Murder at Midnight (12 page)

O
NLY A FLICKERING LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
showed them the way. As they walked the fifty yards, no one spoke. The sound of the storm gradually faded, replaced by the rasping scrape of their shoes on rough ground.

They stepped into the room with the domed ceiling. Count Scarazoni was there holding a flaming torch. Fabrizio noticed that on his belt, within easy reach, was his long, pointed dagger.

“My lord,” whispered Fabrizio, making a slight bow.

“Why have you brought a coffin?” the count demanded.

“The prince suggested it.”

Scarazoni frowned. “Did you tell Mangus what he must do?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The count approached the coffin, lifted the lid, and looked in. Next moment he let the lid drop, turned, and said, “Follow me.”

The soldiers and Fabrizio carried the coffin into the ancient crypt. The room was cold and damp. It smelled of decay. Though he had seen them before, Fabrizio could not keep his eyes from the great piles of bones and skulls set against the crumbling walls.
God keep us from being part of these piles,
he prayed.

A high-backed chair, flanked on either side by two benches, had been brought into the room. There were two standing candelabra whose fluttering candlelight seemed to make the room’s stone walls tremble.

“With permission,” said Fabrizio, “where shall I put the coffin?”

“Out of the way,” said Scarazoni.

Fabrizio looked around and noticed a shadowy place next to one of the entrances. He guided the soldiers to it. The coffin was set down. He stood nearby.

“Very well,” said Scarazoni. “I’ll fetch the king and the others.”

“With permission, what others?”

“The royal family.” The count turned away.

“My lord!”

Scarazoni stopped and looked back.

“I should tell you that the prince had his soldiers come to my master’s house and take my mistress away.”

“When?”

“Earlier today.”

“To threaten Mangus,” said the count.

“I think so,” said Fabrizio.

Scarazoni stood still, frowning. For the first time Fabrizio saw uncertainty in his face. “The king is waiting. It’s too late to change things.”

Fabrizio watched Scarazoni walk out of the room. He touched the coffin and whispered, “God grant us success.” Moments later, Scarazoni reappeared with twelve helmeted green-coated soldiers. Each was armed with swords that gleamed in the candlelight. At Scarazoni’s command, they arrayed themselves in a row behind the central chair.

Next to enter the crypt was King Claudio, dressed entirely in black. He paled as he gazed upon the heaps of
bones. And when he noticed the coffin, Fabrizio saw his jaw clench and his hands tighten into fists.

To Fabrizio’s dismay, the king drew close. He motioned to a soldier to open the coffin lid. The soldier darted forward and lifted it. Claudio leaned over and peered in.

Fabrizio was afraid to look.

Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the king turned and made his way to the makeshift throne. He sat uneasily, as if unable to find comfort.

The two princes, first Cosimo and then the younger prince, Lorenzo, entered. Both were dressed elegantly, in feather hats, jackets, capes, and colored boots. The moment Lorenzo saw the crypt’s contents his smile faded. He glanced at the king and at Count Scarazoni, who returned his look with a scowl of contempt.

As for Cosimo, he made a curt, mocking bow, after which the prince and his brother sat on one of the benches to the left of the king.

Next to come was a woman whom Fabrizio recognized as Queen Jovanna. She was thin, with a small, intense, oval face. With the queen was a veiled girl. Fabrizio supposed
it was the princess Teresina, the youngest of the royal children. They, too, halted and, wide-eyed, looked about the crypt before sitting down on a bench to the right of the king.

Next to come, guided by a soldier, was Agrippa. The executioner looked everywhere, clearly fascinated by all he saw. When he noticed Fabrizio, his face lit up with a broad smile. He took a step in the boy’s direction, only to be restrained by a soldier and led into a far corner where he was told to remain.

His appearance appalled Fabrizio. It suggested what most likely would happen.

Once the royals were seated, there was much shifting and anxious adjusting of legs, hands, and arms. No one spoke. Fabrizio felt the tension in the room tighten.

Two blue-coated soldiers marched in. Between them was Mistress Sophia. When she looked around, a hand went to her mouth. Even in the gloom of the room, Fabrizio could see how alarmed she was. She lifted a hand as if to reach for Fabrizio, only to be restrained by one of her guards.

