Wrede, Patricia C - Mairelon 01 (15 page)

           
"And
on no account are you to allow Mr. Bramingham and the others to search this
room," she added.

           
"How
am I supposed to stop them?"

           
"I
leave that to you. Now, I think it is time I recovered enough to return to my
room. You may escort me. After that, I suggest you rejoin Mr. Bramingham and
tell them your story. You"--she gave Stuggs a withering look--"had
best stand guard outside the library door. It will look well, and that way we
can be sure no one will come in and accidentally discover the platter before we
have a chance to move it.
Your arm, Jasper."

           
The three
conspirators went slowly out of the library, Lady Granleigh clinging to her
brother's arm as if she were about to collapse. The door closed behind them,
and the room was empty at last.

           
Kim
stirred, then poked Mairelon gently, somewhat surprised that he had not
unlatched the bookcase door of their refuge. She felt him start at her touch.
He let out a long breath and closed the little panel through which they had
been looking. Kim felt him make a series of small movements, and then the
bookcase swung wide.

           
Moonlight
dribbled through the broken window, making Mairelon's magical light
unnecessary. Kim darted out and began pulling cushions off the sofa. Mairelon
pushed the bookcase back into place and followed, but more slowly. "Hurry
up!" Kim whispered. "We ain't got much time."

           
"Yes,"
Mairelon said. "I know." He picked up the last of the cushions and
threw it viciously to the floor.
Kim winced, glad that it had
landed on the carpet and not knocked anything over.
Even a small noise
was likely to attract attention, now that the house was alerted.

           
Mairelon
reached down and curled his hands around the handles of the platter. A moment
later, he let go and stood staring down at it, a grim expression on his face.

           
"Someone
got here before us," he said in a low, tight voice. "This is a
forgery."

           
"A forgery?
You mean it ain't the right
one?
"

           
"Exactly."
Mairelon turned away. "We had
better be going."

           
Kim
looked back at the platter and hesitated. "Are you sure? That's real
silver, I'll go bail. And it looks a lot like that bowl of yours."

           
"The
silver's real enough, and you're right about the pattern, but it's not the
Saltash Platter," Mairelon replied. "It wouldn't fool any magician
for an instant, once he got close enough to lay hands on the thing."

           
"All
right, as long as you're sure." Kim went to the broken window and peered
out. "Don't see
nobody
. Let's pike off."

           
"We
can't do it fast enough to suit me," Mairelon murmured, and waved her on.

           
Kim and
Mairelon had no difficulty in evading the searchers who were still scattered
here and there on the grounds of
Bramingham Place
.
The servants were spread out and the lanterns they carried were visible for a
long way, which made them easy enough to avoid, and there was plenty of cover
among the hedges and trees of the sprawling gardens. Kim almost enjoyed dodging
through the shrubbery and hiding in the formal borders.

           
The walk
back to the wagon was long, cold, and silent. They kept to the roads, where the
moonlight let them see to walk more easily. Mairelon seemed
sunk
in contemplation, and Kim was too tired to ask what he was thinking. When they
reached the wagon at last it was nearly dawn. Kim fell into her makeshift bed
at once, and was asleep before she had time to notice whether Mairelon was
doing likewise.

           
She woke
to full daylight and the sound of dishes rattling. "Hunch?" she said
hazily, lifting her head to see over the mound of blankets she was huddled
under.

           
"I'm
afraid not," Mairelon's voice said from near the door of the wagon.
"Hunch can't possibly be back before tonight, and I don't really expect
him til tomorrow at the earliest. You'll have to put up with my cooking until
then. Unless you have hidden skills?" he added hopefully.

           
"Gnngh,"
Kim said. She wormed one hand out from under the blankets and rubbed at her
eyes. "No."

           
"Pity.
You'd better come have breakfast before it gets
cold."

           
Kim
realized that she was hungry. Well, no wonder; she'd done a day's worth of
walking since dinner last night, or at least it felt as if she had. She unwound
herself reluctantly from the blankets and went out to correct the matter.

           
Mairelon
was crouched over a smoky fire with a long stick in one hand. He was fishing
for the handle of an iron pot that balanced precariously on top of two of the
burning branches.
"Just in time.
Bring the plates
over."

