"The Pendragon Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blair J. M. C.)

FOUR

“Plague? You can’t be serious, Merlin.” Arthur paced and glared at Merlin. “Yes, of course I got your message from Dover. But I assumed you were joking.”

“Joking! Arthur, sometimes I feel you don’t know me at all.”

They were in the king’s study. As always, there was not enough light. The three portraits of Arthur were still there, on their easels. Pacing, Arthur stumbled over one of them. “Simon!” he bellowed. “Get these damned things out of here!”

“Calm down, Arthur.” Merlin presented his soberest manner. “I am perfectly serious. Do you really think I would joke about such a thing?”

“Yes, I told you, I got the bloody message.” He rubbed his shin where it had struck the easel. Then he took the letter from the table and shook it at Merlin. “I thought it had to be a joke. Or a mistake. Something brought on by too much wine-or too much whatever-at the festival. So did Britomart.”

“It is hardly a thing I would joke about. Four men died, all sailors. As near as we were able to determine, their ships had all stopped in Algiers to take on cargo. Arthur, it will spread.”

Arthur stopped moving about the room and glared at him. “You can’t possibly be certain of that. This is England. No Englishmen have died from this thing, have they?”

“Do you hold the opinion that the human body in England is different, in some way?”

“Algerian plague.” He snorted.

Simon of York appeared with an assistant. “You are finished with these, Your Majesty?” He indicated the portraits, one of which was now on the floor.

“Yes, get them out of here. They take up too much room.”

“As I have been telling you for weeks, Sire.”

“Don’t you start, too. It’s bad enough that I’ve got him picking at me.” He made a vague gesture in Merlin’s direction. “You know which one I want?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Put the artists to work on it right away. I want those new coins in circulation as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” He hesitated and looked from the king to Merlin and back again. “Is-is everything all right?”

“No, everything is not all right.” Arthur mocked his conciliatory tone.

“If I can be of any help, sir…”

“You can be of help by doing what I asked you to do.”

“Yes, sir.” Simon clapped his hands, and his assistant gathered up the portraits and their stands. “Oh, and Your Majesty?”

“What? What else?”

“That jester person is here.” He frowned in obvious disapproval of the “jester person.”

But Arthur suddenly, unexpectedly broke into an enormous grin. “John of Paintonbury?”

“I believe that is his name, sir.”

“Excellent. Tell him I’ll be with him shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” With that, Simon bowed and he and his assistant left.

There was a moment’s silence between Merlin and the king. Merlin looked unhappy. Finally he asked, “A jester?”

“Yes.” Arthur rubbed his hands together. “I told you about him.”

“Memory fails. There has been so much else-”

“A very clever fellow. I met him on that visit to Coventry last month.”

“And you decided to bring him here-to admit him to our court-without consulting anyone.”

“This is not ‘our court.’ It is mine.” Arthur sighed. “Do me a favor and don’t pick at me today. I have too much on my mind. Including this plague of yours from Algiers, it seems. I don’t even know for certain where Algiers is.”

Merlin stood and stared at him.

And Arthur wilted under it. “All right, fine. This plague of ours, then. Is that better?”

“Thank you, Arthur. We do not know, yet, if it really is a plague. I suggest you contact your sheriffs in every part of southeast England and have them send daily reports. If there is an outbreak someplace other than Dover-”

“What can we do?”

For a long moment Merlin said nothing. Then finally, “Hope. That is all.”

“Hope is not a commodity in long supply, in my life.”

“Even so. If I were a superstitious man, I would say pray.”

“Should I summon my sister Morgan to Camelot? Should I have her conduct some kind of public rite? It might reassure people, if nothing else.”

Merlin smiled faintly. “The way she reassured Lord Darrowfield?”

Arthur frowned. “Poor Darrowfield. Tell me what happened.”

“I told you the basic facts.” Merlin shrugged slightly. “We found him and his sons at Stonehenge. Their throats were cut.”

“But surely you investigated. I know you. You could never have resisted.”

“I was on holiday, Arthur, remember? And this disease is a much more urgent matter. Besides, Peter of Darrowfield, the new sheriff there, took matters into his hands. He seems an able enough man. I did not want to tread on his authority.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “But you know who did it. Or think you do. You always do, Merlin.”

“Not in this case. The obvious suspect would be Lady Darrowfield. There was nothing but unpleasantness between her and her husband. And she would hardly be the first vindictive wife in England.”

