Heart of Gold (5 page)

'Of course,' Sir Darius said, 'I don't have to tell you
how stiff-necked the Gallians can get.'

'Ah. So that means that you'd like me to find the
dirigible saboteurs and uncover the Holmland plot to
instigate a sovereign state in Marchmaine, all without
letting the Gallian authorities know what I'm up to?'

'More or less.'

'Delighted.'

His father held up a finger. 'One thing. Is George
going with you?'

'Yes.'

'Good, good. I was going to insist that he go along. He
seems to be useful for tempering some of your excesses.
You can apprise him of the matters I've told you.'

W
HEN HE LEFT THE CONSERVATORY
, A
UBREY FOUND IT HARD
to stop smiling. The confidence his father showed was
gratifying. Of course, combining this mission with
requests from his mother, his grandmother and the heir
to the throne was going to be a challenge, but Aubrey
saw challenges as most people saw stepping stones – a
way to get somewhere.

His smile fell from his face. He remembered his own,
personal reason for journeying to Lutetia. His research
into finding a solution for his unstable state had reached
an impasse. He'd scoured libraries, corresponded with
scholars (always in guarded, hypothetical terms) and conducted
careful experiments testing new applications of
magical laws, but nothing had yielded a complete remedy.

It was unsatisfactory, especially since he had the
impression that his condition was deteriorating. It wasn't
simply the tiredness he'd felt since exerting himself to
save Saltin. He had a vague malaise, a deep-seated feeling
that something wasn't right.

Ominously, he'd also lost his appetite. It had happened
to him before. After the foolhardy experiment that had
torn his soul loose from his body, he'd managed to
reunite them – but not perfectly. The connection had
deteriorated, and as it did, his bodily state grew worse.
Tiredness and loss of appetite were warning signs, a
reminder that his physical condition wasn't what it
should be. In the past he'd been able to rest and steady
himself, restoring his balance. Through spells and willpower
he'd been able to keep the true death at bay – but
it hovered, always there, waiting for him if his hold
should slip.

Aubrey had heard that the Faculty of Magic at the
University of Lutetia had fallen on hard times. It was
apparently a shadow of its glory days, when it had
attracted magicians from Albion and all over the
Continent. He had hopes, though, that he could find
someone there who could offer help or insight into the
state of half-life, half-death in which he was trapped. He
wanted a remedy, something more permanent than what
he'd been able to cobble together.

A
UBREY FOUND
G
EORGE ALONE IN THE FRONT DRAWING
room. He was surrounded by peacock plumes nodding
from a tall ochre vase and he was absorbed in reading the
newspaper. Aubrey outlined the discussions he'd had, to
George's growing amusement.

'I can't see what's so funny,' Aubrey concluded. 'I was
looking forward to a relaxing holiday and now it looks as
if it's going to be filled up with traipsing all over Lutetia
for other people.'

'My thoughts exactly, old man. After this holiday, it
seems you're going to need a holiday.'

T
HE CAB STOPPED AND
A
UBREY PEERED UP AT WHAT
would be their residence for their Lutetian holiday.
George leaned over and stared. 'Looks as if we're not in
Albion any more, old man.'

It was one of a row of impressive five-storey apartment
buildings just north of the Sequane River, not far from
the centre of the city. The narrow street and equally tall
row of buildings on the other side made Aubrey feel as if
he was at the bottom of a canyon – albeit an architecturally
splendid one. Their holiday residence was on a
crossroad, so the western windows overlooked the intersection
below.

By the time Aubrey had alighted and joined George
on the pavement, the driver had manhandled the trunks
and boxes from the cab. It was done with some speed and
not much care. Aubrey paid and offered a few Gallian
pleasantries, but the driver didn't linger. He sprang back
into his seat, urging his nag off with a curse and a flick
of his whip.

George scowled. 'Ah, visit lovely Gallia and see the
friendly folk mistreat their animals.'