           
"I
thought you said it would get cold," Kim said, picking up the plates.
"Smells to me more like
it's
getting burned."

           
"Cold,
burned, what's the difference? Ah!" Mairelon snagged the handle at last
and lifted the pot out of the fire. He lowered it to the ground and picked up a
spoon. "How much do you want?"

           
"How
much is there?" Kim asked, eyeing the black pot dubiously.

           
"More
than enough for two," Mairelon assured her. "I, ah, got a little
carried away when I was adding things, I think. Here, take some. I'm afraid
there isn't any bread. We'll just have to do without until tomorrow."

           
Kim
frowned at the lumpy greyish blob on her plate,
then
shrugged. She had eaten worse-looking meals in her life, and the worst any of
them had done was to give her a stomachache. Hunch's savory stews were spoiling
her. She took a spoonful. It tasted burned.

           
Fortunately,
Mairelon did not seem to expect her to give her opinion of his cooking. Kim ate
slowly, sneaking glances at the magician when she thought he would not notice.
He was unusually quiet, but perhaps that was just because Hunch was not there
to glower and complain.

           
Mairelon
caught her eye on her fourth or fifth glance. "Have I sprouted horns or a
third eye, or is it just that I have charcoal smeared on my forehead?" he
asked mildly.

           
"No,"
Kim said. Rather than try to explain, she asked, "How did you know that
platter last night was sham?"

           
"Any
magician would have. I thought I told you that."

           
"You
said you knew. You didn't say how."

           
"Ah.
Well, I knew because there wasn't any magic in it." Mairelon stared into
the fire and swallowed another spoonful of his breakfast blob. "When a
wizard puts magic into an object, it's generally because he wants the object to
do
something. That means the magic has to be . . . accessible, and if
it's accessible it can be felt by other wizards. If the magic is destroyed or
removed it leaves traces, which can also be felt. The platter at
Bramingham
Place
hadn't a farthing's worth of magic in it,
and it never had."

           
Kim
frowned. "But if any wizard who touched it would know it was a cheat, why
would anyone bother makin' a sham platter?"

           
"A good question.
Possibly the forger wasn't a
magician, and didn't realize there would be any difficulty passing it off as
the real thing. Or perhaps she only wanted to keep people from realizing it was
missing right away. After all, she couldn't have known there'd be such a parade
of burglars to blame it on."

           
"She?"
Kim straightened, staring at Mairelon.
"You know who put it there?"

           
"I
think so." Mairelon poked at his breakfast. "Renee wasn't part of the
parade, you see, and she has more than enough information to have had the
platter copied. I can't think of any reason why she'd have come to one of
Harriet Bramingham's house parties, either, except to steal the Saltash
Platter. She hates house parties."

           
"Renee?
You mean that French lady? I thought she was a friend of yours," Kim said
cautiously.

           
Mairelon's
laugh was without humor. "So did
I
. But she must
have been planning this for a long time, certainly since before we left
London
.
So why didn't she tell me?"

           
"Maybe
that Earl cove told her not to," Kim ventured.

           
"Shoreham?"
Mairelon frowned, considering. "I
hardly think it's likely. He wouldn't have sent me here if he knew Renee was
going to have a go at it."

           
"He
might of--"

           
"Might
have.
"

           
Kim
smothered a relieved sigh. If Mairelon was correcting her speech again, he must
not be feeling quite so downhearted. "He might have sent you anyway, if he
wanted to get you out of
London
."

           
Mairelon
looked up with an arrested expression.
"Quite true.
In fact, it would be just like Edward. I wonder . . ."

           
His voice
trailed off and he stared at the air above the fire. After a moment, he shook
himself. "Well, there's only one way to find out. Finish your breakfast,
Kim. You'll want it."

           
"Why?"
Kim said warily.

           
Mairelon
gave her a winning smile. "You're going back to
Bramingham
Place
, to take a message to Renee before she
leaves."

           
"I'm
what
?"

           
"Well,
I can't go. Gregory St. Clair is arriving today, and I don't dare chance his
seeing me. Don't worry, you'll do fine."

           
Kim
rolled her eyes and went back to eating. Burned and blobby or not, it was safer
than talking to Mairelon.