Then Fabrizio saw her notice the coffin. She turned to gaze at him. He was afraid to offer more than a darting look.

But Cosimo must have noticed. He stood suddenly and sauntered over to the coffin. He lifted the lid and peered inside only to let the lid drop with a crash. The sound echoed through the chamber.

Without looking at Fabrizio, but in a low voice, Cosimo said, “Let’s hope we do not have to fill it.”

“Proceed!” cried the king.

“Bring in the prisoner,” called Scarazoni.

Four more blue-coated soldiers escorted Mangus into the room. The old man walked slowly, head bowed. His clothing was torn and dirty. To Fabrizio’s eyes, he seemed exhausted.

He was led to the center of the room and made to stand before the king and the other royals. They gazed at him, eyes full of dread and fascination. The king, in particular, seemed uncomfortable. He continually shifted around, hands in motion, as if one hand were washing the other.

Prince Cosimo, gazing at Mangus, lost his jaunty manner. He wiggled about in his chair but continued to watch the magician through lidded eyes, even as he touched his mustache.

They truly fear him,
thought Fabrizio.

Mangus looked around. When he saw Mistress Sophia, he cried out and made a step toward her only to be held back by the soldiers.

The old man ceased to struggle but continued to look at his wife. Fabrizio saw her eyes shift. Mangus followed her gaze to the coffin.

Prince Cosimo, watching Mangus, smiled weakly.

Facing the king, Mangus, his hands clasped, stood a little straighter, creating the appearance of composure. All the same, though it was very cold in the crypt, Fabrizio was sure he saw small beads of sweat on the old man’s brow.

Count Scarazoni stepped forward. “Majesties, we are here to conduct the trial of your subject Mangus — for treason. Let us begin.”

W
E ALL … KNOW WHY … WE ARE HERE,” SAID THE
king, his fingers thrumming nervously on his knees so that his rings clicked and clacked one against the other. He pointed at Mangus. “That man is a … a magician! Magic is forbidden in Pergamontio!”

Mangus made a dignified bow, his face calm.

The count stepped forward. “Indeed, Majesty, magic may or may not be a factor here. What we do know is that the Primo Magistrato Brutus DeLaBina — who was murdered — provided a license for a diabolical machine capable of making many papers calling for your removal.”

“Nonsense,” cried the king. “No machine could do such magic. It was Mangus! With magic. He was plotting with DeLaBina and someone else.”

“Yes, Majesty. But that
someone”
— he darted a cold look at Fabrizio — “killed DeLaBina to keep him from confessing the conspiracy and implicating him. We are here to discover the guilty party.”

Hearing the count’s words, Fabrizio felt a stab of unease. Perhaps he was wrong to have believed Scarazoni was going to help Master. Perhaps he
was
the principal tormentor.

Even as he had the thought, Prince Cosimo leaned toward his father and whispered into his ear.

The king nodded and called out, “I don’t care about DeLaBina. He’s dead. This trial is about Mangus and his magic. I intend to find out who ordered him to make those papers! You, Count, seem to have known about him but did nothing to stop his magic. Stand aside!
I
will conduct this trial.”

Fabrizio saw Scarazoni’s brows contract. His face flushed with fury, he opened his mouth, but it took a few moments for him to speak.

“Majesty,” said Scarazoni, “I believe —”

“Did you not hear me?” the king’s voice boomed. “Stand aside!”

A smile played upon Prince Cosimo’s lips.

Fabrizio saw Scarazoni’s hand move toward his dagger.
Then he moved off to one side, posting himself near one of the entryways.

“You!” cried the king, pointing right at Mangus. “Will you confess to being a magician?”

“Majesty,” returned the old man, “I confess only to offering the
illusion
of magic.”

Fabrizio saw the king glance at Prince Cosimo, as if seeking his approval or advice.

The prince gave a small nod.

The king shifted and again addressed Mangus. “Illusion or not, it’s still
magic.
Magic is not just evil. It’s illegal in Pergamontio. Those who practice magic must be punished by death. I ask you, Magician, who else besides DeLaBina did you conspire with to produce those papers?”

