Heart of Gold (8 page)

Aubrey pushed aside his second slice of lemon tart and
wondered if he'd ever need to eat again. He looked down
the long table and saw George explaining something to
two young Gallian ladies. By their expressions, they were
baffled by the conversation, but entertained nonetheless.

Duval was sitting on Aubrey's left, with Caroline just
to Duval's other side. Duval was chatting in animated
fashion, slipping between Albionish and Gallian when it
became clear that Caroline was at ease with the language.

Aubrey waited until Duval drew breath, which took
some time, and squeezed himself into the conversation.
'Duval, most grateful for your hospitality. Wonderful
place.'

With an effort, Duval tore himself away from Caroline.
'Thank you, Fitzwilliam. This café is owned by my uncle.
He is famous for his duck.'

'I see.' Aubrey groped for another topic of conversation.
'And how would you say things are between our
two countries?'

'We are allies. We are good friends.' Duval's gaze fell
to the small glass of coffee he was rolling around in his
hand. 'We need to be, of course.'

'Holmland,' Caroline said.

'Yes. The Holmlanders have ambitions. The Housel
River is broad, but not so broad that the Holmlanders
cannot see across it to Lower Gallia. Coal mines, iron
mines . . . it is a rich land, especially if you have large,
growing industries.'

Aubrey revised his opinion of Duval. The man was no
empty-headed dilettante. 'And is everyone in Gallia afraid
of Holmland?'

A shrug. 'Many are. Some dislike Albion more than
they hate Holmland. Some do not know what to think;
others ignore the obvious.' He sighed. 'The Giraud
government is foolish. Prime Minister Giraud tries to be
too many things to too many people. He is weak, and this
is a bad time to be weak.'

George appeared, beaming. 'Delightful crowd you have
here, Duval. Very friendly.'

'We're talking politics here, George,' Aubrey said.

'What? On such a pleasant day with such ravishing
company? Shame, Aubrey, shame.'

'Things can be pleasant while unrest lies underneath.
Isn't that right, Duval?'

Duval shrugged again. His high spirits seemed to have
evaporated.

'Hardly,' George said. 'Lutetia is nigh on perfect, I'd say.'
He waved at one of the girls at the end of the table.

'Not so perfect,' Duval muttered. 'Not when the Soul
Stealer is abroad.'

The words were so theatrically ominous that Aubrey
at first thought Duval was joking. When the Gallian
refused to raise his eyes, Aubrey wasn't so sure. 'What is
the Soul Stealer?'

'Sounds interesting,' George said, and dragged a chair
over from a nearby table.

Duval spread his hands. 'It is not something we talk
about. It is distressing.'

'You should. Aubrey's dashed interested in stuff like
that.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'We are newcomers to your city,
Duval. If there is something we should be aware of,
please tell us.'

Duval put his hands palm down on the table and lifted
his head, a picture of resolution. 'You are our friends. You
deserve to know, for your safety.'

He gulped the last of his coffee and put the glass firmly
on the table. 'When the first victims were found, a few
months ago, nothing was thought of it. Catatonia, the
doctors called it. Catatonia of a strange sort that left
the sufferers shambling along the streets, striking out
blindly at those around them.' He grimaced. 'It happened
to a neighbour of mine, a wine merchant. I saw him
blundering along the street and thought he had imbibed
too deeply from his own stock.'

Duval gazed over the lake. Two rowing boats had
collided, but at such a sedate pace that the couples in
their respective craft were laughing instead of arguing.

'The victims increased,' he went on. 'A few, then a few
more. Dozens by now, all over the city. There is a terror
at work.'

'We saw one,' Aubrey said, and he couldn't help but
notice Caroline's quick glance of concern.

'You did?' Duval said. 'Where?'

Aubrey described the encounter with Monsieur
Jordan, the artist. 'It was like grappling with an animated
corpse,' he finished.

'No,' Duval said. 'They're not dead. They are missing
something.'

'Their soul?'

'Possibly. Rumours are like lightning, facts are like
snails.'

It sounded intriguing, but what really pricked at
Aubrey was the notion of souls being stolen. He hadn't
considered this, even though he knew that potent magic
had been involved in Monsieur Jordan's case. Any magic
that involved souls interested him as there was always the
possibility that it could shed light on his own condition.

