Heart of Gold (2 page)

As the bird dived, it screeched, a wild clanging cry that
joined the din of the thunderstorm and the burning
dirigible.

Aubrey hung on, desperately, fingers whitening with
effort. Suddenly the metal bird lunged and struck the
observation cockpit with its talons. Aubrey cried out as
the glass shattered and the crewman fell, flailing, through
the air.

Aubrey hammered at the bird's metal skin, shouting
wordless oaths of anger and disbelief. What had he done?
Created a monster and loosed it on the world?

The metal bird folded its wings and dived after the
falling Gallian, and Aubrey was forced to cling with both
hands. He squinted and tried to think of a spell to stop
the creature's madness.

Then Aubrey's grip was tested again. With a crack like
a giant's whip, the bird thrust out its wings and stopped
its dreadful descent. The jolt threw him aside and, for a
desperate moment, he had nothing to hold onto. He
slid, his back scraping on bolts and ridges, until his head
hung over the bird's flank. Far below, the dark and hard
ground beckoned. Above was the blazing immensity of
the dirigible. Neither fate appealed to him. Of course,
there now also existed the possibility of being pecked to
death by a rampaging metal avian.

Another jolt sent him head first over the bird's flank,
and he only stopped himself tumbling into the empty air
by grabbing a feathered ridge. While his heart raced and
fear turned his insides to ice, the world wheeled around
below, a great, flat dish waiting to catch him.

Wind ripped at his clothes and gleefully tried to dislodge
him. Desperately trying to think of a way out of
his predicament, he saw the great talons of the metal
bird a few feet below him. They were clutching the
Gallian crewman. His uniform was scorched, his eyes
were closed. Aubrey couldn't tell if he was breathing
or not.

Aubrey's collar jerked and, for an awful instant, he
thought he was about to fall. He looked up to see
George grimacing and holding onto his jacket. With his
friend's timely help, Aubrey managed to clamber up until
he was again flat on the back of the bird, panting with
exertion and exhilaration at his rescue. His fingers ached
from clinging to his handholds, but he was alive!

He put his mouth close to George's ear. 'The Gallian!
The bird has him! He's safe!'

'Like we are?' George shouted. Aubrey waved a hand.
Safety, he now realised, was a relative thing.

Blinding white light peeled the sky apart and the
metal bird was flung across the heavens. Its wings flapped
in wild, jerky sweeps. Aubrey, blinked, dazzled and
deafened, alarmed at the smell of hot metal and ozone.
Through black spots that wandered in his vision, he
looked over his shoulder to see that half the bird's tail was
missing – melted, with black charred streaks.

It had been struck by lightning.

The creature almost tumbled, then righted itself and
began a descent that was a combination of vertigoinducing
drops and a controlled tight spiral. Aubrey
peered over the side. The flames of the still-descending
dirigible reflected in the ponds of the sewage treatment
works bordering the airfield.

Their descent continued to slow. Aubrey cheered on
the plucky bird, but the rasping tickle that signalled the
presence of magic made him alert. The feathers beneath
his fingers rippled and flowed, rearranging themselves,
shifting shape. The creature heaved, plunging a little, then
Aubrey was in the battered cabin of the ornithopter
again. The windscreen was cracked and the smell of
scorched metal was thick in the enclosed space.
Aubrey had time to see that George was next to him
and that the unconscious Gallian airman was in the seat
behind. George was hastily strapping on his seat belt and
Aubrey managed to do the same before the ornithopter
splashed into the sewage works.

Aubrey was thrown forward and hit his head on the
steering column. He jerked back, half-stunned, as water
cascaded on the cabin roof. He gasped for air and was
rewarded by the rich fragrance of the settling ponds.
Through the window he saw, in the distance, the tattered
remains of the dirigible sinking with relative dignity into
the swampy morass. A cloud of steam and smoke rose to
the heavens.

A dense, ponderous feeling settled on Aubrey's shoulders,
making them sag. It took him some time to identify
it as relief. Then he spent a moment wondering about
the flawed spell, and how he could have made the
ornithopter's change last longer, but he gave up, pleased
that such a quickly cobbled-together effort had worked
at all.

George coughed and cleared his throat. 'Good
landing.'

'What?'