George's large build disguised his soft-heartedness.
Aubrey knew his friend loved animals and hated to see
them being treated poorly. 'Let's see if we can't get some
help with these things,' he suggested and used the bunch-of-grapes doorknocker.

The door opened. A tall, grey-haired woman stared
down at them as if she'd been walking on the beach and
found something unpleasant. Aubrey thought that she
had once been beautiful, but had now passed through
that into something more intriguing.

Aubrey doffed his hat and greeted her in his best
Gallian. She nodded. 'Quite good, for an Albionite,' she
said in perfect Albionish, 'but please use your own
language. I like to practise.'

Aubrey nodded, a little disappointed. 'I'm Aubrey
Fitzwilliam. This is George Doyle. Rooms have been
organised for us?'

'Fitzwilliam. Doyle.' The grey-haired woman repeated
the words slowly. Aubrey saw her studying them carefully:
two young men, one slight and dark-eyed, one large, red-cheeked
and sandy-haired. 'Yes. You have rooms.'

'Er, can you show us to them?' George asked.
'Although we could just stand here and admire the
windows, if you point them out to us.'

Aubrey elbowed his friend. 'We'd like to deposit our
things, if we could.'

'You'll need your keys.' She vanished, leaving them
standing on the doorstep.

Aubrey looked at George. 'I suppose no-one is going
to steal our luggage.'

'Not unless Lutetia is populated by roving gangs of
weightlifters who've turned to a life of crime.' George sat
on one of the trunks, took off his boater and fanned
himself with it. 'Just to make sure, I'll wait here while
you're getting the key.'

'No need,' Aubrey said, nodding toward the door.

The grey-haired woman had reappeared. 'I am
Madame Calvert. This is my establishment. Here are your
keys, and a letter for you, young Fitzwilliam.'

She handed them to Aubrey, then disappeared into
the depths of the building, leaving the ornate doors
open.

Aubrey opened the envelope, wondering who knew
he'd be at this address. When he finished reading it, he
chuckled and folded it away.

'Everything all right, old man?' George asked. 'We have
the right place, don't we?'

'Yes.' Aubrey chuckled again. 'I think we're in for an
interesting time, George. After all, according to my
guidebook, Lutetia is the City of Art.'

'City of Art? I heard it was the City of Love.'

'I imagine you did hear that.' He held up the envelope.
'We have our first Lutetian invitation.'

'Excellent! An exhibition? Opening night at the
opera?'

'Not exactly. Do you remember the Gallian airman
we saved?'

'Of course I remember. Not likely to forget that jaunt
for a while.'

'Well, Captain Saltin has asked us to visit him at the
St Martin airfield. He wants to show us the Gallian
dirigible fleet.'

'Do we have to go straightaway?'

'Not at all. It's an open invitation.'

'Good. I'm sure we'll be able to fit in a visit. In a week
or two. Or next month, if we can't manage that.'

Aubrey grinned. 'Now, let's see about these trunks.'

Inside, they found themselves at the foot of a marble
staircase. A rich red carpet affixed with brass stair-rods led
up to a landing with a stained-glass window as extravagant
as the front doors. On their left was an open door,
while a short corridor led to another door on the far side
of the stairs.

Aubrey was glad for George's muscles. Even so, it was
a difficult task, hauling the trunks up the stairs. They
paused on the first-floor landing to catch their breath,
and then at each subsequent landing. When they reached
the fourth floor, Aubrey sat on the stairs and panted. 'One
more to go. I hope we have a wonderful view.'

'I'd swap a view for a ground-floor room,' George said.
He'd draped himself over the polished wooden balustrade.
'If I want a view, I can look in a book.'

Aubrey stood, gingerly. He could feel his heart
pounding from the exertion, but he thought it was under
control. A dull headache lurked, but it was minor.

On this floor, there were three rooms – two on the left,
one on the right. Aubrey frowned, wondering about the
other tenants in Madame Calvert's residence. If he were
correct, the room on the right would be larger. It would
face north, too, so it may be useful as an artist's studio.
He was sure Madame Calvert would approve of artists.

