Blaze of Glory (29 page)

Lady Fitzwilliam sighed. 'Sir Darius. He's missing.'

Caroline put a hand to her mouth. Lady Fitzwilliam
reached for a bell pull. When Maud appeared, she said,
'Tea, for five, in my drawing room.' Maud left and Lady
Fitzwilliam turned to Mrs Hepworth. 'It seems you're
now part of our war council.'

A
UBREY PERFORMED HIS RECITATION OF THE EVENTS OF THE
last few days, this time for Mrs Hepworth, with an
addendum for Caroline concerning the disappearance of
Sir Darius. He left nothing out, but he did it with a
sinking heart, certain that the unvarnished account would
mean Mrs Hepworth's forbidding him from seeing
Caroline again.

When he had finished, Aubrey busied himself with
serving the tea, leaving George to answer the inevitable
questions. Aubrey chimed in when it suited him, but he
concentrated on offering lemon biscuits to the ladies.

Finally, when all clarifying questions were asked and
answered, Mrs Hepworth looked at her daughter and
patted her hand. 'I can see that they need you, my darling.
They may have little chance of success without your skills
to help them.'

George nearly choked on the biscuit he was eating.
Aubrey's eyes widened. 'You don't mind her going with
us?' he asked.

Mrs Hepworth smiled. 'I find modern society to be a
limiting force, diminishing the scope of human endeavour.
I utterly reject the moderate, the safe, the comfortable.
To venture is to gain. Both Lionel and I agreed on this,
which, paradoxically, led to many arguments.' Her gaze
softened. 'But we knew we wished to raise a daughter
who would live a free life. We wanted her to reach for
the stars, for that is the most certain way to attain them.'

'Trust your children,' Lady Fitzwilliam murmured.

'Of course. Trust them. They will fall, occasionally, but
they will fly.'

Lady Fitzwilliam applauded. 'You, naturally, are a
Suffragette?'

'What intelligent person isn't?'

Lady Fitzwilliam looked at Caroline. 'Do you understand
what you're becoming involved with?'

'No. But I doubt that anyone here really understands
what we're facing.'

'Holmland. Plotters and conspirators. And the
Magisterium – which may be against us or for us,' Aubrey
said. 'We cannot count on anyone.'

'Aubrey,' said Lady Fitzwilliam, 'what do you propose as
our first course of action?'

'George and I have uncovered a secret message, similar
to one that summoned the Holmlanders to the Society
for Non-magical Fitness in Greythorn, where they were
met by the Magisterium. It indicates a meeting in the
Mire, tonight.' He frowned. 'George and I planned to
attend. Disguised, of course.'

'Where did you see this message?' Mrs Hepworth asked.

Aubrey explained about the agony columns and how
they'd been used to relay secret instructions.

'So who placed the message?' Mrs Hepworth asked. 'The
one that lured the Holmlanders to that Fitness Society?'

'Ah.' Aubrey paused, finger in the air. The Holmlanders
could have put the code in the newspaper, unaware that
a trap was waiting for them. The Magisterium? No, their
set-up at the Society for Non-magical Fitness indicated
that they were simply prepared to wait for their prey,
staffing the reception area just in case innocent visitors
dropped in – as they had.

Aubrey had a disturbing thought. He'd cracked the
cipher message. Had someone else? Someone who wanted
to orchestrate a confrontation between the Holmlanders
and the Magisterium?

'I'm not sure who placed that message,' he admitted.
'But I'm not sure it's important at this stage.'

Mrs Hepworth frowned. 'But why would the Holmlanders
pay any attention to a second ciphered message if
the first led them to a trap?'

Aubrey could see that Caroline did not inherit her
intelligence solely from her father. 'Excellent point,' he
said. 'I was coming to that.'

'And those vile pamphlets,' George said. 'What were
they doing at that place? What had the Holmlanders to
gain from trying to ruin your father's reputation?'

He mentally thanked George for bowling up an easy
one, a nice long hop outside off stump. 'Father is the
leading voice for resisting Holmland aggression. When
he wins the election, Holmland will have a much more
difficult time in achieving its aims for an empire. Ruining
his reputation is a simple way to make sure that doesn't
happen.'