Arthur stiffened at this. “Leave Guenevere out of this. Leave her out of everything.”

“Of course. I’m not at all certain I see Lady Darrowfield in that mold, anyway. If it was only her husband who had been killed…” He made a vague gesture. “But the boys were slaughtered as well. She hardly seems like the type of woman to play Medea.”

“Then…?”

He hesitated. “Your sister was there.”

“Morgan?”

“Yes, with her son Mordred in tow. Nominally she was there in preparation for the equinox. But word has it that Darrowfield was flirting with conversion to the Christian religion. And Morgan was none too happy about it.”

“You don’t think she killed him, surely?”

“It would hardly be her first time removing an, er, inconvenient opponent. We both know her history. And she had Mordred there to do her dirty work.”

“He was the only attendant she brought?”

“She had others, but they were at Stonehenge, preparing for the festival there.” He paused uncertainly, then decided to go on. “But they could easily have gotten to Darrowfield Castle to help Mordred with any… business.”

Arthur brooded. “I know Morgan’s bloody reputation. I’ve never quite convinced myself she could be so lethal.”

Merlin hesitated again, but decided to lay out all his suspicions. “She can be. And your father was there with her, Arthur.”

“Uther? England’s famous hero Uther Pendragon?” He laughed. “How badly is he decaying?”

“Rather badly, I’d say. I can’t remember ever seeing anyone more feeble.”

“Good. What on earth was he doing there? He ought to be in a basket on a shelf somewhere. But you’re not suggesting-I mean, he could hardly have been the killer.”

“Hardly. But your family’s history raises, shall we say, so many suspicions.”

“There. You see?” Suddenly Arthur was animated. “You’ve put your finger on precisely why I need to find the right heir. The one who is truly worthy. Thank you for making my point.”

“In the name of everything human, you are relentless, Arthur. People look at your golden hair and call you the Sun King. But you are more like a storm of driving rain and wind.”

“You’re not the first to say so. But you taught me, Merlin. There is no other way to be king.” His smile disappeared. “But do you really mean to say that one of my family must have killed Darrowfield? Are there no other possible suspects?”

“Wherever there is humanity, there are possible suspects. But I was hardly there long enough to know everyone who might have had a motive.”

Suddenly there was a young man at the door, rapping at the lintel impatiently. “How long do you plan to keep me waiting?” Despite his brusque manner he was grinning. He was in his early twenties, to appearances. Short, thin, with unruly black hair and startlingly blue eyes. “I couldbe off taking care of my geese now.”

For a moment Arthur stiffened; then, seeming to recognize the young man, he relaxed. “John. I’m glad you’re here.”

“You might act like it, then. Cooling my heels out here is hardly the reception I-”

“I’m sorry, John. Really I am.” Arthur seemed to remember himself. “Ah, but the two of you haven’t met. John of Paintonbury, this is my friend and trusted advisor Merlin.”

Merlin gaped, uncertain of the protocol. Slowly he extended a hand. “Arthur tells me you are to be his jester.”

“Satirist,” John corrected him.

“Satirist, then.” Merlin made himself smile as he shook the young man’s hand. “You will be living here at Camelot? On the royal bounty?”

John’s eyes flashed. “You needn’t sound so disapproving. None of this is my idea. I was quite content raising geese. It is a modest living, but an honest one.” A mischievous smile crossed his lips. “Unlike being a wizard.”

“You are suggesting,” Arthur interjected, “that those of us who administer England’s affairs are not earning our livings honestly?”

“My geese, Your Majesty, permit themselves to be fattened. And slaughtered, by those who need their meat the most. Perhaps Camelot’s residents might take a lesson from them.” He frowned. “Of course, fattening themselves-that, they are already doing. Every time I turn a corner, there is a table of cakes.”

“The king is terribly fond of cakes.” Merlin was not amused by the young man. “Yet I have seen him go without them altogether, when he needed to. You might take a lesson from that.”

Arthur grinned and turned to Merlin. “There-you see? He will be perfect.”

Merlin was increasingly put off. And puzzled-it was not in character for Arthur to take such insults with such cordiality. He nodded to John, mock-deferentially. “With all the swords here, and with a slew of hotheaded knights wielding them, I suspect I will be earning an honest living soon enough, investigating a murder.”

“Now, now, Merlin, don’t be so touchy.” Arthur wanted peace between them.

