Calamity's Child by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

the kimono Lord Murasaki had given him for his assistance in
repairing a certain irregularity in his lordship's love life. The
window was open in the nook, admitting an agreeable bustling from
the street below. The late morning sun bathed the table and remains
of breakfast in languorous yellow light.
    Nora, her father's daughter to the
fingertips, was immersed in the business section, one slim hand
curled 'round her coffee cup. Nicky slouched in his chair, lazily
perusing the world news. According to the Times, the world was
going to pot -- no surprises there.
    He turned the page to city news, one
hand groping toward the table in pursuit of his cup -- and
froze.
    "I say..." he began, and paused as he
read it again.
    "Nicky?" Nora's hand dropped lightly
to his sleeve. "What is it?"
    He lowered the paper to meet her deep
brown eyes, and found his voice. "Wolheim's dead."
    Her eyes widened. "Oh, no, darling! An
accident, I suppose?"
    Anyone who knew of the nature of Dr.
Sir John Wolheim's experiments with the Force Magical would
certainly suppose an accident. Nicholas glanced down at the paper.
Yes, the damning phrase was there...
    "Nicky?"
    "Suspicious circumstances, it says
here."
    "Blast." Nora crumpled her paper onto
her lap with a frown. "Dickon will be calling, won't
he?"
    Dickon -- that would be Prince Richard
-- would most assuredly be calling, Nick thought sourly. The wonder
was that he hadn't called already. He sighed, folded the paper and
dropped it on the table.
    "I'd better dress," he said, pushing
out of the chair. He smiled down into her eyes and playfully tapped
a finger against her cheek. "Come, now, darling; it's not as if I'm
being sent to Timbuktu."
    "This time," she said darkly, just as
the phone rang.
    *
    It was mid-day when Nicholas arrived
at the house of the late Dr. Sir John Wolheim. The police were
there before him, of course, but Dickon's office had been kind
enough to let them know to expect the Prince's Sorcerer.
    Despite the news report, Nicky had
more than half-expected to confront the remains of a catastrophic
release of magical energy. Wolheim's spells always carried a taint
of brute force; a hint of rather too much power used. It was a flaw
which would have earned him the most stringent censure of the Dean
at Balliol, Nick's alma mater. Wolheim had been an Oriel man,
however, and after all these years remained primarily a student of
the philosophy of magic, rather than a practitioner. Benjamin
Hillier, who had as deft a touch with a spell as anyone of Nick's
acquaintance, himself a graduate of Balliol, had read practical
magic, with a second in engineering. So it was that Hillier kept a
house in the city and was no more a danger to his neighbors than
the heedless town traffic, while Wolheim held to a country estate,
where his frequently explosive explorations endangered no one but
himself and his peculiarly devoted house staff.
    Nick was let into the house by one of
Appleton's men, and escorted to the laboratory at the back by
another.
    "Here you are, sir," his escort said,
as they reached a doorway filled by a stern and wide-shouldered
policeman. The door leaned against the opposite wall.
    "Had to take it off the hinges," the
guard said. "Locked from the inside, it was. Housekeeper called us
when he didn't answer the house phone." He stepped aside, giving
Nick room to pass.
    "Inspector!" he called into the room.
"It's His Lordship."
    Even here, in the belly of the beast,
there was no overt damage. Nicky paused on the threshold to admire
the neat ordinariness of the room. Tools were hung away; vessels
lined up by kind and capacity; books shelved; poisons behind glass;
the famous collection of wind-up toys tidily arranged on their
special shelf, except for one -- a chimp mounted on a tricycle --
sitting quietly, its energy spent, in the center of the otherwise
empty work table.
    From behind that spotless work surface
arose the long and dour form of Inspector Appleton. "Your
Lordship," he said.