"So we contain it," said John.
I laughed derisively. "Contain a magic duel?"
"We can . . . direct it," said John. "Like orchestra conductors. They do what they're going to do, and we just keep them on tempo, so to speak."
"So to speak," I said. "Mary, talk to Crow. Find out what he's expecting, what 'spells' he's planning to cast, and what he anticipates theirs result to be—then let us know and we'll make two sets of plans: one plan to fulfill his expectations if it turns out he's just crazy, and another plan to mitigate the damage if he turns out to be a wizard after all."
"That's smart," said Mary, "but if you're going to ask me to do the same for Mr. Tolliver, forget it."
"Mr Tolliver's not the one we need to keep happy," I said. "If he tries to cast a spell and it doesn't work, Mr. Crow will claim the credit for stopping him and the duel will continue. Mary, I need you to arrange the details of the actual funeral."
Mary protested instantly. "But I'm not—"
"I know you don't usually get involved with the office work," I said, "but I can't trust Spilsbury with it, and I won't have time to do it myself."
"I'm not comfortable with that—" said Mary, obviously nervous, but John interrupted her smoothly.
"What will you be doing?" asked John.
"Plan C," I said. "If they're really both magic, and if we can't keep them under control, we need a contingency plan: some way to cut the anchor loose and sail away without destroying the whole ship."
"We're holding the funeral on a ship?" cried Mary. "Why are you making this so hard on me?"
"It's a metaphor," said John, and smiled at me happily. "You used a metaphor, Freddy, that's wonderful."
"Oliver," I corrected him. "Now go—we don't have much time, and everything has to be perfect."
Chapter Four
The candles flickered in the sconces on the mortuary wall.
"Don't worry," said Mr. Crow. "That's just my magic power interfering with the flames."
"Thank you," I muttered, peeking through the curtain again. "The flickering candles were definitely the most worrisome part of this situation."
"The coals are in place," said John, rushing into the room. "Gustav and Spilsbury are ready to stoke them on my signal."
"And the mourners just arrived," said Mary.
"Do they know what's really going on?" asked Crow.
"Have them tell me if they figure it out," I said. "I've been trying to—aha! Tolliver's coming; everyone get in your places." I closed the gap in the curtain and surveyed the room a final time, eyeing the small string tied to the leg of one of the chairs. Would either man see it? If Crow knew we were rigging the duel, he might fly into a rage.
"You haven't told me my place yet," said Crow.
"In the coffin," I snapped. "Where do think?"
"Like I'm some kind of expert?" Crow snapped back, climbing awkwardly into the coffin. "How many time do you think I've been dead before?"
"Not enough," I whispered. "John, go to the door, but wait for my signal. Mary, bring in the—there they are. Mourners this way, please." A group of professional mourners filed in, dressed in black, the men with dour expressions and the women shrouded with black lace veils. I pointed them toward their chairs, then paused, smooth my waistcoat, and stepped into the hall. John saw me, we nodded, and he opened the front door right as Mr. Tolliver raised his hand to grasp the brass knocker.
"Mr. Tolliver!" said John, "it's a pleasure to see you again! And you even bathed."
"Nonsense!" cried Tolliver. "I'm an envoy of death, no one takes pleasure in my presence!"
"Morticians do, sir," said John. "Right this way." He led him toward me, and I greeted him with a handshake; his skin was dry and rough, like a workman's. Behind him came two men, one the possibly-dead man we'd seen earlier, shuffling as awkwardly as ever, and the other just as grey and miserable as the first. I nodded to them politely, but their only response was an unintelligible hiss. We led them to their seats, and Mary very nervously began her welcome speech.
"Friends, neighbors, and acquaintances of the departed, we gather here today to mourn the passing of Daniel Crow—"
"Something's wrong," said Tolliver, standing up.
"I'm sorry," said Mary. "This is my first time doing the intro bit and I—"
Tolliver shook his head. "Something's wrong with the flow of psychic energy."
"Psychic now?" John whispered. "We're not ready for a psychic duel."
"Somebody needs to make up his mind," I muttered.
"He's here!" shouted Tolliver.
"Yes," said Mary, "I was just getting to that part—"
"Not just his body," said Tolliver, "his astral being. His soul." He whirled to face me. "Mr. Beard I'm shocked at the lack of professionalism on display in this mortuary—trying to hold a funeral for a man only partly dead—Arg!" He clutched his head, as if in great pain. "He's attacking me! It's a trap!"
"Of course it's a trap!" roared Mr. Crow, sitting up in his coffin. The mourners cried out in shock, but so weakly that their fakery was painfully obvious.
"We need to hire better liars," I whispered to John.
"They told us they were expert liars," he whispered back.
I shrugged. "There you have it, then."
"Mr. Crow!" cried Mr. Tolliver, turning toward him with a sneer.
Crow sneer back. "Mr. Tolliver!"
And then they stared at each other, for approximately five minutes.
We used every trick any of us had prepared; John discretely pulled a string and moved a chair