“I am not being touchy, Your Majesty.” When he became formal with the king, he always emphasized titles like Your Majestywith strong irony. “Simply realistic. Your knights are hardly known for self-restraint. Or for having a sense of humor about themselves.”

“John will soon cure them of that.” Arthur put an arm around his new jester’s shoulder. “Won’t you, John?”

“If it pleases the king.” John smiled with unconvincing modesty. “I would do anything in my power to please Your Majesty.” His tone mimicked Merlin’s perfectly.

“Yes. Of course you would.” Merlin put on a tight smile. “As would we all. Now if you will excuse me, Arthur, there is a national crisis brewing. Or would you prefer that I remain here and listen to your new court comedian as he babbles more affronts?”

“There will be plenty of time for that, Merlin. John will be here permanently, remember?”

“Thank you for reminding me.” To John he said, “You should be careful, young man. There is always the danger that living with geese may have turned you into one.”

John laughed at him. “Honk, honk.”

Exasperated, Merlin turned to go. “If you want me, Arthur, I will be in my tower.”

Every day for the next week dispatches arrived from Captain Larkin at Dover, who had returned from his trip and was grappling with the situation there. Slowly, most of the town’s citizens had returned. There had been several more deaths, all in the same manner as the first ones-rapid onset of symptoms, followed by stillness. Additionally, three more people had been stricken with the disease and then recovered almost as quickly as they had fallen ill. A low-grade fever seemed to be spreading through the town, as well. To date, none of the garrison’s soldiers had been stricken, but that seemed only a matter of time.

Merlin wrote back as frequently as he received the letters. He requested Larkin to gather as much information as he could about the victims-occupations, families, any contact they may have had with the visiting mariners. He advised that their close friends and relatives be watched carefully. And he asked for detailed accounts from the three survivors of what they had experienced, their feelings, and any possible contacts they may have had with the foreigners.

On the tenth day the missive from Dover was signed by Sergeant Ewan. Captain Larkin had fallen ill in the same way as the others and died soon after. He was the first man of the garrison to be afflicted, and Merlin conjectured that he may have contracted the infection elsewhere. “He must have passed among a great many people on his travels, some of them infected.”

Merlin consulted with Arthur and Britomart and arranged for Ewan to be appointed temporary commander of the fort. His dispatches continued, sometimes two or even three per day. The disease was spreading slowly but quite inexorably through the town. Reports began to reach Camelot of deaths in the surrounding countryside as well.

Then further reports, sent by local officials, arrived from nearby towns and villages. Two people had died at Folke stone. A whole family of pig farmers expired at Frogham. And there were unconfirmed reports of people dying of a mysterious disease at Sandwich and even Canterbury. The reports of what killed them, and descriptions of the disease’s progress, never varied. The officials at Canterbury were quite perplexed; but they had heard rumors of a mysterious disease, possibly the plague, at Dover. Did Camelot have any reliable information, they asked, about what it was? Merlin wrote and told them there was no definite information about the nature of the disease, while admitting it was spreading. “There is no cause for panic,” he assured them. “You may trust that Camelot will keep you posted as the situation develops.”

“Marian, Robert, Wayne.”

The three of them had returned from Darrowfield Castle. Merlin met with them in a small room at Camelot. It was seldom used and sparsely furnished; there were only a few chairs, nothing else. No tapestries hung on the walls, so the room was drafty. Marian of Bath and her sons were seated, waiting for Merlin.

“You asked to see us, sir.” Marian looked uncomfortable but stood as he entered the chamber. Her twin sons were expressionless.

“Yes. Please relax, all of you. I hope your time at Darrowfield Castle was not unpleasant-given the awful events there, I mean.”

“It was fine, sir.” She was plainly nervous. “There never was a party or celebration, as you might guess. But Lady Darrowfield wanted us to stay and help provide for the mourners at the funeral. There were not many of them, sir.” She looked uncomfortable saying it. “I don’t think he was well liked.”

Marian’s twin sons were seated just behind her, side by side, quite close to each other. Their expressions were completely vacant; they stared at Merlin without any evident interest or engagement. He found them slightly disconcerting.

He forced a smile. “Well, we are all quite happy to have you back here.” The smile grew even wider. “And to have your cakes again. They have been missed by so many people. The ones we had while you were gone were nowhere near so good. Only this morning Sir Bors was saying-”

“The Sheriff of Darrowfield questioned us, sir. As if we might be criminals.”

