Heart of Gold (27 page)

'I would have heard about any raid,' Inspector Paul
said. 'I should have been told. Who was in charge?'

'We didn't linger and exchange names. He was a
captain, grey-haired. He had a patch over one eye.'

Inspector Paul shook his head. 'There is no-one of that
description on the force.'

'Then someone has access to police uniforms and
police vans. Or very good facsimiles thereof.'

Aubrey didn't know which alternative was worse.
Either way, it meant that matters within the police force
were very difficult.
If it wasn't the police, then who was it?
he thought. It would make sense if it was the same party
responsible for the magical mayhem on the Middle
Bridge. Someone with a grudge against the Marchmaine
cause?

'I cannot accept this,' Inspector Paul said.

'It is true.'

Aubrey saw that, like most honest men, Inspector Paul
had great difficulty in coming to terms with corruption.
He worked his jaw and clenched his fists. 'I will make
some enquiries.'

'Be discreet. If your force has been compromised,
simply asking questions could be dangerous.'

Inspector Paul chewed on this. 'Factions have always
been present within the force. We all know that. But I do
not like to think that it has come to this.'

'Be careful.'

'Do not worry. I have resources of my own.'

'One more thing,' Aubrey said. 'The missing object.
The valuable missing object.'

'Ah. No concrete progress there, but we're sure that it
is still within the environs of the city. The blockade has
been strengthened. Nothing can get out.'

'A suggestion: treat any reports of strange animals very
seriously.'

Inspector Paul began to smile, but then studied Aubrey
and nodded. 'If you say so. Now, I have much work to do.'

The Inspector tipped his cap to Caroline and then he
marched toward the Bureau operatives.

Aubrey felt that he had either thrown a cat among the
pigeons or set a tiger loose. He wasn't sure which.

'Well,' Caroline said. 'Did you learn much?'

'Enough to know that things are even murkier than
I thought.' Aubrey set off. Caroline and George fell in
beside him as they strolled along the river.

The beeches were in full greenery, tall and slender. The
wrought-iron park benches were vacant, however, and
the pigeons were surly because of the absence of their
usual meal providers.

'Let's hope things get clearer before your parents arrive
on Saturday,' George said.

Caroline glanced sharply at Aubrey. 'Your mother is
coming to Lutetia? You didn't tell me that.'

Aubrey could have kicked George. 'It's an official visit,
a hasty one at that.'

'I'd like to see her. She might be able to do something
to get me back into the taxonomy course.'

Aubrey's stomach sank to his shoes and crawled
around in his socks for a while. 'Yes, well, I'm sure she'd
be pleased to do what she can.'

'And Dr Romellier. She'll be keen to hear from him.
You haven't forgotten about him, have you?'

Aubrey winced. 'No. Not forgotten. More important
things have come up.'

'A good leader always knows when to delegate,
Aubrey. I have some avenues to pursue. Let me find
Dr Romellier for you.'

But that's not what I'd planned
, he thought.
I want you
with me.

Guilt jabbed at Aubrey. He felt guilty for not considering
what Caroline wanted to do. Guilty for treating
people as if they were automatons to be moved around
as he wished.

No
, he thought,
it's more than guilt
.
It's shame.

He realised he'd been carried away, seduced by the
grand adventure, absorbed with plans and strategies. And
all the while, he'd overlooked that his schemes involved
people. He wasn't unaware of the fact that people had
their own desires, wants and dreams – sometimes he just
forgot about it.

For a moment, in a desperate rear-guard action, he
tried to convince himself that the ends justified the
means, but the cliché was empty in his hands.

I've been a cad
, he thought.
An insensitive, big-headed
cad
.

He was about to blurt out everything to her when he
stopped dead, the words frozen in his mouth.

I can't tell her
, he thought. His mouth opened and
closed soundlessly, all by itself.

'Are you all right, Aubrey?' Caroline asked. 'You have
the oddest expression on your face.'

If I tell her what I've done
, he thought with dismay,
she
won't have anything to do with me
. Faced with that outcome,
he opted to put it off and hoped he could discover
a way to organise things so all would be well.

The contradictory nature of this resolution didn't
escape him – manipulating things so he'd be forgiven for
manipulating things – but it was all he could think of.
He'd mired himself in a mess of his own making.

'I'm fine,' he managed to say. He cleared his throat and
pressed ahead, putting his sense of guilt aside for later
contemplation. 'My mother would be pleased if you
could find Dr Romellier.'

'Settled, then.'

'Don't go back to the university,' he hurried to add.
He didn't want her questioning the faculty about the
decision to ban her. In fact, he didn't want her near
the Science Faculty until he'd been able to restore her
position. He smiled. She'd be grateful, of course, which
would be delightful. He could confess and they'd laugh
about it together, because everything had turned out for
the best . . .