“I did not conspire with anyone, Your Majesty.”

The king shifted awkwardly in his chair. Fabrizio wondered if he was saying practiced words or finding his way.

Prince Cosimo whispered into his ear again. The king nodded. “A few nights ago, you,” he said, “in my city, performed magic before a mob. While doing so,
you snatched images of me from the air. And then made me disappear! Is that true?”

“I confess to creating an illusion, Your Majesty.”

“Did you tell the crowd it was an illusion?” Prince Cosimo called out.

Mangus wavered. “I confess that I did not, my lord.”

“What
did
you tell them?” the prince demanded.

Mangus thought hard.

“Answer him!” insisted the king.

Before Mangus could reply, the prince shouted, “You said, ‘For my final act of magic, I shall create something from nothing. Furthermore, from that something, I shall make … many!’”

“How do you know he said that?” demanded the count.

The prince stood up. “Bring in the witnesses!”

As if waiting for the command, more soldiers entered the room. With them came Benito and Giuseppe.

The two entered with a swagger, but the moment they saw Mangus and Mistress Sophia, they hesitated and averted their eyes.

“Signori,” said the prince to them, “as servants to this magician, you were at that performance. Did not the magician say ‘For my final act of magic, I shall create something from nothing’? ‘Furthermore, from that something, I shall make … many!’”

“My lord,” said Benito, bowing and bobbing, “it was only —”

“Yes or no!” cried the prince.

“Yes, my lord,” whispered Benito.

“Enough,” said the prince. “Put them back in their cell!”

“But” — Giuseppe tried to speak — “you said …”

Though the two protested, they were led away.

The king sat up and leaned forward. “Magician!” he shouted. “I command you — on pain of the most severe punishment, death — to use your magic to reveal who it was that ordered the making of those papers.”

“Majesty,” said the old man in an even voice, “you command me to use magic to reveal the truth. But you have just informed me that those who do magic shall be punished. If I refuse to act as you ask, I’ll be punished.
If I act as you wish, I will still be punished. What am I to do?”

The king passed a hand over his face, rubbed his eyes, and pulled at his beard. Everyone was staring at him.

“Very well,” he said, petulantly beating a fist on his knee. “Mangus, we promise that no bodily harm shall come to you if you do your magic. But this holds true
only
if your magic reveals the one who ordered the papers. Now do so!”

Mangus stood perfectly still, his eyes closed. Fabrizio, watching him, kept thinking,
Now is the time to use your magic!

The room grew silent. Every eye stared at Mangus.

The king sighed audibly. His body tensed. “Mangus,” he yelled, “use your magic!”

From within the coffin a banging began.

Fabrizio jumped. The others, equally taken aback, swung around and stared. So, too, did Mangus. The soldiers gripped their swords. The queen put her hand to her throat. Her younger children sat up stiffly. Scarazoni came forward a few steps.

Mangus recovered quickly. He stood straight, arms spread wide, fingers extended in clawlike fashion.

“Hovering spirits of darkness,” he cried, “Mangus the Magician calls upon you! Rise up from the depths of your death! You, who are dead, reveal the murderer of DeLaBina. Reveal the one who conspired against the king. Come back to the living that the living might know about death! Come! Return! Reveal the traitor!”

More banging.

Fabrizio’s scalp tightened. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He wanted to swallow. It was impossible.

The king was now sitting at the very edge of his chair, one hand touching his mouth, the other hand open before him, fingers spread wide, as if to defend himself.

The queen was staring, too. Prince Cosimo’s mouth was agape, his body pitched forward. Count Scarazoni leaned in, his hand resting on his dagger.

“Come, specters of darkness,” exclaimed Mangus. “In the name of truth, now is the time to rise up!”

The banging continued. Fabrizio grasped what was
happening: Maria was trying to push up the false bottom. It had stuck.

Next moment, the coffin lid burst open, smashing against the wall with a great
smack
that reverberated throughout the crypt.

Then, Maria sat up inside the coffin.

The king gasped and leaped to his feet.