“Sheriff Peter? I’m sure he was only doing his duty, Marian. He had to gather as much information as he could. I would not be concerned.”

“How can we not be concerned, sir? A lord was killed, and the sheriff questioned us.”

“Please, do not give it another thought. I will write to Peter myself, vouching for you.”

“Thank you, sir.” She relaxed a bit.

He took a seat and stretched his legs out. “I would like to ask you about your experience there. Nothing deep-please believe that I do not suspect you of any villainy.”

She thanked him for saying so; her sons shifted uncomfortably.

“Now.” He paused slightly, then decided that being direct with her would be the most effective way to proceed. “What was the atmosphere like at Darrowfield? After I left, I mean.”

She looked directly at him. “Tense, sir. You saw how they fought.”

“The lord and lady, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“And what about Morgan le Fay? And her son Mordred? And Uther?”

“They were there, too, sir.”

“Yes, I know it. How did they cope with the tense atmosphere?”

“They-they-I’m not at all certain I should say, sir.”

“Say it.” He realized he had been acting the professional interrogator and made his tone softer. A reassuring smile crept across his lips. “You understand, this is not an official inquiry into the murders. That was Peter’s job, and he seems to have done it well enough. My interest is-well, more personal. You know how we politicians love gossip.”

“Yes, and the more malicious, the better.” For the first time one of Marian’s sons spoke up; he was not certain which it was, Robert or Wayne.

Merlin stiffened slightly. “Not necessarily. But the Prussians have a term, schadenfreude. It means a delight at the misfortunes and suffering of others. I am afraid too many of us are guilty of it. But I do not mind telling you, I felt supremely uncomfortable in Lord Darrowfield’s house. I would enjoy hearing the worst.”

The other son laughed. “You never stop assassinating one another, do you? Sometimes literally, sometimes not. But I mean-”

This was not going at all the way Merlin wanted. He interrupted forcefully. “I would appreciate it if you would not-”

The first son got to his feet. “What do you want to know? We don’t know who killed the old bastard, any more than you do.”

“I am not suggesting that you-”

An instant later the second son was on his feet. “You will not find a way to make us responsible for what happened.”

“But I only-”

Finally Marian spoke up. “Boys! Stop this at once! Merlin is a friend. This is Camelot, not Darrowfield. We are home now.”

The twins calmed down and resumed their seats. Sulking, one of them said, “Sorry, sir.” The tone of his apology was not convincing, to Merlin’s ear.

“It is quite all right. I know how stressful it was, having been in that castle for a day or two myself. Being there for an extended period, as you were, must have been unpleasant in the extreme.

“But we are avoiding the real issue. What I want to talk to you about is what you may have seen and heard while you were there. From the other servants. You know very well that they have a different reaction to persons and events than those of us who are higher up.”

“We saw nothing,” said one of the twins. “We heard even less.”

“Come now.” Merlin did his best to sound cordial and conciliatory. “Lord Darrowfield’s staff must at least have expressed sympathy for either him or his wife.”

“We don’t know a thing about that.”

The interview was not going at all the way Merlin had hoped. He found the boys’ attitude difficult to comprehend. He made a mental note to discuss it with Nimue; she so often had an insight into people that was beyond him, especially when it came to the lower orders. And she was a shrewd judge of character.

Suddenly Simon of York rushed into the room. “Merlin! So this is where you’ve been.” His tone was vaguely accu satory. “We’ve scoured the castle looking for you.”

Mildly baffled by Simon’s urgent tone, Merlin told him, “The four of us have been getting better acquainted, that is all. Is something wrong?”

“There is an emergency. A medical emergency. Fedora wants you.”

It caught him quite off guard. He got to his feet. “Fedora, the old midwife? She must be ninety-a walking medical emergency herself. What on earth can she want me for?”

An expression of concern crossed Marian’s face. “Fedora the midwife?”

Simon ignored her. “Come along. Hurry. Sir Dinadan’s wife is giving birth. It is not going well.”

“Oh. I see.” To Marian and the boys he said, “Thank you for meeting with me. We must continue this at a more opportune moment.”

One of the twins smiled; the other did not. Marian stood and caught at Merlin’s sleeve. “You will not forget to write to the sheriff about us?”

