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 Bosendorfer'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 Pathetique.
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.
At length he said, 'Seems like cheating, though.'
He continued up the stairs and exited at the next landing. Out in the hall he stood in front of a blank wall and said, 'I need an elevator.'
In a moment, one materialized, a section of wall to his right transmuting into metal doors that parted to reveal the interior of a modern elevator. He entered, and the doors slid shut.
'Family residence,' he said to no one who could be seen.
The elevator rose, rumbling and humming.
His study was lined with books and filled with endless curios. Quaint astronomical gear occupied one corner, alchemist's paraphernalia another. Maps and star charts covered areas of wall not taken up by books. There were several desktop computers in the room, and some of these were unusual. Instead of CRT screens, they had crystal balls.
He sat at the terminal of one of these morganatic marriages of the magical and the technological and tapped out a few commands.
The ball, mounted on a wooden base sitting on top of the computer, began to glow.
He peered into it, keyed in more commands, looked again. Shadows flickered dimly in the depths of the glass.
He kept at it until he saw something come to life. He watched intently.
