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

proper and across to the main entrance.
    “I didn’t realize that the flooding was that bad,” Lord Darcy said. “What about the townspeople? Are they being evacuated?”
    “No need,” Prefect Henri said as they exited the station. “The water is only a foot or so deep on the main street, unless you step into a hole. All the town’s functions are, ah, functioning. Much of the town is on high land, or at least higher land. We have another two or three feet to go before the situation is serious here. Some other villages on lower-lying land have already been evacuated. His Highness Duke Richard has set up several evacuation centers throughout the Duchy, which are well-equipped with food, bedding, extra clothing, and all the necessities.”
    “Of course,” Lord Darcy said. Duke Richard’s skills as an administrator were well established. Normandy was in good hands during this damp crisis.
    The rain had temporarily settled down to a fine mist, against which his wide-brim Londoner offered no protection, so Lord Darcy folded it and put it between the straps of his traveling case. He followed Prefect Henri into the scow, which was a large, rectangular construct about twenty feet long and ten feet wide with a perfectly flat bottom and sloping sides. Large iron rings at the front and back showed that it must have normally been pulled back and forth across the Eure River by ropes when it was transporting pigs. Now it was being poled along through the main street of Tournadotte by two muscular armsmen standing at the rear.
    “We will put you up at the inn, the Gryphon d’Or , where I, myself, am staying,” Prefect Henri said. “I have made it my headquarters for the duration of the flooding emergency. It is also, as I wrote you, the scene of the crime.”
    “Always nice to have things close at hand,” Lord Darcy agreed, watching the village shops passing as the scow was poled by them. The villagers seemed to be taking the involuntary turning of their village into a lake very well. The shop entrances were built a few stone steps above the street and, though their basements were probably flooded, they were mostly open for business. There were a few other small boats on the street, a few men on horseback, their mounts carefully picking their way along, and quite a few townsfolk determinedly pushing their way through the knee-deep water.
    “It looks as though a little flooding is not, ah, damping the spirits of this village,” Lord Darcy commented.
    “Your Norman peasant is of a hardy breed, my lord, as you will remember from when you lived among us,” Prefect Henri said. “The Norman stock is the backbone of the Empire.” He stared belligerently at Lord Darcy, as though daring him to dispute the statement.
    Lord Darcy laughed and patted the chief on the back. “I would not challenge an article of faith, Prefect Henri,” he said. “And besides, you may well be right.”
    The Gryphon d’Or was five blocks from the station, three down Main Street and two to the right, in the direction of higher ground. The scow was landed about half a block from the inn and tied securely to a fence railing. A double row of planks had been placed over the sea of mud to the inn courtyard. Lord Darcy traversed them gingerly, right behind Prefect Henri, and Master Sean followed. Two armsmen brought up the rear, carrying the luggage.
    The inn itself, a typical solid Gwiliamian structure, over two hundred years old and in the shape of a U, was above the floodline. The inner courtyard was fronted by the three-storey main building and flanked by two continuous lines of stables and outbuildings.
    The owner of the inn, Goodman Lourdan, a stocky, angular, totally bald man in a white apron that covered him from neck to knees, was waiting for them in the courtyard and looking anxious. He came forward to meet them, and Prefect Henri performed the introductions. “Ah, Lord Darcy!” Goodman Lourdan said, “Master Sean O Lochlainn! It is an