'WingCo Jeffries said any landing you walk away from
is a good landing.' George peered out of the window.
'Or in our case, swim away from.'

'Oh.'

The ornithopter wobbled, slipped, paused and then
began to sink.

Aubrey shrugged. Just when things couldn't get any
worse, they did. He glanced over his shoulder to see that
the Gallian was still unconscious, but breathing. He was
sprawled across the back seats like a rag doll.

Aubrey rubbed his forehead. He felt weary to the
bone. The magical exertion had drained him and he
knew he'd pay for it later. 'You know, George, I was just
wondering why you jumped into the ornithopter with
me. What were you going to do? You don't know the
first thing about flying.'

'Just habit, old man. You go off on a hare-brained
expedition, I tag along to try to stop you from killing
yourself. Or, at least, to minimise the damage to innocent
bystanders. It's a hobby, I suppose.'

'Couldn't you have taken up stamp collecting?'

'Allergic to glue, old man. You know that.'

Aubrey was silent for a time and watched the
discoloured water rise up the windows. Then the ornithopter
bumped and stopped sinking. Nearby, frogs
started croaking.

'George?'

'Mmm?'

'You remember that holiday I said we should take after
the examinations?'

'Of course.'

'I think now could be a good time to take it.'

I
N THE
C
HARTER
R
OOM OF THE
P
ALACE
, S
IR
A
RTHUR
Ross, head of the Albion airship fleet, sat near the
head of the long table and scowled. In the seat opposite,
Melville Taylor – the new Minister for Defence –
fumbled with his glasses and gazed mildly at the ceiling.
Both men had a brace of functionaries with them to
hold papers and to remind everyone how important
they were.

Crown Prince Albert sat alone in the middle of the
table. He had a small leather notebook open in front of
him. He held a pencil, ready to write.

Aubrey was near the far end of the table. Still
exhausted from his magical exertions, he rubbed the
bridge of his nose and did his best to appear as if he
belonged there.

The Minister for Defence, a gnarled old man with
remarkably blue eyes, cleared his throat and began to read
from the Special Services official account of the Gallian
airship disaster.

Ten minutes later, Prince Albert rapped on the table.
'Mr Taylor?'

The Minister raised his head. 'Your highness?'

'We have all read the report. I don't think there is any
need to read it to us again.'

Sir Arthur nodded, and jutted forward his magnificently
whiskered chin. 'I fully agree.'

'Is there anything else that you wish the King to
know?' Prince Albert said.

Sir Arthur and Mr Taylor frowned at each other. 'It
was no accident,' Sir Arthur finally said. Mr Taylor
harrumphed, but didn't contradict him. 'The Gallian dirigible
was brought down by sabotage.'

'I see,' Prince Albert said.

Aubrey straightened at this news.
Interesting
, he
thought, and only realised that he'd made some sort of
noise when Prince Albert glanced at him. They shared a
look that Aubrey knew meant that the prince would
want to discuss this matter with him later.

Extremely interesting
, Aubrey thought, and settled back
in his chair.

'The dirigible was a special experimental model. The
Gallians sent it on a goodwill flight,' Sir Arthur added.

'To cement Albion–Gallian relations,' Mr Taylor put in.
'A show of support for the treaty, as it were.'

'Ah. Is Prime Minister Giraud feeling political
pressure?' Prince Albert asked.

'The Gallian government is not in a strong position,'
Mr Taylor said. 'There is considerable unrest across the
country.'

'We must do what we can. Gallia is important to Albion.'
The Prince stood, signalling the end of the meeting.

After the Minister, Sir Arthur and the horde of functionaries
filed out – with a minor standoff over precedence
through the door – Aubrey shrugged. 'What do
you make of it, Bertie?'

'Hmm? 'The Prince blinked. 'Sorry, Aubrey, I was miles
away.' He rubbed his hands together slowly. 'Thanks for
coming at such short notice, by the way. Defence said
His Majesty needed to be informed about this dirigible
incident. That's when I decided I needed you here.
Second opinion and all that.'

Aubrey smiled and nodded. He was accustomed to
acting as a royal sounding board, having grown up close to
the Prince. His cousin Bertie had few people he could be
frank with, and Aubrey felt privileged to be one of them.

'Ah. And how is the King?' he asked.

The Prince sighed. 'Father has had another turn, I'm
afraid. He's quite unwell.'