Duval thumped the table with a fist, making Aubrey
jump. 'Ha!' the Gallian said. 'It is too beautiful a day to be
so gloomy! And with such beautiful ladies, we should
be singing, not sighing!'

Caroline laughed and Aubrey's heart sank. The
Gallian's continental charm was powerful. What hope did
dull old Aubrey have?

The party eventually left the café as evening was
drawing in. Aubrey claimed tiredness and tried to slip
away, but he was dragged along with the crowd who, true
to Duval's words, sang as they wove along the streets of
Lutetia. The Albion Friendship Society became a sort
of caravan as it made its way from one landmark to
another, stopping at various oases for refreshments as the
need arose. The need seemed to arise with astonishing
frequency.

They had just finished admiring the electric lights illuminating
the Middle Bridge and were about to leave to
see the rebuilt Town Hall when George tugged on
Aubrey's arm. 'Something's heading our way, old man.'

Aubrey peered across the river to see a host of flaming
torches coming toward the bridge.

Duval flapped his arms with some urgency. 'Quick!
Quick! Let them through!'

Aubrey agreed that it was best not to be caught on the
bridge with such a horde. He saw that Caroline had made
her way down the stairs to the walkway along the embankment,
and that George was nearby. He went after them.
They came together near a statue of a revolutionary hero
on a horse that looked as if it was tired of being bronze.

The marchers tramped closer to the bridge. They went
in good order, silent except for the noise of hobnailed
boots on cobblestones. They were dressed in workers'
clothes – twill trousers, vests, cloth caps – and those who
weren't brandishing torches were holding up placards
announcing that they were the Marchmaine Independence
League. Aubrey raised an eyebrow. The movement
had more supporters than he'd thought. When his father
had spoken of it, Aubrey had imagined a few unworldly
troublemakers standing on street corners and haranguing
passers-by.

Aubrey climbed the grassy bank to the road above to
see better, and a few of the more curious actors went
with him.

He could spy no obvious leader of the marchers. Grim
faced, many had rolled-up sleeves, an indication that
they'd recently come from work.
Or they're expecting more
physical exertion
, Aubrey thought. He glanced in the direction
they were marching – toward the Town Hall – and
his eyes widened.

An equally large mass was heading up the road directly
toward the Marchmainers. This crowd didn't hold up
torches, nor placards. Streetlights glinted from gold braid
and highly polished truncheons.

'Police,' Aubrey said. A reveller at his shoulder
muttered something uncomplimentary. Soon the word
had spread through the Albion Friendship Society.
Nonchalantly, they backed away and gathered on the
embankment, well away from the road and the bridge.

Aubrey decided that the Lutetians would know best,
and he followed. An iron rail ran along the edge of the
embankment and Aubrey vaulted onto it for a better
view. He steadied himself against a wrought-iron lamp
post and watched, with trepidation, as the two opposing
groups spied each other.

A ripple spread through the front ranks of the Marchmainers.
Murmured commands, passed from one
comrade to the next, slowed the procession, packing
bodies close together. Soon, they stopped, filling the
bridge and stretching south up Charity Avenue. They
stood, torches burning, waiting.

A whistle sounded from the police. They, too, stopped,
boots crashing as the ranks halted in good order twenty
yards from the Marchmainers.

The two groups eyed each other. 'What's going to
happen?' he asked Duval. The director's face was pale.

'Nothing, I hope. The Marchmainers have not been
violent before. I do not know why the police are here.'

Aubrey frowned and scanned the area. His fingertips
were itching in a way that said magic was nearby. He
rubbed them together, but the feeling didn't diminish – it
grew more intense. He concentrated, casting about with
his magical awareness, and he caught a touch, a flavour
that was tantalisingly familiar. It had a resonance that he'd
encountered before – and it was growing more powerful.
Before he could recall it exactly, he was shocked by a wave
of potent enchantment that shook him deeply, leaving
him stunned for a moment. Reeling, he clutched at the
lamp post, struggling to draw breath. Numbly, he felt as
if the whole world had shivered. He gasped, drawing a
sharp look from George. 'What's wrong, old man?'

