying and finished the job. I could see a look of triumph on the assassin's face as he made the killing blow. I also couldn't help noticing that he was left handed. If Richard hadn't already cleared me of involvement, that would have been another mark against me. Contrary to the fashion of the time, my father hadn't had that particular quirk beaten out of me when I was a child.

With that I gently pulled out of his mind, and asked Carsten if I could have paper and something to draw with. Both were provided quickly, and I sketched the face of the man who'd organised the killing. Both Carsten and Simms watched with great interest, and as the features came clear under my hand, I could see a look of recognition on the latter's face.

"That's 'im. How d'you do that?"

I smiled. "Magic, of course."

"Are you satisfied, Robert?" the magistrate said.

"Yes. I'll give you the details when we're back in your office."

He indicated for Simms to be taken away to the cells, and then we returned to his rooms and I told him what I had learned.

"This sounds personal," he commented, "it would seem we were wrong when we attributed it to either RTS politics or stirring up trouble between mages and non-mages."

"Possibly," I replied, "however, if it is, it doesn't change the fact that our unknown mage went out of his way to implicate my father and I while he was at it. Our rogue mage must have known that I'd be called into consult, given my connections with your office, and Lady Phillips is right when she says that I help the Duke on occasion. So the possibility of blaming one or both of us while he was at it, had to have crossed his mind."

I paused a moment, then added. "His mind is part of what worries me. It sounds as if he cast a spell on Simms almost instantly, unless it was something he'd pre-prepared in case of trouble. And his mind is strong: strong enough to influence Sir Maxwell via a letter. That takes some doing."

"How good a mage are we talking here?"

"Top flight. I'm not sure if he'd beat me or the Duke, but he'd give Bryce or Fairbrother a run for their money, and neither of them are lightweights. This man is dangerous, and he needs to be stopped."

"You'll hear no argument from me, de Lacy," Carsten answered.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at Bow Street, writing up the conversation with Simms and appending my sketch of the culprit to the relevant file, as well as dealing with the paperwork for the smuggling case which had brought me there in the first place. Then I decided to dine at the Wolseley before heading back to the townhouse to meet with the others.

It was a pleasant early spring evening - a far cry from the snow in the air on the night of the murder only a couple of weeks before - and so despite the fact that it had dropped dark by the time I headed home, I decided to walk back to the townhouse, cutting through Berkeley Square and along Charles Street.

The walk in itself probably wasn't my mistake. It was something I was in the habit of doing regularly, and I had rarely met with trouble around Mayfair and Piccadilly, the recent murder notwithstanding. Also, the combination of a gentlemanly education and military service made me confident that I was quite able to handle most things. Sir Maxwell's death had even caused me to put up magical shields.

As it turned out, they were the only thing that saved my life.

I'd turned into South Audley Street, less five minutes from home, when I heard a bang, and something hit me from behind sufficiently hard that I was thrown to the ground. While shields are good for stopping actual damage, they don't do anything about momentum, and I fell heavily, and I could feel my left wrist snap as I put my hands forward to protect myself as I fell. Moments later, the area between my shoulder blades began hurting like bloody Hell. Without the shields, the impact would have broken my back.

I rolled as I landed, gasping as I knocked the damaged wrist, trying to get myself into a position where I could see my assailant, and was almost blinded as I was hit by a curtain of fire. I defended by instinct, leaving myself singed rather than incinerated, and then let myself seem limp, as if dead, and focused my senses on trying to figure out where my attacker was. Off to one side, I caught the sound of boots striding towards me, and by my estimation, the direction was about right for the double attack which had hit me. Hopefully he was foolish enough to want to check that he'd finished the job.

Lying motionless while he approached was one of the harder things I had ever had to do, but eventually my patience was rewarded when I heard a cold laugh. Then I felt his boot as he kicked me to make sure I wasn't going to cause him any problem. More fool him. As fast as I could, I moved and aiming for his knee, kicked his leg out from under him. He fell back in an ungainly heap, cursing. As he did so, I struggled to my feet, still trying to shake off the pain of his attack.

"Damn you, you meddling bastard. Why can't you just die?" he snarled, his face contorted with hatred, and more quickly than I would have thought possible, he tried to loose off another crippling burst of flame in my direction. But this time I wasn't caught unawares, and I managed to deflect it back at him, before following up with a lightning attack of my own, aimed at crippling, rather than killing him.