'So,' Mrs Hepworth said, 'the Holmlanders appear well
mixed up in this, and decidedly up to no good. But why
would they traipse off to the Mire tonight? And why do
you feel you have to be there? How does that help your
father?'

Lady Fitzwilliam patted Mrs Hepworth on the arm.
'Thank you, Ophelia. You've cut to the heart of the
matter.' She looked at her son. 'Aubrey?'

Aubrey stood, facing his mother, George, Caroline and
Mrs Hepworth. They looked at him with expressions of
interest, hope, caution and worry, but also a desire to do
something instead of waiting, passively, for news. It was
a desire he well understood. In all circumstances, he preferred
to take matters into his own hands, to forge his
own path. He was not a log, drifting downstream towards
the waterfall. He was a fish, fighting the current with all
his might. Even if he was dragged over the edge, he'd be
struggling all the way down to the rocks.

The attempted assassination of the Crown Prince. The
Black Beast of Penhurst. The murderous shade at the
professor's workshop. Powerful magic was at the heart of
these events, powerful magic of a new and revolutionary
kind. Getting to the bottom of this puzzle could help his
country and his father, but it could also help him in
finding an answer to his condition.

A solution was close, but he just needed some time.

He looked at the expectant faces in front of him. 'What
do you think?' he said to them, opening the floodgates.

Immediately, four people started to talk at once, with
their theories of who did what to whom, where and
when. Argument and counter-argument, polite but
forthright, bounced from one to the other as explanations
grew more and more tangled.

Aubrey began to pace, thinking.

The golem. The Black Beast. The shade. The Magisterium.
Banford Park. Holmland. The stolen notebook.
Professor Hepworth. The pamphlets. His father's disappearance.
He needed to put them together and make
the links into a chain.

The others in the room ignored him, enmeshed in
elaborate constructions of their own.

He rubbed his hands together, then seized a small brass
box from a vase stand.
Let that be the golem
, he thought.
He dragged over a side table. On the way, he grabbed an
onyx cube, a stone die, two marble pestles, a crystal hemisphere,
a tiny book with a red velvet cover, a music box,
a silk fez and a tobacco pouch. Humming, he arranged
them on the smooth table, one on top of the other,
shifting them around in an irregular lattice – first a wall,
then a mound, then two columns spanned by the red
velvet book. He gazed at the structure, but hardly saw it.

He cleared his throat. The discussion died down, not
without some reluctance, but soon the others were
looking at him.

'Father went to the Magisterium building, Darnleigh
House,' he said. 'If they have him, he's still there. But if he
were intercepted along the way, by Holmlanders who are
eager to remove him from the political scene, as we've
established,
they
have him. It is urgent, therefore, that we
find these Holmlanders. The best hope – the
only
hope –
we have of finding them is to go to the Mire tonight. If
they think their cipher is compromised, they won't
arrive. If they think it's safe, they'll come.'

'And lead us to Sir Darius,' George concluded.

'And if he's in Darnleigh House?' Caroline asked.

'Mother,' Aubrey said, 'if you don't hear from us by
noon tomorrow, I want you to call Bertie. Let him know
that you think the Magisterium has Father.'

Lady Fitzwilliam looked as if she wanted to argue with
this, but she changed her mind. 'I will.' She pinned
Aubrey with her gaze. 'Find him, Aubrey. I don't care
how, but go and bring him back home.'

'I will.'

Lady Fitzwilliam took Mrs Hepworth's arm. They left,
talking in low voices. Caroline followed.

'You coming, old man?' George asked.

'In a minute.'

Alone, Aubrey put his hands together, satisfied. He was
going to find his father. Nothing would stop him from
that. It wouldn't matter who had him, Aubrey would
find him.

He turned to go and grinned wryly at the edifice he'd
built on the table. It had helped him think, and it wasn't
a bad construction at all, considering what he'd had to
work with. It was firm and solid. Solid enough, anyway.
He wouldn't want to nudge it just
there
, for instance,
because it could get a little shaky. He rubbed his chin.
Maybe it did need a little support on one side.

He looked around and his gaze landed on a small, dark
object that was hidden behind some white plumes from
a plant his mother had brought back from South Arenta.
It was perfect.

