Blaze of Glory (8 page)

Aubrey raised an eyebrow. 'What makes you think
that?'

'Well, with the way your father has been making
noises . . .' George paused, then he nodded. 'Ah.'

Aubrey turned back to his book. 'You see why Sir
Darius Fitzwilliam was invited to this shooting weekend?
And you see why he has to send someone in his place so
it won't seem like he's snubbing the whole affair, thereby
insulting not only the heir to the throne but the Holmland
delegation, thus adding to the tension between our
two countries?'

'I see why you have to go. And what the deuce are
you reading?'

'
Tremaine on Magic
.'

'I see. A racy little story?'

'I wanted to check something. I had a thought about a
novel method of applying two disparate magical laws in
a way that may have a useful effect.'

'Something to make the Snainton Prize even more
securely yours? I can't imagine anyone else matching you
for Dux of the school.'

'No. This is more to do with our engagement next
weekend. I was thinking about a way to improve my aim.'

George snorted. 'Practice being out of the question.'

'No time for that, George.' He pointed at
Tremaine on
Magic
. 'The Law of Animation is reasonably well established
– how to give lifeless objects some vigour through
a variation on the Law of Contiguity.'

'Walking broomsticks fetching water, that sort of
thing.'

'Exactly.' Aubrey nodded. 'It's not foolproof, but the
variables are fairly well worked out. I was thinking of
the shot used in the cartridges. If I could apply the Law
of Animation and find some way to guide them, the shot
could compensate for my inadequate aiming.'

'Ingenious.'

Aubrey seized
Tremaine on Magic
and flipped through
the pages. 'Here it is: "The Law of Propensity – the
tendency of objects towards certain actions. For example,
most objects have a tendency to fall when dropped from
a height."' He snapped the book shut. 'I think I can work
this law so that the shot almost has a
desire
to go in the
right direction, towards the target.'

George frowned for a moment. 'If you can perfect this,
there may be many people who'd be interested in such
a process.'

'Of course. Our friends in the army would love ammunition
that wouldn't miss.'

'Smart bullets. Clever shells. Intelligent bombs.'

'Hmm.' Aubrey narrowed his eyes. 'If I can do this
discreetly, no-one need ever know.'

George picked up the newspaper. 'Very discreetly.' He
tapped the front page. 'Some Holmlander archduke or
other is making rather colourful suggestions about your
father and the policies he stands for.'

'Again?'

'You're not worried?'

Aubrey took another book from the bookshelf and sat
at the desk. 'It wouldn't do much good if I were. Father
won't stop making speeches, nor would I want him to.'

'You think he's right?'

'In standing up to bullies? Certainly. In bringing us
closer to war? I'm not sure, but I'm not sure of the alternative,
either.'

'Tricky thing, international relations.' George shook
the newspaper. 'Let's bypass them and concentrate on
something important.'

'The Personal Advertisements?'

'Precisely.'

'George, I've never understood your fascination with
the agony columns.'

'I'm simply curious. Insight into other lives, glimpses of
how strangers live, colourful details. Interesting stuff.'

'That's right. "Mr G. Brown will no longer be responsible
for any debts incurred by his father as he is now
dead." Profound, that.'

'What about "C.J. Send £10 at once. D.W."? Anything
could be going on there. Blackmail, embezzlement,
secret plans.'

'It's more likely that D.W. needs money and thinks
C.J. is a soft touch.'

'Where's your imagination, old man?'

Aubrey chuckled and returned to his reading.

'What are you going to wear, Aubrey?' George said
suddenly.

'To the shooting weekend? No idea.' Aubrey didn't
look up from
An Inquiry into Enchantments of Motion
. He'd
found some interesting approaches to the problem of
changing momentum by spells that worked on variables
of mass and velocity. 'But I'm sure Grandmother will have
sorted that out. She'll probably get a trunk or two of
clothes organised.'

'Ah.'