But Aubrey wasn't sure Madame Calvert would
approve of the loud thumping noises coming from the
apartment. Was the tenant a woodworker? Or perhaps a
sculptor, hammering at a large piece of marble?

Aubrey took a step back when the door to the apartment
began to shake.

The roof of his mouth started to itch, with rapidly
rising intensity. Aubrey narrowed his eyes. Magic was
afoot.

A deep, wrenching groan came from behind the door,
followed by hammering that shook dust from the ceiling.

George stared. 'I hope we're not going to have noisy
neighbours.'

'It sounds as if someone's in trouble.' The door handle
rattled, as if whoever was within was unfamiliar with the
functioning of latches.

'They need help.' George made for the door, but at
that moment it was thrown open. George stopped,
aghast, and gave a cry of horror.

Aubrey wondered what George had seen, then he, too,
reeled back at the sight of what emerged. Almost of their
own accord, his hands rose to ward it off.

It had once been a man. Late fifties, to judge from the
sprinkling of grey in his wiry hair and beard. He was
short and thickset, his rounded frame showing the signs
of good living. He wore a fine dark-grey suit, but
the dove-grey gloves on his hands were in tatters.
Bloodied fingers protruded from the shreds. His face
was lined and pale, but his eyes were completely vacant.
No intelligence, no awareness at all lay behind them.
He gazed directly ahead with an emptiness that was
terrifying. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of
his mouth.

The appalling figure groaned, hoarsely. His hands
dangled, as if they were too heavy to lift. He staggered,
dragging his feet, until he faced Aubrey. Then he groaned
again.

Aubrey badly wanted to turn and run; his muscles
trembled in readiness, but he steeled himself and put out
a hand. 'Sir?' His heart hammered. 'What can we do
for you?'

'In Gallian, old man,' George said. 'He can't understand
you.'

Aubrey had grave doubts whether this was merely a
language difficulty. He tried again in Gallian, but the man
simply stood there, swaying.

'He's not blinking,' George pointed out.

Before Aubrey could respond, the groaning man
lurched at them in a stiff-legged shamble. The groaning
turned into a deep, chesty growl.

A cry came from the stairs. 'What is this?' Madame
Calvert put a hand to her mouth. 'Monsieur Jordan, what
are you doing?'

A shout wrenched Aubrey's attention back to see
Monsieur Jordan lunge clumsily at George, who fended
him off with a straight-armed push to the chest.

The groaning man's feet went out from under him. He
fell back and hit his head on the tiled floor with a crack.

Aubrey hurried and crouched by his side. 'He's still
breathing. Madame Calvert, can you fetch medical help?
And the police?'

Madame Calvert didn't argue. She rushed off.

George knelt, his face anxious. 'Never had that happen
before. A good push to the chest usually gives time to
work out what to do next. He just toppled like a tree.'

'He had poor balance. And coordination.' Aubrey
wondered what the symptoms for rabies were. Didn't
they include groaning and twitching? 'Don't let him
bite you.'

George shuddered. 'Last thing I'd want, old man.'

Aubrey looked over his shoulder through the open
door. 'Let's take him into his apartment.'

Aubrey took Monsieur Jordan's feet while George
hefted the other end. They shuffled into the apartment
and lay the still-unconscious Gallian on a blue velvet
chaise longue.

Aubrey straightened and took in the apartment.
Monsieur Jordan was an artist, without doubt. A large
north-facing window – curtainless – took up one wall,
while carpet had been rolled back. The wooden floor was
a riot of colourful streaks and splashes. One end of the
room was a combined kitchen and sleeping area. The
other was an arrangement of shelves, easels, two mismatched
tables and a small dais. After assuring himself
that Monsieur Jordan was comfortable and still breathing,
Aubrey wandered over to the dais and the single chair on
it. Behind the chair, the wall was draped with white cloth
in quite deliberate folds.