'So you're standing in for him. Again.' Aubrey chose
his words carefully. 'Are you enjoying this role?'

Bertie looked thoughtful. 'It's not a matter of enjoyment.
It must be done, that's all.'

'But wouldn't you rather be doing something else?'

'That doesn't enter into it, I'm afraid.'

Aubrey knew that his old friend was prepared to put
duty above his personal desires. Aubrey had no doubt
that Bertie was going to be a good king, but he often
wondered what else he could have been. He was only
a year older than Aubrey's seventeen, but in some ways
he seemed to have skipped young adulthood and gone
straight to serious middle age.

'The dirigible incident,' Aubrey prompted.

'Mmm. What can you tell me?'

Aubrey shrugged. 'I'm assuming you read the report
that Special Services made me write. I don't know what
else to add.'

'You didn't leave anything out? I've known you to be
careful when recounting your adventures.'

'Careful. I don't mind that as a description. It's so much
better than "outrageously choosy".' Aubrey shook his
head. 'No. I didn't hold anything back, this time.'

The Prince nodded. 'The situation on the Continent
is a worry.'

'Do you think Holmland was responsible for the
sabotage?'

'It's the obvious conclusion. They would have the most
to gain.' Prince Albert glanced at Aubrey. 'Do you have a
moment, Aubrey? I have something else I'd like to discuss
with you.'

The Prince took Aubrey to a study. The south-facing
room was light and airy; large windows overlooked a
small garden, where a bed of hyacinths and jonquils grew
against the red brick wall that was the rear end of the
palace motorcar stable.

Prince Albert sat in a plush velvet chair, put his chin
on his fist and studied this scene for a while. Comfortable
on a sofa, Aubrey waited patiently.

'Genealogy, Aubrey,' the Prince said after some time.
'It's an obsession in our family. It's an obsession in
all
royal
families.'

'I suppose it would be. Lineage, lines of succession and
all that.'

'Exactly. In many ways, it defines who we are. My
father is king because his father was king before him.
I will become king for the same reason.'

Aubrey didn't say anything. He knew Bertie well
enough to understand that this statement of the obvious
was leading up to something.

'My father is unwell,' the Prince said. 'And his condition
is getting worse.'

Aubrey had some sympathy for the King's worsening
madness, given his own trouble with a deteriorating
condition. 'The doctors?'

'They do what they can. Unfortunately, his body is
declining as well as his mind.'

'Ah. That's news.'

'We try to keep it to ourselves. It's bad enough when
the King becomes an object of derision. I don't want him
to become an object of scorn.'

'Not so,' Aubrey countered. 'He may have been
mocked in the past, but now the public is sympathetic,
toward both him and you. There's an enormous amount
of affection for the royal family.'

A smile touched the habitually serious features of the
Crown Prince. 'You know the mood of the people so
well, Aubrey? The world of politics is beckoning, it
would seem.'

'My father is Prime Minister. How could I be unaware
of what's being said?'

I think that was a reasonable deflection
, Aubrey thought.
Straight to the fine leg boundary for four runs.

Bertie sat back. 'You're going to Lutetia soon, I hear.'

'A holiday. A rest. A chance for some gloriously
uneventful days in a charming city.'

'Aubrey Fitzwilliam and uneventful days? From what
I see, events have a habit of following you. Or do you
instigate events to keep yourself entertained?'

Aubrey spread his hands. 'I intend to enjoy myself,
that's all.'

'Very good.' The Prince nodded, as if reaching a
decision. 'Aubrey, you're one of the people I trust most.
You know that, don't you?'

'What is this, Bertie? You sound ominous.'

'I have a task for you, while you're in Lutetia. If you're
willing.'

'Of course.'

'It is for me, but in the long run it may also prove to
be for Albion.'

'Out with it.'

Prince Albert clasped his hands in front of him. 'My
father's condition is likely to be hereditary. I may be
susceptible to it myself. If I am, I need to know.'

'Ah.' Aubrey grimaced. 'I didn't know that. I'm sorry
to hear it, Bertie. Bad show.'

The Prince nodded. For an instant, he looked pained,
but he gathered himself. 'Thank you, Aubrey. I appreciate
your concern.'

'And I understand the sudden importance of genealogy,'
Aubrey said.