He screamed in pain as it hit him, almost as if his own shields hadn't been at full strength, and lay still, and when I looked at him, I was gazing at the face I had drawn from Simms' memory that afternoon. I knelt beside him and checked his pulse with my right hand. Thankfully he was still alive, which was offering him more of a courtesy than he was going to give me, and at least meant I wouldn't be beheaded for murder. But he wasn't in good shape. More out of practicality than compassion, I cast a spell which would put him into a healing coma until such time as he could be detained and safely revived. As for my own injuries - while they hurt like Hell, at least I wasn't going to die any time soon, so they could wait.

Of course, things are never easy, and as I worked, I was aware of people beginning to come out onto the street now they were sure that my assailant and I weren't going to recommence hostilities, and I could hear a police whistle being blown nearby, and the sound of running footsteps...

A few moments later, I saw Constable Allen come into view, and decided to just wait until he arrived.

"My Lord Marquis," said the constable, as he arrived and took a look at the scene around him. Thankfully, most of the actual damage had been confined to myself and my assailant, although a couple of the trees lining the street looked rather singed. I imagine I didn't look exactly reassuring, either, and my wrist was beginning to hurt like bloody Hell. I threw a painkilling spell at it, but knew I'd need to splint it before trying to set it magically.

"Constable Allen."

"I'm afraid I need to know what happened here."

"I understand," I replied, "you also probably want to send runners to fetch Sir Richard Fairbrother and Sir Bernard Carsten. Chancellor Fairbrother should be at my townhouse with my father. It might be easier to explain to them all at once."

As we spoke, more constables joined Allen, and messages were sent to the aforementioned, while others began canvassing the witnesses in an attempt to find out what had happened. In the meantime, the Allen stood close to me, obviously watching to make sure I didn't try anything rash. Not that I had any intention of doing so. And as for my assailant...I was pretty sure he wasn't going anywhere.

Richard joined us about fifteen minutes later, with the others in tow. So much for our final planning meeting.

"What happened, Robert?" Andrew asked, surveying the area and myself with some concern.

"I was attacked," I answered.

"So you decided to respond by holding a duel arcane in public?" he replied, his tone disapproving.

"Oh yes," I snapped, tired and in pain, "of course I wanted to make matters worse."

"Let it be, Andrew," Francesco said, quietly, "this will all be sorted out." Then he crossed to me. "Robert, let me look at that wrist."

Happy not to argue, I let him see to the break, and a few minutes later, as Sir Bernard was dismounting from his carriage, my friend put the finishing touches to healing the damaged bones. The general singeing, I would deal wit myself. I flexed my fingers experimentally, and thanked him, receiving a nod of acknowledgement in return. In the meantime, Richard had done an initial magical check of the area to confirm what had happened. Andrew stood to one side, keeping an eye on both myself and the fallen mage.

"Who is going to explain what happened here?" Carsten demanded, after taking a cursory glance around.

"From my initial investigations, Sir Bernard, it would seem that Robert was attacked by that man there and acted in self defence," Richard offered, "I can go into full details either here or back at Bow Street."

"Perhaps we should adjourn to Bow Street," he answered, then indicated my assailant and looked at me, "is he alive?"

"He is. Just restrained."

"Then I believe he needs to go to the Tower. Chancellor, will you arrange it?"

"If His Grace is willing to assist?" came the reply, and he glanced at Andrew. My son shrugged, and a few moments later, he and Sir Richard disappeared with the prisoner. Once they had departed, the rest of us headed for Bow Street, where I expected I would get the third degree from being at the centre of another magical attack.

*  *  *  *  *

I didn't attend the RTS meeting the following evening. By then, Richard and Sir Bernard were both satisfied that I had acted in self defence, and that I wasn't responsible for what had occurred on South Audley Street, so no charges would be brought. However, given that I had been so prominent in such a potentially embarrassing public altercation which had involved magic, I decided that it would probably be better if I stayed out of the limelight for a while as far as the Society was concerned. Andrew concurred with my decision, although he went along to the meeting as scheduled, not least because of his nomination to the governing council.

My assailant, it turned out, was one Nicholas McCrae, a graduate of Cambridge from about twenty years before, who had spent most of the intervening time in France and Prussia. He had only returned to England a few weeks before, his brother having been killed by individuals whom he had persuaded himself were rogue mages, up in Scotland.

The identity of those rogue mages? Myself, Andrew, Sir Iain Brodie and the others who had destroyed the black coven back in February.

That brought up some interesting questions, too, until Sir Richard confirmed that McCrae's own magical leanings were far from pure. Apparently he hadn't just been touring in Prussia, but had become involved with two or three of their nationalist occult groups, his own mother having been well-born Prussian. As for his beef with Sir Maxwell, apparently both he and his brother had had applications to join the RTS rejected and he had remembered that sleight until such time as he could usefully take revenge.

