"I'm sorry; I should have gone. Not thinking."
"You seemed to have had the situation well in hand."
"My lord," Tyrene was saying, "can you give me any information at all concerning your brother's actions during the fête that would shed light on the question of who may have attacked him?"
Lord Arl took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he said, "I can tell you little. As you may know, my brother and I were not on speaking terms. We did not speak at the fête, nor did we associate. I saw him playing hedge ball. Then later I saw him sup with Lady Rilma. That was not very long before I departed. I thought I'd left him at the fête."
"My lord, did you see him speak or associate with anyone else besides his wife?"
"He was playing hedge with Lord Belgard and Lady Rowena."
"Very good, my lord. My lord, if it be not too inconvenient, might we continue this line of questioning later? I must to the fête and inform Her Highness and the other guests."
"Yes. Yes, by all means, Tyrene."
"Thank you, my lord."
Two more people arrived: a young page, who carried a folded leather stretcher, and a gray-haired older man in a brown cloak. Although Thaxton had never availed himself of the man's services, he recognized Dr. Mirabilis, the castle physician. Thaxton wondered about the state of forensic medicine in the castle.
"Obviously a dagger or other sharp instrument," Dr. Mirabilis pronounced after examining the body. "I'll know more after I perform an autopsy, but I'd say there's a good chance that the viscount died as a result of the wound. There's been a great loss of blood, probably bleeding into the chest cavity. As I said, we'll know for certain later."
"When can the autopsy be performed, Doctor?" Tyrene asked.
"Immediately. If you can have the body brought to the infirmary."
The body was lifted onto the stretcher. The page produced a sheet to drape the body, then he and one Guardsman bore the stretcher away.
"I'll have my report messengered directly to you, Captain," the doctor said. Then he departed.
"His Majesty must be informed immediately," Tyrene said. "Was he at the fête, my lord?"
"He hadn't arrived by the time I left," Arl said. "But I'd heard he would be late." He looked away for a moment, then added, "I will inform Lady Rilma."
"I should be grateful to be relieved of that burden, my lord. Thank you."
Tyrene turned to Thaxton and Dalton. "I wonder if you two gentlemen would mind accompanying me to the Formal Garden? I imagine His Majesty would like to hear from your mouth any testimony you have to give."
"Certainly," Thaxton said. Dalton nodded.
Tyrene, Lord Arl, and the other Guardsman left.
Thaxton began to follow. Over his shoulder he said, "Let's go, old boy."
"What about the bags?" Dalton said, pointing to the dropped golf clubs.
"We'll send a servant. Come on, man. The game's afoot!"
Four
Conservatory
The concerto was drawing to a close.
The pianist was animated, beads of sweat at his brow. With masterly skill and artistry, he threw off a sparkling glissando that swept from the one end of the Bösendorfer's keyboard to the other. The flurry of notes climbed high, coalescing into a cloud of rippling chords in five-beat rhythm, sounded first in the upper registers then repeated an octave lower.
Behind him, the "orchestra" rested for the cadenza.
There were no musicians.
There were, however, many instruments. All the traditional symphonic instruments of Western (Earth) music were represented ― strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion ― but there was only one piece for each section: one violin, one viola, one horn, and so forth, except for percussion, which had the full complement. The instruments rested on chairs or tables or, like the contrabass and cello, were propped against the wall.
The cadenza finished on the highest G octave on the keyboard. Then, with a resounding chord in C major, piano and orchestra came in together, fortissimo, restating the main theme of the third movement, which had twice before been played voluptuously, rapturously. Now, for the final time, it unfolded with grandeur and majesty, yet was still charged with an uncontainable passion.
The piano alternated massive chords and syncopated accents to the orchestra's melodic line.
Among the strings, bows bowed, held by invisible hands. Stops and valves depressed in the woodwinds and brass. Although there was only one of each kind of instrument, the sound was of a full orchestra. The conservatory reverberated to the climax of the concerto.
The main theme done, the pianist launched into technical pyrotechnics while the orchestra played staccato cadences, sharply banging out the finale. Complex stacked chords cascaded down the keyboard at a furious rate. An impossible display of virtuosity. The whirlwind of sound rose again into the rarefied reaches of the upper octaves before resolving with a crash into four final notes hammered out at the bottom of the keyboard.
Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor, Opus 18, was over.
The pianist sat back, took a cloth from an inner pocket of his doublet, and wiped his forehead.
He looked around the chamber. "What, no standing ovation?"
He waved a hand and the room erupted in tumultuous applause. He rose and bowed to the invisible audience. Turning to the orchestra, he raised his arms. The instruments rose from chair and table, standing on end. They all tilted forward in a comic semblance of a bow.
The soloist waved his hand again, and the applause cut off abruptly. The instruments settled back down.
"Thanks, guys. You can sit this next one out."
He seated himself again, rubbed his hands, dried his palms on his purple gown.
Then he essayed the lugubrious opening bars of the Beethoven Pathétique.
A servant walked in.
"Sire…"
Incarnadine ― liege lord of the Western Pale, and, by the grace of the gods, King of the Realms Perilous ― was annoyed. He lifted his hands from the keyboard.
"What is it?"
"Sire, your pardon for interrupting, but something of extreme urgency has come up."
Incarnadine's fist pounded the keyboard. "Merde!"
"Sire?"
"Dorcas's party! I forgot!" He scowled at the young page. "Why didn't you remind me?"
"Sire, I was just about to when a messenger came from Captain Tyrene."
"Oh. It had better be damned important. Where's the message?"
"It was oral, Sire. I am to tell you that the viscount Oren was found dead inside the castle, a short distance from the Garden aspect. Murdered."
Incarnadine blinked. "Did you say murdered?"
"Sire, I most certainly did."
"I see." Incarnadine rose from the piano. "Was the viscount at the party?"
"That is all there was to the message, Sire."
"I'd better get down there right away." Incarnadine took a few steps and halted. "No, wait, I want to get changed first. Tell Tyrene to start his investigation immediately, on my personal authority. Tell him I have every confidence in him."
"Yes, Sire."
Incarnadine hurried to the door, passing displays of musical instruments from hundreds of worlds. At the threshold he stopped.
"Wait, another thing. Tell Tyrene that no one at the party is to leave the Garden aspect until I get there. That includes my sister."
"Yes, Sire."
"Have to keep them contained. They're a slippery bunch."
Out in the corridor, he made a right at the first intersection, walked a few paces to a stairwell and entered it.
He climbed six stories. On his way up to the seventh he was huffing and puffing.
"Gods, I'm out of shape," he mumbled.
He stopped.
Standing in the gloom of the stairwell, he thought the problem through while he caught his breath.