'I have my own resources,' Caroline said and Aubrey's
daydream vanished.

'Like Inspector Paul does,' George said. 'Good show.'

'If we're going separate ways,' Aubrey said in an
attempt to regain control of a conversation that had run
away from him, 'we must make arrangements to meet
again. To share our findings.'

'Very well.' She paused and tapped the bag she held.
Aubrey thought she carried it like a weapon. 'But
tracking down Dr Romellier shouldn't take all day.'

'It won't?'

'I doubt it. What else can I do to help?'

'What about the letters, old man?' George suggested.

'Letters?' Caroline asked.

'Some correspondence between my grandmother and
my grandfather.'

'Your grandfather? The Steel Duke? The man who put
down the Timlitz Uprising?'

Aubrey had few memories of his grandfather. Mostly,
the old man was just a gigantic, prickly moustache, but
Aubrey did remember wild piggyback rides through the
long corridors at Maidstone, his grandfather hallooing
and scaring the servants, young Aubrey clinging and
laughing as they galloped.

None of which matched the description in the history
books: the Duke of Brayshire, Albion's most ruthless
commander in the nineteenth century, a tireless prosecutor
of Albion's interests on the Continent, always well
connected to members of the government. Incorruptible,
but much feared by his enemies – especially after the
Timlitz Uprising.

'The letters have fallen into the hands of collectors,'
Aubrey said, 'and she'd like them back.' He explained
about Monsieur Caron.
'If I get time, I'll look into it. Again, I'm sure I can sort
this out.' Then she glanced at Aubrey with what he could
have sworn was an expression of mischief. He blinked
and it was gone. 'Now,' she said, 'there is something I
want in return for this assistance.'

Aubrey was on the verge of saying 'Anything', but he
managed to bite his tongue. 'Yes?'

'Your presence tonight.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'At rehearsal. Claude tells me that the players haven't
seen you for an age.'

'Ah. I see.' He paused. 'Duval has been to see you?'

Caroline ignored this. 'It's not like you to renege on a
commitment like this. Besides, it tarnishes the reputation
of Albion.'

'Can't have that, old man,' George said mischievously.
'Tarnish in these tricky times? Unthinkable.'

Aubrey thought George was enjoying this entirely too
much. 'I'll be there. With George, of course.'

'Naturally,' George said. 'Wouldn't miss it.'

'Tonight, then. At Tontine Hall. I'll meet you there.'

It was with decidedly mixed feelings that Aubrey
watched Caroline walk off. As always, he liked watching
her move with such economy and grace, but he knew
that the rehearsal was something he didn't need, not on
top of everything else.

'Ready to go, George?'

'With a song in my heart and a smile on my lips.'

Aubrey groaned.

T
HE METRO TRAIN TOOK THEM TO THE CORNER OF
Perseverance and Equality Streets. They stood across
the street from the gates of the Liberty Gardens and studied
the flamboyant ironwork. Aubrey thought Monsieur
Ronin's gate was a masterpiece, with its intertwining
fronds reaching for the sky before bending over to interlock
and form the arch that was the entrance to the park.

'That gate puts me in mind of a salad,' George said.
'Makes me hungry.'

'We can eat after we've done our reconnoitring.' Aubrey
knew that an eatery was never far away in Lutetia.

He also knew that the Lutetians loved a park. Any
green space in the city was alive with couples, families,
artists, balloon vendors, dog walkers or simple admirers
of nature. Park benches were much sought after. Each
pond sported enough model boats to start a navy –
handy, should any diminutive enemies attack.

Which is why Aubrey was struck by the emptiness of
the Liberty Gardens, particularly on a Sunday. In the first
ten minutes walking along the main path, he spied a
solitary lad trying to fly a kite without much success. The
only other person he saw was an artist near the ornamental
lake, sitting on a camp stool and weeping in front of a
blank canvas.

George shivered as they passed. 'I wouldn't put that up
on my wall.'

Aubrey glanced over his shoulder and saw the artist
throwing the canvas into the water, then his easel and
palette. He stood on the shore, amid the reeds, tearing at
his hair. 'Neither would he.'

The flower beds lining the paths were jaded, but
sagging marigolds and snapdragons assaulted the eye with
garish colours. Aubrey was glad when the path led down
an avenue of plane trees.

'What are we looking for?' George asked.

Aubrey put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled
out a handful of brick fragments. He held them in his
palm and they moved, restlessly, like a nest of beetles.
'That way.' He pointed and carefully put the brick pieces
back.

The path reached an intersection and Aubrey took the
right-hand way. They passed a deep pit in a garden bed,
almost a shaft, that looked as if it had recently opened,
raw earth around its mouth. A rank smell came from it.