In the dimness, Maria’s face was so uniformly white as to appear almost featureless. By contrast, her white-powdered body seemed to glow. Strands of her red hair poked through the powder and looked like dripping blood. As if writhing in torment, she waved her ghostly pale arms.

“Spirit of death!” cried Mangus. “Bring us the truth. Tell us who committed these great crimes!”

Fabrizio watched as Maria stood up and stepped out of the coffin. The papers were in her hand. Momentarily, she seemed at a loss for which way to go, turning in different directions. Then, fastening on the king, she advanced toward him.

The king gasped, dropped into his chair, and pushed himself back as far as he could go.

Maria drew closer to him. The room was stone silent. Everyone stared at the ghostly figure. With a sudden motion, Maria flung the papers out and up. They scattered through the air and settled on all the royals.

After a moment of hesitation, they grabbed them and read them.

The king, eyes wide, mouth open, stared with astonishment at the first paper he had snatched. He looked at another. And another. The others did the same.

Prince Cosimo stood, one of the papers clutched in his hand. “Stop! In God’s name. Stop!” He spun around and threw himself down at the king’s feet. “Father. Forgive me! I killed DeLaBina. I conspired against you! Forgive me! I confess!”

“The light!” screamed the king. “Bring the light!” Count Scarazoni rushed forward and lit the candles.

Prince Cosimo jumped to his feet. It seemed as if he were about to leap upon the king.

Claudio sat back in his chair, staring at his son with a look of horror. So, too, were the queen and the junior royals. Even Mangus and Sophia looked on, astonished.

Next moment, the prince wheeled around and ran toward one of the entryways. Fabrizio, standing by, stepped in front of him, lunged, and grabbed him around the waist.

“Let me go!” cried the prince. “Let me go!”

Though dragged along, Fabrizio held on long enough for soldiers to run forward and grab the prince and hold him.

“Bring him here!” cried the king.

The soldiers hauled the prince back to his father. As they did, Fabrizio looked about and realized that, in the confusion, Maria had vanished. He spun around just in time to catch sight of her racing down the tunnel, away from the crypt, toward the outer wall.

“Fool! Betrayer!” the king shouted at Cosimo, who was standing before him, held by the soldiers. “Murderer! You are my son. I shall not hang you. But you are herewith
banished from Pergamontio. In exile,
forever.
I proclaim your brother, Prince Lorenzo, to be the heir to my rule! Lead him away.”

Count Scarazoni made a hand motion to the soldiers, who came forward and marched the weeping Prince Cosimo out of the room. Scarazoni started after them, only to pause at the entryway. He turned and sought out Fabrizio with his eyes. “Boy!” he hissed.

Fabrizio spun around.

“Well done,” he said. Then he turned to the king. “Majesty!” he called out. “Remember your promise to the magician. Show mercy!” Then he turned and followed the soldiers out.

Fabrizio stared after him.
Master is saved!

The queen took her other children by the hand and rushed out of the room.

The only ones left were the king, Mangus, Mistress Sophia, and Fabrizio. And Agrippa.

No one spoke. The king remained slumped in his chair.

“Magician,” said the king, breathing heavily, his voice full of agony. “You have done what I have asked you to do.
I pronounce you guilty of doing magic. But — Count Scarazoni has reminded me of my promise. You shall live. All the same, you are herewith forbidden the practice of magic of
any
kind. Henceforward you are confined to your home for as long as I wish. No one may visit you. I never want to see or hear of you again.”

With that, King Claudio rose up and staggered out of the crypt.

No sooner did he leave than Agrippa came forward.

“Fabrizio!” he cried. “What wonderful magic!” He lumbered over, grabbed the boy’s hand, and shook it. “Bringing the dead back alive. That’s exactly the kind of magic I could make use of. Kill them, restore them. The best trick ever. Signore, you must come back and teach me how to do it. I honor you.” He bowed and lumbered out of the crypt.

Sophia, meanwhile, had gone to Mangus. The two embraced. Only then did a smiling Mangus turn to Fabrizio. “Fabrizio! I was praying you would do something like that. How did you manage it?”

Fabrizio grinned. “With permission, Master,” he said with a bow. “Everything surprises if we lack knowledge of it.”