'Don't worry. The Holmlanders are notoriously bad
dressers. They spend enormous amounts of money on
clothes whenever they're posted over here, but they have
abominable taste. They'll either look like walking
haystacks or they'll scare away any game for miles.'

'That's not much consolation. "There goes George
Doyle. He doesn't dress quite as badly as a Holmlander."'

'George, you have tweeds, perfectly acceptable shooting
clothes. You're from the country, we're going out to
the country. You'll be at home.'

'I hate tweed,' George mumbled. 'It itches.'

A
UBREY LIKED TRAINS.
H
E FOUND IT HARD TO PASS A
station without pausing to take in the steam,
smoke and organised business that was railway life. The
smells of oil and coal appealed to him, as did the knowledge
that every station was the beginning of a thousand
destinations, all waiting at the other end of the vast steel
network that was the railways.

He saw trains as the result of a hundred and fifty years
of accumulated expertise and refinement. He admired
the power and precision in the engineering that went
into engines: the way that coal and water was turned into
enough horsepower to pull a laden goods train was testimony
to years of practical thinking, each engineer adding
his competence to those who'd gone before him.

Or her
, Aubrey added mentally, thinking of Lord
Ashton's daughter, Sophie, who had recently invented a
particularly clever magically augmented anti-blowback
valve for locomotive boilers. Extraordinarily expensive, it
was, so it was only found on the showpiece locomotives,
such as the one he was gazing at.

He stood on the platform of Ashfields Station, the
busiest in the city, admiring the
Teal
, the latest of the
Northern Line's engines, the pinnacle of the Hurricane
class of engines. The dark green paint glowed on the
streamlined cowling as a stoker polished brasswork that
already glistened in the morning sun. A thin wisp of
steam came from the smokestack, indicating it was some
time before the train was to leave.

Aubrey wanted to stop and chat with the driver,
but George was looking pained as he waited. 'Come on,
George,' Aubrey said, with a lingering glance at the great
driving rods and wheels. 'Let's find our compartment.'

Aubrey led the way. He'd been feeling ill at ease all
morning and his stroll around the station had done him
good, allowing him to think clearly about the looming
weekend.

He was willing to admit that he felt ambivalent about
the shooting party. The lack of clear direction from his
father was awkward. Aubrey was tossing up if it meant
that his father had confidence in Aubrey to know what
to do, or whether it meant a
lack
of confidence.

Of course, the sinking of the
Osprey
was going to
make the weekend tense. Aubrey smiled to himself as he
imagined how the Albion politicians and generals would
be polite through gritted teeth, saying they understood
how these things happened while seething underneath.
The Holmlanders would be stiff and diplomatic and
manage to offend everyone without realising it, as Holmlanders
usually did.

It was bound to be a weekend of walking on eggshells.
He wondered if his father really had another engagement
to go to.

Aubrey marched down the platform, studying his ticket
and peering at the carriages. The porter with the bags
had to hurry to keep up.

'Here, George,' Aubrey gestured. 'Climb aboard. Next
stop, Penhurst Estate Station.'

'Why couldn't we take an ornithopter?' George asked.
'It'd be fun. We'd be there in no time.'

As if to emphasise George's suggestion, an ornithopter
rose clattering into the air from the ornithopter port
nearby. Aubrey shaded his eyes and watched as it
swooped, steel wings beating birdlike at the air, righted
itself and then rose over the neighbouring Engineers'
Guild headquarters. Aubrey approved of the way the pilot
rolled the aircraft around the dirigible tethering mast on
top of the building and then mounted even higher.

'I wanted to think,' he said. 'Ornithopters are so noisy
it's hard to talk, let alone think.' He looked up again and
followed the ornithopter as its metal body caught the
sun. Someday, he'd like to learn how to fly one of those
magically enhanced machines. 'Another time, George.'

A
FTER THE PORTER HAD STOWED THE LUGGAGE, HE BACKED
out of the compartment.

With blue velvet bench seats, chintz curtains, brightly
polished brasswork and turned wood, the compartment
was fit for a king, Aubrey decided, and most probably
had hosted royalty. He approved of the combination of
luxury and cunning artifice, showing that comfort need
not be sacrificed in an efficient, modern world.

