Death of an Adept

A tug at the antique bell pull next to the desk recalled Jorge, this time carrying a china tea service on a heavy silver tray. Setting it on a corner of Raeburn's desk, the little valet stayed long enough to distribute a round of tea before retiring from the room with timorous alacrity. Raeburn sipped at the delicate Queen Anne blend with the thoughtful appreciation of the connoisseur. Then, abruptly, he bent his pale, steely gaze upon the expectant faces of his subordinates.

"I think I need not tell you that these past five months have seen a sad decline in our affairs," he began dispassionately, setting aside his cup and saucer. "Suffice it to say that being sought by two enemies at once has left us in an unprecedented state of disarray. With Dorje on the one hand and Sinclair on the other, we've been forced to abandon a whole range of promising enterprises and divert all our energies to the necessary but not exactly exalted pursuit of retaining our lives and our liberty. That situation is about to be changed, however - and the instrument of change is in my possession."

With this dramatic announcement, he opened the desk drawer and withdrew a long, narrow bundle wrapped in undyed silk, which he placed before him on the blotter. As his three associates leaned forward with varying degrees of expectation, he plucked aside the wrappings to expose an ancient-looking dagger.

It was an ugly thing, forged out of iron, its blade pitted with age and corrosion. The stubby hilt surmounting the blade was overlaid with grotesque zoomorphic traceries reminiscent of the interlocking figures occasionally to be found on Pictish standing stones. Obviously an object of great antiquity, the dagger had about it a subtle aura of crude violence. Its decorative designs, dark and sinuous, drew the eye like a magnet, exerting a fearful fascination.

Richter licked his lips, his pale face alight with hungry admiration. "It is herrlich - magnificent," he breathed. "Where did you get it?"

"It was a legacy," Raeburn said. "From the Head-Master."

The significance of the name was not lost on his three listeners, though only Barclay had been present with Raeburn at the bequeathal. The individual so-named had once been a powerful member of Hitler's inner circle, before private ambition or perhaps mental instability had impelled him to decamp to Britain. By means known only to himself, the Head-Master had survived the war, secured his freedom, and subsequently contrived to establish a base for himself in the mountains of central Scotland.

There he had remained until two years ago, quietly working his dark intentions, until the Hunting Lodge led by Adam Sinclair had taken his scent and run him to ground. He had perished amid the ruins of his Highland fortress, but his malign influence was still making itself felt, and would continue to do so for a long time yet to come.

Angela was among those who retained a clear recollection of the Head-Master himself, though she had not been present at his demise.

"He would have valued such an important artifact," she said. "How did you convince him to part with it?"

Raeburn showed his teeth. "Arguments from me were superfluous, with the Hunting Lodge threatening to knock down the walls around our ears. Suffice it to say that neither of us saw any virtue in allowing it to fall into the hands of Adam Sinclair."

"Why haven't you told me about this before now?"

"There was little of substance to tell," Raeburn said. "Only now, at the end of two years' study, do I find myself in a position to expound reliably on the secrets of its origin and its esoteric associations."

He steepled his long fingers before him with the air of a university professor about to deliver a lecture.

"To digress briefly," he went on, "and primarily for Mr. Richter's benefit. Those of you who had the distinction of serving under the Head-Master will remember that among his most prized possessions was an ancient relic which he referred to as the Soulis tore. As the name implies, the tore had come to be associated with one William Lord Soulis, an infamous Scottish mage of the fourteenth century - though the tore itself was already ancient by the time it passed into his possession. It was a product of Pictish workmanship, embodying its makers' rapport with the powers of the elements."

"Why don't you cut to the chase, Francis?" Angela said sharply. "We all know that the tore was destroyed, partly thanks to Sinclair. What does it have to do with the dagger?"

"Your impatience begins to wear thin, my dear," Raeburn replied. "To continue, I have been able to establish, to my satisfaction, that this dagger belongs to the same period as the tore, and may even be the product of the same craftsman.