“I will do it the moment I am free. You have my word.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Merlin followed Simon to the wing of the castle where most of the knights resided. Before very long they had reached Sir Dinadan’s rooms. The knight was standing in the hallway, pacing, looking more than mildly alarmed. “Merlin. Thank God you’ve come.”

“What is happening?”

“They are inside.”

“I would have assumed. But what-”

Suddenly the air was cut by a low, piercing wail. A woman, presumably Lady Dinadan, was in severe pain. The sound actually made Merlin shudder.

Dinadan grabbed him by the arm. “For God’s sake, you have to save my son. And my wife.”

“Son? How do you know it is a boy?”

“My family always produces boys. I wouldn’t have it otherwise.”

“Of course.”

Simon interrupted this. “Perhaps you should step inside, Merlin, to evaluate the situation for yourself.”

“Yes, you are right. There may be little time to spare. Step in with me; I will need an assistant.”

“Me? Merlin. This is childbirth.” Simon was flabbergasted at the suggestion. “I don’t know a thing about women. Or about delivering babies. I would be worse than useless.”

Merlin glared at him, snorted and rushed inside the chamber.

Lady Dinadan was on her bed, undressed. Her body was shuddering; it was clear she was in pain. The top of the infant’s head showed. The woman moaned again; she seemed not to recognize Merlin.

Bending over her was an elderly woman, stoop-backed, dressed in black, incredibly wrinkled. She was telling the lady, “Push. Push. You must keep pushing.”

“Fedora.” Merlin kept his voice hushed. “What is the problem?”

The old woman looked up at him. “Thank the goddess you’ve come, sir. The baby’s head is too large for the birth canal. It is stuck there and won’t come out.”

“I see.” He bent down to examine the woman on the bed. Softly he said to her, “Do not keep pushing. It will not come out, and you will only cause yourself more suffering. The infant, too, most likely.”

“I am not pushing.” The woman’s face was wet with tears. “The contractions-” She let out a low, horrible shriek.

Merlin rushed back out to the hallway. “Simon, go and find my assistant Petronus. He will likely be in the classroom at this time. Tell him to bring my surgical tools. As quickly as he can. If you cannot find him, get Colin.”

Simon looked on the verge of panic. He trembled, and he seemed rooted to the floor.

“Go!” Merlin bellowed. “Waste no time!”

Simon finally found his legs and ran off down the corridor. Merlin turned to Sir Dinadan and explained what was happening. “The situation could not be more grave.”

“Merlin, you have to save them.”

“I will do everything I can, believe me.”

“But-but what can you do?”

“Difficult childbirth is so-There are several-” He paused and took a deep breath. “When a child’s head is too large, sometimes we can pull it out with forceps. But the child is often damaged in the process. Mentally, I mean, if not physically. If it is too large for even that to work, the usual procedure is to use a speculum to shatter its skull. Once the infant’s skull has been reduced to fragments, it will emerge from the birth canal easily. It will die, of course. But the mother’s life will be preserved.”

“That cannot happen. This is my son.”

“Or daughter.”

“Son.” He said it with force. “What about-There must be another way.”

Merlin sighed deeply. “In rare cases it is possible to cut open the womb and bring the child out that way. It is an extreme procedure, and there are grave risks. For both mother and child.”

“Then do not do that.”

“It may be our only hope. If you are so determined to have the child survive, that is. And it can be an effective procedure. It is the way Julius Caesar was born.”

For the first time Dinadan’s expression changed. “Caesar? Julius Caesar?” He seemed to derive pleasure from saying the name. “My son could be born the same way as Julius Caesar?”

“It is a medical procedure, Dinadan. It confers no pedigree.”

But Dinadan was lost in reverie. “Julius Caesar. My son.”

“Dinadan!” He caught the knight by the shoulders and shook him.

This snapped him out of it. “Yes, yes, you must do that. Do whatever you can to preserve both their lives.”

Relief showed in Merlin’s features. He had brought the man to reality, at least for the moment. He forced himself not to wonder what kind of life the child might face if its mind and character turned out less than imperial. Or if it was female.

An instant later Simon returned with Nimue in tow; she was carrying Merlin’s surgical kit.

“You could not find Petronus?”

“He was nowhere to be found.”

“Well, Colin is more than able. It is time he learned the facts about human reproduction and women’s anatomy.” He smiled at Nimue, and she returned it. Merlin never missed an opportunity to promote “Colin’s” cover.