'Exactly. The madness does not strike every generation.
My grandfather and his brothers were free of it.
But where does it fall? How often? That's what I need to
find out.'

'And you think I can do that in Lutetia?'

'My family has branches from all over the Continent.
One significant twig goes back to Lutetia in the tenth
century.'

Aubrey groaned at the awful pun, and the Prince
looked pleased. 'That's appalling, Bertie. One day your
fondness for puns is going to bring you undone.'

The Prince shrugged. 'A small weakness.'

'Lutetia. The tenth century. You're talking about the
Conquest.'

'I attribute my stylishness to my Gallian blood,'
the Prince said. He smiled wryly. 'But the family tree is a
little murky at times.'

'As all great family trees are.'

'Indeed. There is the official story, and then there is the
unofficial story. And that's where my interest lies.'

Aubrey settled back in his chair. He grinned. 'I can
see myself adding some tomb-spotting and graveyard
rambles to my holiday itinerary.'

'Would you, Aubrey? If it doesn't inconvenience you
too much.'

'I'd be happy to do it.'

'I have some papers, some suggestions for you. You can
pick them up on your way out.' The Prince stood and
shook Aubrey's hand. 'This means a great deal to Albion.'

'I'd do it for you, Bertie, let alone the nation.'

'To Maidstone, sir?'

Aubrey blinked. Stubbs, the driver, was looking at him
in the rear vision mirror. Outside the car, two guardsmen
held the palace gates open. 'No, Stubbs, let's not go home
yet. I need to go to St Margaret's Hospital.'

'Right you are, sir.'

The matron at hospital reception glared at him when
he fronted her desk. Aubrey didn't take it personally. It
was probably her customary attitude. 'Captain Saltin is
not to be disturbed,' she said after he explained the reason
for his visit. 'He is still recovering from that awful dirigible
crash.'

'I won't be long,' Aubrey said. 'I'd just like to chat with
him.'

'He can chat when he's well again.'

'And when will that be?'

'I can't say.'

'Then who can say?'

'The doctors.'

'Can I talk with the doctors then?'

'No. They're busy.'

Aubrey was about to give up in the face of such a
formidable defence when a black-uniformed figure
marched down the stairs and through the reception area.
Aubrey waved and went after him. 'Captain Tallis!'

The Special Services chief stopped. 'Ah, Fitzwilliam,'
he said suspiciously. 'What are you doing here?'

'I thought I'd see how our Gallian airman is.' He
nodded toward the matron at the reception window.
She was following their conversation and frowning. 'But
I have substantial impediment.'

'Why didn't you tell her that your father is Prime
Minister? That should do the trick.'

Aubrey smiled back at him.
That's the last thing I'd do
,
he thought.
If I can't manage by myself, I won't manage at all.
'I thought you could help me. You're providing a guard
for Captain Saltin?'

Captain Tallis studied him. Aubrey knew that the
Special Services operative didn't have a high regard for
him, summing him up as a rich and privileged busybody.
While Aubrey couldn't do much about the rich and
privileged part of that judgement, he thought that
'busybody' was going too far. 'Albion wouldn't want
anything to happen to one of our allies,' Tallis said. 'We
want him to be safe.'

'I won't be long,' Aubrey said. 'And I guarantee I won't
harm him.'

Tallis grunted and marched to the reception desk. 'He's
with me,' he said to the matron.

'Is he really the Prime Minister's son?' she asked, eyes
narrowed.

'Oh yes,' Tallis said. 'He has a lot to live up to, doesn't
he?'

Aubrey winced.
You don't have to tell me that
, he thought.

As they mounted the stairs, Tallis glanced at him. 'Have
you seen that Miss Hepworth at all lately?'

Aubrey nearly tripped at the unexpectedness of the
question, but steadied himself on the handrail. 'Not
often. She's been spending time with my mother,
though, at the Albion Museum. She's become her assistant,
helping with classifying specimens.'

'She hasn't mentioned my offer, then?'

Aubrey stared at him. 'What offer?'

'I thought you knew. After that business with the
Sorcerer Royal, I asked if she'd considered a career in
the service.' He paused at the landing. 'Competent young
lady. Without her, Dr Tremaine's plans to kill the King and
throw us into war with Holmland might have succeeded.'