Aubrey studied the length of the room. It didn't take
much imagination to see Monsieur Jordan at an easel,
studying his –

'Model,' Aubrey breathed and sat on the chair that he
was sure had been used by an artist's model. But not
recently. Monsieur Jordan was dressed in a good suit and
tie, unsuitable wear for painting. And yet Aubrey had the
impression that someone had been here recently,
someone other than Monsieur Jordan. Above the warm,
green bite of turpentine, he smelled an acrid chemical
odour that was familiar. He concentrated, holding out his
hands, palms down, and focusing his magical awareness.

His eyes opened wide.
What have we here?
he thought.
The room had been the site of intense magic. Whatever
the spell had been, it was powerful, but the user had been
careless in delineating the variables of range and effect.
He could sense traces of magical residue everywhere, like
the splatters caused by dropping a rock in a pool of mud.

'Aubrey, stop that humming. I think he's waking up.'

George's summons brought Aubrey back to the chaise
longue. The eyes that opened, however, didn't reassure
him. Blank pits, absent of emotion, they were the eyes
of the void. Aubrey looked into them and felt as if he
was balanced on the brink of a precipice. The abyss
beckoned.

Shaken, he turned away. His hands trembled and he
clasped them together. 'Quickly,' he said, 'tie him up.'

'Aubrey? What's wrong with him?' George was pale,
uncertain.

'I have no idea, but he's no better. We must restrain
him.'

As if to underline Aubrey's words, Monsieur Jordan
jerked and tried to sit up in the clumsiest way possible.
He ended up folding in the middle like the covers of a
book being slammed together. He flopped backward,
bared his teeth, then began groaning while he struggled
again. George pushed his shoulders down.

'Here.' Aubrey lunged for a large canvas drop cloth that
had been flung on the floor. He picked it up with both
arms. 'Wrap him up in this.'

They were helped by the inept flailings of Monsieur
Jordan. Any half-coordinated child would have been able
to escape as Aubrey and George fumbled and cursed their
way to spreading the canvas, then winding it around the
groaning, drooling artist.

By the time they were done, both Aubrey and George
were panting. George rubbed at the side of his jaw where
the back of Monsieur Jordan's head had caught him.
'I wish he'd stop that groaning,' he said.

The artist was on the floor, wrapped from neck to
knee in the paint-daubed canvas, looking like a particularly
colourful cocoon.

'Monsieur Jordan?'

Aubrey looked up to see a distressed Madame Calvert.
Behind her were a police officer and a rotund man
dressed in a blue suit. From the bag he was carrying,
Aubrey was sure he was a doctor.

'He's awake, but . . .' Aubrey flapped a hand. 'Doctor,
I think you'll need to look at him.'

Madame Calvert translated and the doctor started
toward the unfortunate artist. The police officer stepped
forward and interposed himself. 'No,' he said in accented
but clear Albionish. 'He must come with me.'

'Monsieur Jordan?' Madame Calvert said. 'Impossible.
He's an important artist. Besides, he needs medical care.'

'I must insist,' the police officer said. 'We have the facilities
for taking care of these cases.'

'Captain,' Madame Calvert began.

'Inspector, not Captain,' the officer corrected.
'Inspector Paul. But given time, it will be Captain Paul,
so you are correct, if a little premature.'

Aubrey rolled his eyes. He'd heard the same confident
tones in the junior bureaucrats who flocked around his
father, looking for advancement. Inspector Paul was in
his middle twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. His
uniform had creases sharp enough to be a danger to small
children. His hair had a centre part so perfect that Aubrey
was sure he must use a measuring tape to get it exactly
in the middle.

Inspector Paul addressed himself to Madame Calvert
while the doctor stared first at Monsieur Jordan, then at
the police officer, then at his watch. 'If you have a telephone,'
Inspector Paul said, 'I will call my superiors and
they will send a special team for Monsieur Jordan.'