He took her aside and quickly explained what was happening. “Dinadan wants me to cut open the womb and deliver the child in that unnatural way.”

“But what does she-?”

“It is our only hope for delivering the child whole and healthy.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Dinadan wants it to be male, and to be another Caesar.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Let us concentrate on saving it, for the moment, and worry about that later.”

The two of them went back into the birth room. Fedora was there, on her knees beside Lady Dinadan’s bed. She looked up at them. “Thank the goddess you’re back.”

“You must stay here to assist us if we need you, Fedora.”

She showed him a scrap of cloth she had been holding to her chest. “I tied a strip of cloth into tight knots. It delayed the contractions.”

“Yes, of course it did.” He turned to Nimue and told her which surgical instruments he would need. “And send someone for more cloths. There is apt to be a great deal of blood. Fedora, you must be prepared to hold the lady down. This will be painful for her.”

Nimue went, found a servant, explained what was needed and was back beside him in only moments. Merlin took his sharpest surgical knife and went to work. A salve helped dull the pain she felt, but it did not do the job completely. Lady Dinadan cried out, shuddered, wailed almost unbearably. But, held down by Nimue and Fedora, she maintained as much composure as she could manage.

Thirty minutes later, Merlin was finished. The baby was indeed a boy; his father was happy. Fedora went off to find a wet nurse. Merlin attended his patients at their bedside. The infant, weakened by its difficult birth, had not cried once during or after the delivery; now it slept soundly at its mother’s breast. Merlin thought the child was still at peril, but he refrained from saying so. To Lady Dinadan he said, “You have done well. But you lost a great deal of blood. You must rest in bed for at least a week.”

“May I see my husband?” Her voice was weak, almost inaudible.

“Yes, of course. But not for long. Remember, you must rest.”

His job finished, he returned to his tower. There was no one above, to fire the boiler for the lift, so slowly, painfully, he made his way up the stairs. Reading Greek philosophy would relax him; it always did. He sat and pulled out a favorite manuscript-Plotinus. His raven Roc flew into the room, perched on his shoulder and rubbed his cheek with the top of its head. Before long, philosophy or no philosophy, he nodded off.

Then later, just before sunset, there came a knock at his door. It was Fedora, the midwife.

Merlin roused himself. “Fedora. You should not be here. Climbing all these stairs cannot be good for you.”

She smiled; most of her teeth were gone. “You climb them.”

“I live here. I have to. Besides, I have my lift. You should have ridden it.”

“Modern things.” She made a sour face and mimicked spitting.

He chuckled. “That is right. You believe in the old superstitions, do you not?”

“The babies I deliver all live.”

“Would this one have, do you think? If I had not come?”

“It died.”

“Oh.”

“When I got back with the wet nurse we found it lying quite still at its mother’s nipple.”

For a moment he sat silently, digesting this. “Well. It was such a difficult delivery… It was amazing that it was not stillborn. Or that we did not have to kill it to save its mother’s life.”

“The babies I deliver all live.” Her smile was gone. “Learn that lesson.”

“Superstition…” He let his voice trail off. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt inadequate. “At least we saved the mother.”

“She died, too. Not much later.”

“Oh.”

“I could have worked more charms. You wouldn’t let me.”

“Is that what you came to tell me? That scattering wolf-bane and sacrificing puppies would have saved them?”

“I am more than twenty years older than you. I know so much more. How can you have learned so little?” Suddenly, explosively, she laughed.

“What do you know, Fedora?”

“A midwife learns many secrets. We deal with birth. Next to death it is the one great fact in human affairs. I leave death to you and the king.”

“Do not bother me with this rubbish. Charms. Tying knots in strips of cloth. The human race is mired in rot like that. Hopelessly. Look at how Europe has declined. Can you do anything to stop this plague?”

Again she laughed at him. “I will go now. I am a tired old woman.”

“You are a perverse old woman. Leave me alone.”

“I tell you, Merlin, I know so many things that you don’t. Not for all your books and philosophers.” She pointed at the scroll in his hand.

“Of course. Get out of here, will you? Take the lift down. It should be ready; I had Colin fire the boiler.”

“I had rather walk.”

“Fine, but do not complain to me about your aching, arthritic knees.”

“The child is dead, Merlin, and its mother as well. Sleep soundly.”

The old woman left. Merlin stroked Roc’s head, and it cooed softly. Where was Nimue? Death. Plague. Murder. This night, of all nights, he needed company.