           
Two days
of relatively dry weather had done wonders for the roads, at least as far as
travel on foot was
concerned.
Water still stood at the
bottoms of the deepest ruts, and wagons and carriages continued to have a
rough, sloppy time of traveling, but the edges of the lanes gave only a little
under Kim's feet and no mud dragged at her boots to make walking a weary chore.
If she had not been so worried about the task Mairelon had set her, she might even
have enjoyed the walk.

           
"Message
for Miss D'Auber, sir," she muttered under her breath. "The master
said I was to give it only to her."

           
She
frowned, wondering whether she sounded flash enough. Remembering the words
wasn't hard, but the rhythms and the slightly different pronunciation Mairelon
had insisted on were difficult indeed. And what if someone started asking her
questions? She had some chance of getting the accent right for the sentences
she'd practiced, but could she keep it up if she had to say anything else?

           
Firmly,
Kim dismissed her doubts. She had agreed to run this rig, and fretting wouldn't
make success any more likely than it already was. Practice, on the other hand .
. . "Message for Miss D'Auber," Kim repeated in a low voice.
"The master said I was to give it only to her.
Message
for Miss D'Auber."

           
So intent
was she on her muttered repetitions that she did not hear the sounds of the
approaching carriages until they were almost on her. A shout and the crack of a
whip startled her into attention at last, and she glanced over her shoulder.
Two high-perch phaetons were heading full tilt along the road, side by side.
Their drivers crouched intently over their reins, shifting their weight
automatically to compensate for the dangerous sway of their vehicles, oblivious
to everything save their horses and each other. The one on the left pulled
ahead, but his advantage was a matter of inches. The other driver's arm rose
and fell, cracking his whip, and his horses leaped forward, bringing him even with
the left-hand phaeton once more.

           
Kim dove
for the ditch, praying that these Bedlamites wouldn't overturn or run off the
road until they had gone safely past her. The thudding of the horses' hooves
and the rumble of the carriage wheels grew
louder,
then
passed by above her in a spray of water, mud, and flying gravel. As the sound
began to fade, Kim looked up and saw the phaetons vanish around a curve in the
road ahead, both of them still moving with furious speed.

           
She spat
a curse after them as she picked herself up. Her left foot had landed in the
muddy water at the bottom of the ditch, and some of it had gotten into her
boot. The knees of her good breeches were wet and smeared with dirt and grass,
and her hands were scratched and gritty. She cursed again and brushed
herself
off as best she could, then resumed walking, hoping
darkly that something would teach those madmen a lesson. Maybe one of them
would overturn his carriage and break a leg. Maybe both of them would.

           
As she
drew near the curve, she heard shouts ahead. Prudently, she stepped off the
road in case the phaetons were returning. The noises did not sound as if they
were moving in her direction, but Kim took no chances. She trudged along the
side of the ditch, sliding on the grass from time to time, until she rounded
the curve and got a clear view of the road ahead. She stopped short.

           
Her wish
had been granted: one of the phaetons had indeed overturned. It lay in a tangle
of harness and broken wheels across the side of the road, while its owner,
scowling ferociously and muddy to the eyebrows, tried to calm his frightened
horses.
On the opposite side of the road, a coach-and-four
lay half in, half out of the ditch.
A liveried postillion was tugging at
the door of the coach, unconscious of the blood trickling down his face from a
cut above his eye. His efforts only made the coach rock precariously. A second
postillion was doing his best to control the four coach horses, which were
plunging and rearing in a manner that threatened to reduce harness pole, coach,
and all to splinters. The coachman lay motionless on the far side of the ditch,
evidently thrown from his seat when the coach tipped over.

           
A little
farther on, in the exact center of the road, the second phaeton had drawn to a
halt. The driver was concentrating on his horses, and despite her poor opinion
of his good sense, Kim had to acknowledge that he knew how to handle a team.
Anyone who could come through such a tangle as this had been, at the speed he
had been traveling, in a vehicle as notoriously unstable as a high-perch
phaeton, without overturning his carriage or losing control of his horses . . .
Kim could think of one, or perhaps two, hackney drivers in London who might
manage such a feat if they were lucky. This gentleman did not appear to have
turned a hair.