Aubrey placed his hat on the wire shelf above the other
seat in the compartment and hung his coat in the cleverly
designed rack, which was no more than a handspan wide.
He sat on the velvet and brushed his hand backwards and
forwards, studying the changing sheen of the nap.

George frowned at the compartment from the narrow
doorway. 'Don't just stand there,' Aubrey said, 'come in.'

George sat. Then he smiled and ran a hand through
his sandy hair. 'Plush, isn't it? I feel out of place.'

'Don't worry about it. Relax, enjoy the ride.'

George sat back, realised he was still wearing his jacket,
stood, took it off and hung it up. He took a position by
the window.

Unlike George, Aubrey had some experience in
dealing with royalty and foreign diplomats. A constant
stream of the powerful and famous had run through
Maidstone over the years of Aubrey's growing up. George
was a country lad, not accustomed to the brittle world of
precedence, protocol and politics. He was more at home
in the fields and woods than in the drawing room.

At least he should enjoy the shooting
, Aubrey thought. He
remembered the letter his grandmother had given him
before he left Stonelea that morning.

'Something amusing?' George enquired.

'Grandmother. She gave me a twelve-page letter,
detailing everything she thought I'd forget.'

'Stand up straight, eat all your greens, things like that?'

'Protocol, George. How to address the Crown Prince.
How to address a foreign diplomat. Correct forms of
praise for good shooting by one's host. That sort of thing.'

'Twelve pages,' George mused. 'You read them all?'

'Hardly.' Aubrey grinned. 'But I'm sure it's nothing
personal. I'm certain she would have written such a tome
for Father if he were going instead of me.'

George smiled and then looked serious. 'How are you
feeling?' he asked.

Aubrey shrugged. 'I'm all right at the moment. I'm
rested, the spells seem to be holding . . .There's not much
more I can do.'

'Have your researches given you any hope of a lasting
cure?'

'I've found a few small refinements to the spells I'm
using, but that's all. I have a few prospects to investigate,
but . . .' Aubrey's good mood began to evaporate. Thinking
about his condition made him depressed. He'd
achieved an equilibrium state where maintaining his
integrity was almost automatic. Focusing on it made
him aware of how precarious his state actually was, how
fragile the grace afforded to him by his spells.

Aubrey brooded, cursing the impetuousness that had
led him to the disastrous experiment. He had grown
good at this self-chastisement and he took a moment to
give himself a good dressing-down. He deserved it.

In addition to castigating himself for bungling the experiment,
he spent time dissecting his actions. As well as the
failure in the focusing figure, he was sure that, despite his
efforts, the problem had arisen from a slight looseness of
expression in one element in the spell. It was enough to
introduce an error, which had influenced a variable and
thus created another error, which led to more. Subtle,
infinitesimal, but errors nonetheless. The result was
death's opening in front of him. It was still there, waiting.

Aubrey felt cold when he thought of it. He had so
much he wanted to do in his life that the idea of leaving
it now appalled him. He didn't want an obituary that
included phrases such as 'too young', 'cut short' or 'before
his time'. He smiled wryly. If nothing else, he was determined
to leave more than clichés behind.

The trip took just over an hour and a half. They had
had time to visit the dining car, with George tucking
into a huge plate of scones. The landscape rushed by,
the steam whistle split the air and the deep-throated
chuffing of the locomotive underlined everything.

The conductor was a roly-poly man who looked as if
he'd break into a sweat if he even thought about climbing
stairs. He assured Aubrey and George that Penhurst Estate
Station was not a regular stop on the line and it wasn't
to be confused with Penhurst Station. Penhurst
Estate
Station was actually part of the Crown Prince's Penhurst
Estate and only used for his business and guests. Anyone
wanting to go to the town of Penhurst had to get off
some two miles further down the track.

As the train began to slow, Aubrey peered through the
window. 'No brass bands to welcome us.'