He paused when he had it in his hand. It was wooden,
no bigger than his thumb, made from a dense, black
timber so finely grained that the whole figure seemed
to be looped and whorled, as if made from a whirlwind.
The figure was only vaguely human, with the merest hint
of limbs and a head. The face had no features.

He slid it in between the onyx cube and the fez. It
fitted perfectly and stabilised the whole construction.

Aubrey left the room, still thinking.

L
ADY
F
ITZWILLIAM OFFERED
M
RS
H
EPWORTH A PLACE
to stay for the night. After some discussion, she
agreed. Aubrey watched as they went up the stairs. 'And
so to the Mire,' he said to Caroline and George.

'The Mire, at midnight?' Caroline shook her head. 'We
must be on our mettle.'

'Even on our mettle, we need some help.'

'Jack Figg?' George said.

'Yes. And it's time for Tommy Sparks, too.'

George grimaced and glanced at Caroline. 'You think
that's wise?'

'We can't go looking like this. Tommy's well known.
He moves easily through the Mire.'

Caroline crossed her arms and glared. 'I refuse to go
any further until you two stop speaking in riddles.'

Aubrey considered this. 'Perhaps we need to show you
what we're about.'

While Caroline and George waited, Aubrey went to
his dressing room. His heart was beating faster. He found
the box at the rear of an upper shelf.

Tommy Sparks was inside.

A bowler hat with a frayed brim and scuffed crown. A
long, patched jacket which had once been brown. Flannel
trousers. Boots with new soles, but holes in the uppers.

As Aubrey put on this disreputable costume, he felt the
thrill of release, becoming Tommy Sparks. Being this
rogue gave him the chance to escape from the responsibilities
of being Aubrey Fitzwilliam, once heir to the
Duchy of Brayshire.

He changed his posture. He dropped his shoulders a
little and pushed his chin forward, enough to alter his
profile but not enough to appear exaggerated or grotesque.
Inside his boots, he shifted his weight so he was
standing slightly on his toes. When he looked in the
mirror he saw someone who wasn't Aubrey Fitzwilliam.

Instead, he saw a street scrounger who mixed with
barge folk, pilgrims, dock workers, costermongers and
beggars, someone who listened to gossip and rumours,
who tried to divine the mood of the people. He grinned.
'What a 'andsome chap,' he said aloud. He slipped easily
into Tommy Sparks's voice, slightly higher pitched than
his usual. He tipped his hat and sidled out of the dressing
room to find Caroline and George.

They were in Lady Fitzwilliam's drawing room. George
rose when Aubrey entered, but Caroline remained seated.
She frowned.

'Hullo, miss!' Aubrey tipped his hat, then stuck his
thumbs in the rope belt around his waist. 'Tommy Sparks,
at your service.'

George smiled. 'Miss Caroline Hepworth, meet Tommy
Sparks. Tommy Sparks, Miss Caroline Hepworth.'

Caroline scowled. 'This is what you need to take us to
the Mire? This pantomime creature?'

Aubrey staggered back a step or two in mock horror.
'Wounded, I am, wounded to the 'eart! The lovely Miss
Hepworth finks I'm nothing but a creature!'

'Settle down, Aubrey,' George said. 'Save the performance
for the streets.'

Aubrey coughed and shook himself. 'Sorry,' he said,
with his normal voice. It took an effort, as if Tommy
didn't want to leave. 'Tommy does tend to take over.'

'I see,' Caroline said.

Aubrey massaged his neck. 'And you mustn't call me
Aubrey when I've put on Tommy Sparks. No-one in the
Mire knows me as Aubrey.'

Caroline nodded. 'This Tommy isn't inconspicuous, is
he?' She raised an eyebrow. 'And he's a little forward.'

Aubrey took off his hat and studied its brim. 'Ah, yes.
He tends to be like that. Especially with the ladies. He's
quite a favourite.'

'I can imagine,' Caroline said dryly.

'And what about us, Aubrey?' George said.

Aubrey grinned, but this time it was not a Tommy
Sparks grin. 'Wait here.'

He came back with two costumes.

'You want me to be a beggar,' Caroline said. Her voice
was flat. She held up a ragged dress that looked as if
Aubrey had plucked it from the gutter.

