Free Ten Little Wizards: A Lord Darcy Novel by Michael Kurland, Randall Garrett

a serious-minded man. As, indeed, he was.
    Duke Richard, his lean, bearded face creased with worry, sat in a heavy, solid, unadorned Geoffrey II wooden chair behind its companion Geoffrey II table, which had been on that spot since it was placed there for the use of an old, stout, rheumatic Geoffrey II some three hundred years before. Matching chairs were drawn up around the table in front of him, holding the same assemblage that had gathered before in the Map Room, with the addition of Master Sean O Lochlainn and Coronel Lord Waybusch. The group formed what Marquis Sherrinford was pleased to call an “Extra-Ordinary Council for the King’s Safety.”
    “Why ‘ten little wizards’?” Duke Richard wanted to know.
    “Perhaps he just liked the rhyme, Your Highness,” Lord Darcy suggested. “Or perhaps he has a grudge against nine other sorcerers. At any rate, the verse is taken from an old children’s rhyme.”
    “Really?” Duke Richard asked, turning his somber gaze on Lord Darcy. “I don’t think I know it.”
    “It’s very English, Your Highness,” Lord Darcy explained. “The original refers to ‘ten little Skreymen.’ The English firmly believe that people from the Isle of Skrey are—I suppose the best word is ‘foolish.’”
    Coronel Lord Waybusch nodded. “I remember,” he said. “A nursery rhyme. Haven’t thought of it for years. It went something like this:
    “Ten little Skreymen bought a cask of Skreyish wine,
    One fell in, splash, and then there were nine.
    Nine little Skreymen swinging on a Skreyish gate,
    One fell off, plop, and then there were eight.”
    “Ah, I see,” Duke Richard said. “It’s an enumeration to the vanishing point. Do you remember the rest of it, Coronel?”
    “I think so, Your Highness, although it’s been a long time.” Coronel Lord Waybusch pursed his lips thoughtfully.
    Eight little Skreymen baking with a Skreyish oven,
    One shoveled coal in, crack, and then there were seven.
    Seven little Skreymen fighting with their Skreyish sticks,
    One put a point on, ping, and then there were six.
    Six little Skreymen...
    “Ah, let me see....”
    The coronel faltered, and Lord Peter Whiss picked up the recitation:
    Six little Skreymen setting out their Skreyish hive,
    One called the queen names, buzz, and then there were five.
    Five little Skreymen—”
    ”Enough, enough—I think we get the point,” Duke Richard said, waving a hand at Lord Peter. “A sort of seriation of disaster. In this context one would suppose that it must be taken as an implicit threat. Thank you, Lord Peter.”
    “I don’t suppose that we can conclude that the assailant of poor Master Raimun is an Englishman?” the Archbishop of Paris asked. “Not that it would help us very much if we could.”
    “On the basis of his knowing the rhyme, you mean, Your Grace?” Marquis Sherrinford asked. “I don’t think so. I knew it myself, and I grew up in Brittany.”
    “Can we conclude that this killing is or is not related to the threat to His Majesty’s life?” Duke Richard asked.
    “I’m afraid not, Your Highness,” Lord Darcy said. “We can conclude very little from the evidence we have so far.”
    “Beyond the fact,” Sir Darryl said dryly, “that the killer, whoever he is, seems to have a well-developed dislike for sorcerers.”
    Duke Richard stood up and moved around to close the heavy drapes that framed the two windows. A royal duke did not usually close his own drapes; a push of the call button at his feet would have produced a servant in very few seconds. But it was something to do—and at that moment he needed something to do. He turned back to the group and gripped the back of his chair. “That’s what I was afraid of,” he said, staring at them somberly. “Let us review the precautions that are being taken to safeguard His Majesty’s life. Please feel free to comment on another’s remarks; this is not the time to stand on ceremony.”
    Marquis Sherrinford leaned