The path took them to a denser section of woodland
that soon opened out into a circular expanse of lawn
surrounded by bushy thickets. The lawn sloped in from
the rim to the centre, making a virtual bowl about a
hundred yards or so in diameter.

Aubrey and George stood at the edge of the lawn,
staring at the building in the middle of the grass.

'Is that as old as it looks?' George asked.

'No. It's not an real pagan temple. It's a re-creation,
made to look old.'

'They've done a good job.'

Aubrey had to agree. It seemed like the ideal of a
classical shrine: round, with pillars supporting a dome.
Five steps led up to the arched entrance, which was
surmounted by a frieze.

'A hundred years ago, this was very fashionable,'
Aubrey explained. 'Rich people wanted to show their
classical roots. They threw up these things wherever they
could find an empty patch of soil. Then they'd retire to
them and try to write poetry. It rarely worked.'

All was quiet. Aubrey fidgeted. Something was
missing.

'Birds,' George said.

'Birds?'

'No birds. I saw you looking around and wondering
what was amiss. There should be blackbirds, sparrows,
even pigeons. Perfect place for 'em.'

'I knew a country lad like you would be useful one
day.'

'Country lad, Renaissance man, much the same thing.'

Aubrey snorted and set off down the path toward the
temple. George fell in beside him. 'You think this is wise,
old man, a direct frontal assault like this?'

'It's not an assault of any kind. We're simply sightseers
out for a day's strolling. We're being covert by being
open. Much better than trying to sneak around the place.
We'd be easily spotted by anyone inside the temple, so
we may as well pretend we're harmless. If we approach
casually, a doubt must remain in the mind of any
observer.'

When they reached the arched portico, they stopped
and stared at the frieze.

'What are they up to?' George asked after a time.

'Cavorting. Those pagan gods did a lot of cavorting.'

George was silent for a moment. 'They'd be nymphs,
then, with the goaty god?'

'Nymphs. Dryads. Assorted naiads. And the goaty god
is Pan.'

'Pan, eh? Looks like he's having a good time.'

'Those gods did, George. It was their job.'

'Lucky devils.'

Aubrey's jacket pocket was tugging, moved by the
insistence of the brick fragments. He had to place his
hand on his jacket to keep them from bursting through
the fabric.

Inside, the temple was a round open space. Light
filtered in through circular windows in the base of the
dome. The floor was tessellated, an array of tiles in an
intricate geometric arrangement, black, white and red.

Aubrey stood just inside and flexed his fingers. He felt
the unmistakeable traces of magic in the place, both old
and new, signs that magicians had been at work.
Underneath that he felt a rhythmical surge of different
magic, low and powerful, thick with potency. It was like
standing in a river with a strong current, one that
changed direction every few seconds, tugging, then
pushing, tugging then pushing.

It had the hallmarks of the Heart of Gold.

'No-one here,' George whispered.

'I can see that,' Aubrey whispered in return. Despite
being alone, the marble space seemed to demand hushed
tones.

George looked over his shoulder. 'But someone's
coming.'

'Furtive or otherwise?'

'Furtive. Very furtive.'

'Excellent.

They took up positions on either side of the entrance,
hidden by marble pillars that were wrapped in stone
grapevines. Footsteps approached, slowly, stealthily.

A man stepped through the arch. He was wearing a
long coat, a homburg hat and black gloves, and he was
carrying a cane.

'Von Stralick!' Aubrey cried.

The Holmland spy moved quickly, swinging his
walking stick. Aubrey leapt to one side and collided with
the marble pillar. He hit his head, hard, and stars jumped
around in his brain. His legs felt like jelly.

With a shout, George launched himself from his
hiding place. Von Stralick had been staring at Aubrey, but
lashed out, backhanded, at this new assailant.

George ducked, took the blow on his upper arm, then
launched a tremendous uppercut.

Von Stralick's feet lifted off the floor. His eyes rolled up
in his head and he toppled.

George stood over the spy. He unclenched his fists and
rubbed his knuckles. 'Aubrey. Are you all right?'

'Head's ringing like a bell, but not too bad otherwise.'

'I didn't see who it was. I just saw him attack you.'

'It was a mistake, I think. He was on a short fuse, obviously
expecting danger.'

Von Stralick groaned, opened his eyes and sat up.
George fetched the Holmlander's hat from where it had
rolled some yards away.

'Fitzwilliam. Doyle.' Von Stralick prodded his jaw and
flinched. 'You beat me here. How did you find it?'

'Do you think I'm going to reveal my methods, von
Stralick?'

Von Stralick eyed George. 'You caught me by surprise,
Doyle, otherwise you wouldn't have touched me.'