George was struggling into his jacket. 'Just as long as
there's someone.'

Aubrey looked again, with a level of careful appraisal.
'There is. It's a girl.'

Standing alone on the platform was a girl. A young
woman? Aubrey found it hard to say, with the swirling
smoke and steam. She was dressed for the outdoors, with
leather gloves, a small cap, a tweed jacket and a heavy
skirt. Dark brown hair. The more she tried to wave the
smoke and steam away from her face, the more it seemed
to cling, attracted to her.

George hurried to the window and joined Aubrey.
'Well,' he said. 'Charming. This weekend is looking more
promising all the time.'

'We're here out of duty. Remember that.'

'And it looks as if this duty may be a pleasure. Come
now, old man, the train isn't going to wait all day. Tallyho!'
He fairly bounded for the door of the compartment.

Aubrey wondered if he should point out that they
weren't going fox-hunting, but shrugged instead. It
wouldn't make any difference.

Once they'd alighted, Aubrey saw that the young
woman was closer to his age than he'd thought. 'Fitzwilliam,
Doyle? I'm Caroline Hepworth. I've been sent
to fetch you.'

She held out a leather-gloved hand. George looked
nonplussed, but took it and she shook in a businesslike
manner. Before she could repeat the process, Aubrey held
out his hand first. 'Miss Hepworth,' he said, looking her
directly in the eye and smiling. 'Thank you for coming
out for us. I hope we haven't kept you waiting.'

She hesitated, then took his hand. 'Not at all. It gave me
a chance to get out of the Big House and all the nonsense
that's going on up there.'

Aubrey blinked. 'Nonsense?'

'Politicians and diplomats. They love a chance to
scheme and plot away from the eyes of the public. They're
more excited than a class of schoolboys on a field trip.'

'I see.' Aubrey was a little taken aback, but intrigued
all the same. 'I'd guess you're not a politician, Miss
Hepworth, so your role here is . . .?'

'My father. My mother made me accompany him to
keep him out of trouble, but there's only so much guff
I can stand.'

'I'm sure,' Aubrey said.

At that moment the conductor appeared with their
luggage. George took his bags and placed them on the
trolley that was waiting for them. The conductor hurried
back for Aubrey's trunk.

'Good Lord,' Miss Hepworth exclaimed. 'How long are
you staying? Six months?'

Aubrey shrugged and spread his hands. 'My grandmother
packed for me. I could insist, but she feels I can't do the
job properly without her.' He paused. 'Miss Hepworth,
your father would be Professor Lionel Hepworth?'

'Quite. And my mother is Ophelia Hepworth.'

The name was familiar. Aubrey hazarded a guess. 'The
artist?'

George looked from Aubrey to Miss Hepworth,
puzzled.

'Sorry, George. Professor Hepworth is renowned for
some extraordinary work at Greythorn University.
Uncertainty Theory, if I'm not mistaken, Miss
Hepworth? Working with Winslow and Tremaine?'

She nodded, but Aubrey saw wariness in her eyes.
'That's his field.'

'I haven't read anything about his research for some
time,' he said. 'I hope I'll get the chance to meet him. It'd
be an honour.'

Miss Hepworth glanced at George and added, 'My
mother is Ophelia Hepworth. Her works are hung in the
National Gallery as well as in major galleries overseas.
Her paintings are sought after by private collectors and
the Royal Family own several. She's a genius.'

'I'm sure she is.' George smiled.

She turned back to Aubrey, who was trying to keep up
with the mercurial Miss Hepworth. 'Your mother is Lady
Rose Fitzwilliam, the famous explorer and naturalist?'

Aubrey was surprised. It was his father that most
people were immediately interested in. 'Indeed.'

'I'd like to meet her. 'With that, she swept towards the
station exit, not looking behind to see if they'd follow.

'A modern young woman,' George said, after a
moment's silence.

'Certainly,' Aubrey said. 'Let's go and join her, George.
I'm sure she has more surprises for us.'