George screwed up his face. 'Me too? A beggar?'

'It's an excellent disguise. You and George can pretend
to be mutes, which isn't unusual in the Mire. Beggars can
go anywhere. People see the rags, not the person. They
won't remember you.'

George shook his beggar's clothes. 'No fleas?'

'No. Just lice.'

George dropped the rags and took a step back. 'Lice!'

'I was joking.'

'I hope so,' Caroline muttered.

'Trust me,' Aubrey said. 'They look dirty, but they're
actually quite clean.'

Caroline looked at him. 'Why do you have women's
clothes?'

Aubrey felt his cheeks flaming. 'Well, just in case, you
know. I've had them for ages. It's the sort of thing
I collect, for study, you know . . .'

'You're babbling again, Aubrey.'

'Ah.'

George laughed. 'You've used those clothes, haven't
you, Aubrey? You've dressed as a woman beggar!'

'Not for some time, I haven't.' He stopped. 'That is
to say . . .'

Caroline stood. 'No need to be embarrassed. It makes
good sense. I'm pleased to hear that you're not trapped
into old-fashioned thinking. Now, where can I get
changed?'

Aubrey showed Caroline and George to spare rooms,
then went back to his own, wondering what sort of
preparations would be useful. In the end, he stuffed an
assortment of bottles, powders, scraps of paper and other
possibilities in the capacious pockets of his coat. For a
moment, he studied the mess of papers and books on one
of his tables. It was the latest stage of his research, which
had been extending in many directions. He'd been
making an effort to bring his findings together, to take
stock of possible remedies for his condition. Some were
desperate, some were most unlikely, but he did have one
that looked as if it could do something for him. He'd
teased it out, refining it and eventually constructing a
spell, but he'd shied away from it. It was rough, crude, and
not without its dangers. It needed testing, developing,
work. He rubbed his forehead.
Time. I need more time.

George entered the room. He wore trousers that were
torn off just below the knee. His shirt and jacket were
threadbare. Jammed on his head was a hat that looked like
a pie that had been stepped on. He was not smiling. 'I feel
foolish.'

'Don't worry, George. No-one will notice you.' Aubrey
tucked a feather in his pocket and looked around,
wondering what else he should take.

George cleared his throat. 'That Caroline . . .'

Aubrey looked up. 'Yes, George?'

'Very
capable
young woman, wouldn't you say?
Resourceful, clever?'

'Hmm. I thought she daunted you? You've changed
your tune.'

George shrugged. 'Presentable, too. In a stylish way.'

'What are you getting at, George? Has she piqued your
interest?'

'Not my type, old man. Or rather, I doubt that I'm her
type. She doesn't need a plodder like me.'

'Then what is it?'

'I just wanted to make sure you realised she was
your
type.'

Aubrey didn't have time to answer. Caroline joined
them before he could extract more from George on this
issue. She stood unselfconsciously in her beggar's rags.
'Well?'

Aubrey studied her. The dress dragged on the ground,
billowing around her. The collar had been torn off,
leaving a frayed edge. The sleeves were much too long
and Caroline had pushed them up. This made her
forearms look enormous and puffy. Her hat had once
been a collection of colourful fabric flowers, but was now
a brown mess. To Aubrey's eye, there was no possibility
of mistaking her for a beggar, but he hoped that the
darkness would obscure Caroline's extraordinary features.

'Your posture is too good. Slump your shoulders and
stoop a little. You too, George.'

'Better?' Caroline asked. She hunched, letting her head
fall forward.

'It's uncomfortable,' George complained.

'You'll get used to it. Now, George, tangle your hair
and smear on some of this.'

Aubrey gave a small pot to Caroline. She unscrewed
the lid. 'Makeup.'

'False dirt and grime. It's quite convincing.'

Soon, Aubrey was faced by two convincing beggars.
In
the dark, at least
, he thought.
At a distance.
'Good enough,'
he declared. 'Are you ready?'

'Ready enough,' George said.

'Yes,' Caroline said.

'Let's go, then.'

A
UBREY FELT THE CHILL AS SOON AS HE STEPPED OUTSIDE.
Rain was on the way.