'No doubt,' George said. 'But I'm willing to give you
a chance in the ring, any time you'd like.'

'Ach, I've no time for such indulgences,' von Stralick
said after a moment, waving George away. 'And we don't
have much time, either, to find what we've come for.'

'There's nothing here,' George protested.

'Yes there is,' Aubrey said. He put his hand in his jacket
pocket and took out some brick pieces. He had to hold
them tightly to prevent them from flying through the air.
His hand was pulled down toward the tessellated floor.
'The Heart of Gold must be down there somewhere.'

'How'd
you
find this place, von Stralick?' George
demanded as he extended a hand and helped the
Holmlander to his feet.

'My methods are less mysterious than Fitzwilliam's.'
He brushed off his coat and took his hat. 'My superiors
told me about it. It's a long-time Holmlander refuge, for
use in emergencies.'

'Like during a blockade of the city?' Aubrey asked.
'And which superiors would this be? The ones who
know what's going on, or the ones who don't?'

'I don't trust any of them,' von Stralick said bitterly.

'Probably a good idea, that,' George said. He glanced
through the door. 'Hello. Looks as if we have company.'

'Furtive or otherwise?' Aubrey asked.

'Otherwise, this time. Both of them.'

Aubrey went to the entrance. Striding along the path
were two men Aubrey had seen before, in unpleasant
circumstances. He backed away from the entrance. 'Two
people,' he told von Stralick. 'A fake police captain and
one of the men who stole the Heart of Gold.'

Von Stralick took a quick look and grimaced. 'Muller
and Schnagel. The two rogue Holmland agents.'

'Friends of yours?' George asked.

'Renegades. Very, very bad men.' Von Stralick scowled.
'They were the ones who tried to kill me at the airfield
the other night.'

'Why?' Aubrey asked.

'They felt my presence was not helpful.' Von Stralick
frowned. 'I do not want to be found by them.'

'Nor do we,' Aubrey said.

A
UBREY
, G
EORGE AND VON
S
TRALICK HELD THEIR BREATH
as Muller and Schnagel entered the temple.

Muller had abandoned his police uniform. He wore a
round, flat cap over his grizzled hair, and a long black
coat. His eye-patch gave him a suitably sinister appearance.
Schnagel had a broad face and hands that seemed
oversized for his stocky body.

They watched as the Holmlanders glanced around the
empty space. Muller peered into the shadowed recesses
between the pillars, checking for intruders, while
Schnagel walked around the perimeter.

Aubrey held tight and refused to acknowledge the
tickle in his upper lip.
There's no reason for them to look up
,
he thought fervently.
No reason at all.

Levitation spells had never been his specialty, but he
found it was true that the prospect of imminent death
concentrated the mind wonderfully. He'd managed to
cobble together a spell that solidified the shafts of light
streaming from the windows in the dome. He, George
and von Stralick were able to clamber up them – despite
the fragments of brick that pulled Aubrey in the wrong
direction – and perch on the ledge just above the tops of
the pillars. Aubrey was barely able to cancel the spell
before Muller and Schnagel entered.

If the Holmlanders glanced up, they'd see three figures
clinging to the interior of the dome, grasping at corbels
and pilasters. Fortunately for Aubrey and his friends, the
two Holmlanders were much more concerned with
looking down than up.

While he desperately tried to hang on while not
making a sound, he found himself staring at the pattern
on the floor. The more he stared, the more intrigued he
became until it resolved itself into a giant, many-pointed
star reaching right to the walls. It was entirely made of
red, black and white tiles, mostly triangles, but with carefully
placed squares to keep the pattern regular.

Aubrey soon realised that Muller and Schnagel were
paying just as much attention to the pattern as he was.
After some discussion and pointing, Muller stood back
against the wall as Schnagel went into a bizarre, skipping
dance.

The Holmlander lifted his knees high, hopping,
turning, swivelling and hopping again. He moved
backward and forward, sometimes three steps backward
for every forward step. His general direction was in a
large circuit around the array. His face was serious, his
lips moving slightly. Muller was watching keenly, and his
lips were moving as well, in time with Schnagel's dance.

Patterns
, Aubrey told himself.
It's all in the patterns.
Schnagel's dance was not random – he was stepping on
specific points of the star pattern.

The Holmlander finished with a flourish: a double step
on a black point, then a leap over a red one to land, with
both feet, on another black point. He stood there,
panting, and nodded. 'Done,' he said in Holmlandish.

'Good,' Muller replied.

A deep, grinding sound came from the bowels of the
temple. Schnagel wiped his brow. Muller nodded and
touched his eye-patch.

Aubrey felt a surge of magic. His fingers tingled, then
– for an alarming moment – went numb. He clutched at
his handholds, and was grateful when the numbness
receded.