Dagger Magic

For a moment the monk on the beach gazed impassively at the tumbled form, at the occasional glimpse of the dagger's hilt protruding from the bright orange of his victim's survival suit - which would not permit its wearer to survive this assault, no matter its sophistication. When the monk raised his hand in a gesture of summons, the dagger pulled itself free with a slight shudder and snapped back to the summoner's hand like the flick of an adder's tongue. Briefly the dagger pointed again at Scanlan, and his body caught an eddy of current and began to drift eastward, against the direction of the incoming tide.

The monk nodded and turned his back on his work, scanning for his companion. Up on the cliff-face, the other monk was picking his way back down to the beach, having finished inspecting his handiwork. Of the former cave opening, only a tumble of rubble now remained, indistinguishable from all the other tangle of rockfall on this face of the promontory. Offshore, the blank wall of incoming fog had already swallowed up the sight and almost the sound of the retreating boat, and the smaller speck of the floating body's life-vest and survival suit had very nearly disappeared.

The monk from the cliff rejoined the one on the beach. Facing eastward, the two stood shoulder to shoulder and prepared themselves, daggers grasped in their right hands with the blades pointed downward toward the sand at their feet.

Together they began to mouth the words of a whispered chant, faster and faster, until abruptly the eyes of first one and then the other rolled upward in trance. Faces rapt, lips still moving, they then set out along the shrinking beach in a series of lengthening bounds.

They gathered speed as they went, their pace accelerating to carry them forward in smooth, fluid leaps, each one longer than the one before. As they travelled, the two made rhythmic, forward-reaching motions with their right hands, driving their dagger-points toward the ground as if propelling themselves off the surface with the aid of unseen walking sticks. They struck out across the water when they came to the end of the sand, just skimming the flat surface for half a dozen strides, their movements blurring into invisibility just when they would have disappeared into the fog beyond.

Chapter One

"OH, why do photographers have to take so long?" said Lady Janet Fraser, as she peered up the avenue leading toward Sir Adam Sinclair's gracious country house. "Adam, I'm dying to see the look on Julia's face when she sees the painting."

Behind them, ranged on the front steps and broad front lawn of Strathmourne Manor, nearly a hundred well-dressed wedding guests were chatting amiably and sipping champagne from crystal flutes on this sunny Saturday in May. Many of the men wore kilts and day-wear jackets; the ladies were resplendent in spring frocks and fanciful hats.

Earlier, they had gathered at St. Margaret's Episcopal Church in Dunfermline to witness the marriage of Peregrine Lovat, one of Scotland's most talented young portrait painters, to the lovely Miss Julia Barrett; now they prepared to celebrate those nuptials with a formal reception and luncheon, here in the gardens of Strathmourne, Scottish seat of one of Peregrine's more prominent patrons. Over on the south lawn, a vast yellow- and white-striped marquee had been erected to accommodate the guests. Half a dozen waiters in Stewart tartan trews and white mess jackets circulated among them with silver drinks trays, offering liquid refreshment before the bridal party arrived from the church.

Even as Janet spoke, there was a sudden flash of reflected sunlight among the tall beech trees that lined the avenue leading to the house. More flashes followed in quick succession, winking in and out among the beech leaves on the long approach.

"They're coming!" Janet declared, as her surgeon-husband, Sir Matthew Fraser, brought her a glass of champagne.

Adam smiled and glanced in signal at his stableman, John Anderson, kilted and filling in as domestic staff for the day. Anderson, in turn, beckoned to another kilted man, the teenaged son of one of Adam's tenant farmers, who nervously brought out a pair of ancient-looking broadswords. The two took up posts to either side of the entryway, swords at rest before them, as the first of three sleek Daimler limousines came into view, deep claret coachwork gleaming in the midday sun.