The constellations were difficult to see behind the
blanket of fog and smoke that hung over the city, but
occasionally a star would appear and stare down at the
unlikely trio.

First, Aubrey led them towards the river. They soon
left Fielding Cross behind as they worked their way
deeper into the bowels of the city. Gone were the sounds
of the occasional piano in a parlour. Instead they had the
shifting chorus of noise: guard dogs, pub brawls, clattering
machinery, running water and indistinct caterwauling
in the night.

They made their way through Newpike, the Narrows,
Royland Rise and Downmarsh. They skirted braziers
surrounded by sooty-faced men and crossed train tracks.
Drizzle began to fall when they reached Little Pickling.
The tang of burning coal, hot asphalt and rotting wood
dampened and changed, becoming both more diffuse and
more challenging.

After about an hour, through rain that grew heavier,
they came to the Crozier district. Aubrey strode along
Hayholt Street, waving at the few skulking passers-by. He
skipped across a gutter that ran thick with refuse and
turned down Creeland Lane. Sagging brick buildings
looked as if they were held up by the many posters from
the Army of New Albion which, in badly spelt and very
large letters, denounced the King as a foreign puppet. He
stopped at the only dwelling that showed a light.
Grinning, he pounded on the door.

It swung open and a tall, thin young man stood there.
He wore round spectacles and fingerless gloves. He had a
pencil behind each ear; they stuck through a thatch of
brown hair. Two cats were at his feet and they stared
evenly at the visitors.

'Jack Figg!' Aubrey crowed. 'Aren't you going to ask us
in? It's wet enough to drown a duck out here!'

Jack Figg didn't say anything. He nodded, stood back
and allowed them to enter the tiny room.

A large, battered desk took up one entire wall. Papers
and pamphlets were piled up high on it. They also stood
in shaky piles to either side, next to four wooden crates
and the only chair in the room. When the door was closed,
Jack Figg stood and crossed his arms. 'I'm honoured,' he
said mildly. He glanced at Caroline and George. 'Have you
brought some poor souls who need help?'

Aubrey ran a hand over his face and sighed. He put
Tommy Sparks away for a while. 'Hello, Jack. Things are
moving apace.' He waved at his beggar friends. 'This
is Miss Caroline Hepworth and George Doyle, whom
you've met before, when he was a little better dressed.'

Jack shook hands with George. 'Good to see you again,
Doyle.' He bowed to Caroline. 'Miss Hepworth. You
wouldn't, by any chance, be related to Ophelia
Hepworth?'

Caroline smiled. 'She's my mother.'

'Ah! One of my favourite artists. I think her
Adonis at
Bay
is the lushest painting I've seen.' He frowned. 'She's
much undervalued.'

'Yes,' Caroline said. 'You saw her work at the Academy?'

'Charlie, the nightwatchman, is a friend of mine. I see
most of the Academy's exhibitions after dark. It's not
ideal, I grant you. I'd prefer to see them with natural
light. But the Academy has a habit of turning away riffraff
like me.'

Aubrey watched this with interest. 'I hate to interrupt,'
he broke in, 'but we have more important matters to
discuss.'

'Take a seat,' Jack waved a hand, 'or a crate. I hope you
can tell me what's going on around here.'

'What do you mean?' Aubrey asked.

'Strange times, at the moment. Lots of unrest.'

'Such as?' George asked.

Jack frowned. 'I haven't seen so many agitators at work
for a long time. They're haranguing, hanging posters,
encouraging people to disobey authorities, calling for
war, warning against war . . . And so many pamphlets!'
He gestured at his own. 'Mine are getting lost in the
avalanche at the moment.'

'Ah,' Aubrey said.

'And hotheads are getting organised, too, recruiting
members, looking out for mischief to do. The Army of
New Albion, the Patriot League, the Reformists.' He
shook his head. 'It's making the struggle even harder.'

Aubrey wondered how much of this was the doing of
the Holmlanders. Stirring up the masses was a useful
tactic before a war.

'Jack,' he said, 'we need to go to the Mire. The burnt
church.'

Jack lifted an eyebrow. 'The burnt church? Well, that's
interesting. You're the second person today who's talked
of the burnt church.'