Aubrey shook his head as the unsettling sensation
receded. A spell had been cast, very close by, a spell of
such force that he'd been caught in its poorly limited
field of effect. He shook his head, slowly, trying to clear
it. He felt as if he'd been picked up by the collar and
shaken by a terrier the size of an elephant.

An angry shout came from the mass of Marchmainers.
Aubrey tried to see who it was, as the man kept up a long
stream of invective, cursing the police, the government
and – most puzzlingly – his bootmaker.

Aubrey finally spied the shouter as those around him
turned, clearly startled by his vehemence. He was stocky,
with a bald head and fringe of grey beard. His face
was very red, even in the yellow light of the electric
lamps on the bridge. As he ranted, he shook both fists
in the air. His comrades took steps backward as spittle
began to fly.

Another voice rose from the Marchmainers, equally
angry. A tall youth on the far side of the bridge howled
bloodthirsty threats at the police. He leapt onto the guard
rail of the bridge and danced with rage. After a moment
of spiralling, lunatic shouting, he lost his footing and
plunged, still shouting, to the river below.

Men rushed to the railing, but after a mighty splash, the
stream of angry abuse floated up to them uninterrupted.
Instead of relief, however, this seemed to prompt fury in
the rest of the Marchmainers. Anger swept through them
and soon the disciplined parade was a mob: hoarsethroated,
red-faced, fists shaking.

Aubrey felt their wrath as something tangible. It
reached out and nudged him, rudely.
What right do they
have?
he thought immediately, then he wondered who
they
were. His sudden temper was unfocused, but urgent
and hard to ignore. He glanced at George. His fists were
clenched and his nostrils flared. On his left, Duval was
muttering under his breath.

Magic. How could I have forgotten?
Aubrey pinched his
own cheek and his anger ebbed. He realised he had the
lamp post in a death grip. He let go, slowly. 'George,
Caroline. It's a spell. Don't let it consume you.'

The magic had the same characteristics as the spell
they'd encountered following the assassination attempt
on the Crown Prince and the death of Caroline's father.
Then, they'd run into magic that distilled fear into a
paralysis-inducing terror – Dr Tremaine's handiwork and
part of his plans to bring Albion to war.

This magic had all the same hallmarks: an emotion,
distilled and refined, ready to launch on unsuspecting
victims. An emotion bomb.

He climbed down from the rail. George shook himself
then rubbed his face with both hands. 'Nasty stuff, that.'
He shuddered.

'Magic,' Caroline said. She pushed her hair back. 'I can
still feel the anger. It crept up on me.'

Duval stared at them. He had pushed the anger aside,
but the effort had left him pale-faced and shaking.

More shouts rose, this time from the police. Aubrey
jerked around and saw that the calm, resigned faces of the
constables had gone. They were running, faces contorted
with hatred, truncheons held high.

Aubrey stared. The Marchmainers heaved forward,
gibbering in anger, losing their words as they were swept
up by their fury. Their hobnails clattered as they hurried
to throw themselves at the police.

The two forces crashed together. More shouting and
cries of pain erupted as bodies struck bodies, then it was
fist and truncheon work.

As the brawl quickly spread, Aubrey realised that they
could be in danger. Men stood toe to toe, swinging wild
punches, roaring their wordless anger. Others wrestled,
heaving each other to the ground while crashing into
melees where screaming men pummelled each other.

The sound of the battle was the sound of wild beasts,
an entire jungle gone mad.

'We should leave,' he said to George and Caroline, but
just then the mayhem spilled over the bridge and down
the grassy bank. In an instant, they were swallowed up in
the clash.

George raised his fists. Aubrey went to stand in front of
Caroline, but she stiff-armed a police office who clawed
at her. The officer staggered backward and was taken in a
clumsy bear hug by a Marchmainer with a torn, bloody
ear.

Aubrey grinned at Caroline. She reached for him.
'Look out!'

Aubrey was cannoned into from behind. His
momentum sent him right over the iron rail on the edge
of the embankment. He somersaulted through the air,
struck the greasy river, half-winded, and sank.