The official reason, once the files were checked, was that their magical practices had been considered suspect, not that the Society had bothered to inform anyone else of the fact. If they had, the girl McCrae's brother had killed might well have lived, as the coven would have been apprehended before it got that far. However, there was also a note on their application which indicated that had they been able to afford a substantial premium to the membership fee, any lack of orthodoxy in their working of magic would have been politely swept under the table.

Sir Richard had every intention of making that public at the RTS meeting that evening.

It was somewhat nerve-racking, waiting until they returned to tell me what had happened, especially as midnight passed and there was still no sign of them. That worried me somewhat, as I had expected them back around eleven. However, I finally heard the door open at around one, and went out into the hall to see them come in. As it turned out, I needn't have been concerned. I could tell from their body language and general demeanour that the evening had been successful.

"So?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"Let's adjourn to the library and crack a bottle of champagne or three, and we'll bring you up to speed," Andrew said, with a smile.

As the servants had all gone to bed by then, I headed for the cellar, got the prerequisite bottles, then dug out some glasses and rejoined the others. Andrew poured, and then we made ourselves comfortable, and Richard kicked off.

"It actually went better than we had hoped," he declared.

"And ironically, your fight with McCrae probably helped, in a roundabout way," Francesco commented, "although your decision to miss the meeting was still probably the right one."

"How do you figure that?" I asked, curious.

"A combination of that and the revelations about the McCraes' membership, or lack thereof, focused a few minds on how the Talent can be abused."

"Of course, one or two of them were also in favour of punishing you for having the temerity to bring it all out into the open," Andrew added, "but we managed to convince them otherwise."

It took a moment or two for me to realise that he was joking. At least in part.

"And the outcome?"

"Richard and I were both elected to the governing council, albeit he had rather more support than I did. I think one or two of them believe I'm too much of a trouble maker to do any good. Mages should be seen but not heard, and all. Reflecting their current feelings towards you, I suppose, Robert."

"Despite the fact that what happened with McCrae has been proven to be self defence?"

"The sensible ones know that," Richard answered, "but some of the old RTS stalwarts need to get used to that idea. However, they do acknowledge that you managed to avenge Sir Maxwell."

"I think it's a little early to call it avenged. McCrae's still alive."

"Only for as long as it takes them to carry out his death sentence," Francesco commented.

We paused a moment, considering what had led to that, and then I added.

"Still, at least now two out of seven of the new council are sensible enough to try to want to change things for the better."

"Actually, three" Francesco said quietly, although there was a slight smile on his lips, "assuming you consider me to be 'sensible' Robert."

I looked at him, surprised. He hadn't been one of the five original candidates.

"Sir Iain Brodie made the journey down from Edinburgh for the meeting," he explained, "and he and Sebastian Bryce decided to nominate me from the floor."

"I didn't think that was possible under the Society's rules."

"Oh, 'possible' got thrown out of the window a while back for this meeting," Richard commented, with a chuckle,  "and when it came out that Monsieur le Comte had been involved in policing McCrae's brother's group...well, the Society had a collective mad rush of common sense to the head and supported Sir Iain's nomination."

 "I imagine Sir Maxwell's people were annoyed," I said.

"Not really," Francesco answered, "After all, by then everyone at the meeting knew you'd had a stand-up duel arcane with the man who was responsible for his death, thus making the streets safer for all of us. Even if they would have preferred you had done it rather more...subtly."

"So from here, the next step is drafting the resolutions we're planning to present to Parliament," Andrew supplied.

"Straight to Parliament?" I asked, surprised, "Not even to the RTS first?"

"Straight to Parliament," replied my son, "After the elections, Richard and Francesco were invited to put forward their ideas - to put their money where their mouth was, so to speak. They were sufficiently persuasive, Francesco especially, that the meeting gave them a mandate. So all being well, and if we can persuade Parliament to listen, we should have some kind of Oversight Council with enforcement powers in place by Christmas, with mage registration through the colleges to start next academic year."

I looked at them and raised my glass in their general direction.

"I'm impressed," I said, meaning it, "Congratulations. I'm just sorry I wasn't there to see it."

"Oh, just because you weren't at the meeting, it doesn't mean you're going to get off scot free on helping us draft up where we go from here," Andrew answered, with a smile, "after all, you were the major driving force behind me taking this on board. A toast, I think. To a rational magical future."