Heart of Gold (9 page)

Shocked by the coldness of the water, he tried to get
his breath back, which was a bad idea as he was now
well beneath the surface. He choked, thrashed, then shot
to the surface. He wiped water from his eyes and saw
that the battle was now raging along the bridge and up
and down the embankment. He couldn't see George
or Caroline.

Aubrey's clothes weighed him down and he swallowed
oily water. His boots filled and felt like lead weights. He
gasped, heart pounding, fearing he'd be dragged to the
bottom and drowned, and he had a fleeting moment of
embarrassment at the prospect of such an undignified
end.
The newspapers would love it
, he thought.

Soon, however, he realised that he could keep afloat as
long as he churned and thrashed like a whirligig. He felt
like an idiot, trying to keep himself upright, but this
prompted an idea. Sound consisted of waves, and he'd
had some experience applying the Law of Amplification
to sounds. Using some of the same principles, could he
cast a spell that would work on waves in water?

He swept his arm. A puny swell spread toward the
riverbank. Aubrey chanted the amplification spell,
looking to adjust the variables for intensity and distance
to account for the different medium through which the
waves would travel. Bobbing in the water, he coughed
the spell out, syllable by syllable.

The wave grew. Slowly at first, it was nearly a foot high
when it reached the embankment. It smacked against the
stone blocks, then rolled back on itself, mounting as it came.
It picked Aubrey up like a cork, raising him a full yard,
then it was past and making its way toward the far bank.

Aubrey wallowed around, trying to trace its progress.
In the darkness, lights from the far bank stretched out
toward him, long fingers rippling on the water. He
thought he could make out a shadowy line moving
away. He glanced behind him to see the brawl was still
raging.

A roar dragged him back to stare at the far bank. His
eyes widened when he saw the shadow line strike. Spray
leapt into the air with a hollow boom and then the wave
was racing back toward him, climbing higher with each
second.

He'd been more successful than he'd thought.

He sucked in a lungful of air and dived, aiming for the
river bottom. He felt the wave pass overhead, tugging at
his water-logged clothes, and he was tossed about by
its passage. He clawed for the surface in time to see the
wave, now fifteen feet or more tall, crash against the
embankment. The mass of water crested, then toppled
onto the unsuspecting brawlers.

Foam crashed on stone. The wave rolled part-way up
the bank, then receded, dragging stunned Marchmainers
and police back to the river with it. Some managed to
cling to the railing, but many ended up in the water.

A voice came through the darkness. 'Aubrey! Take my
hand!'

Caroline. He floundered toward the embankment. She
was leaning far out, her other hand gripped by George
who, in turn, had his arm wrapped around the lamp post.
Aubrey found muddy stone underfoot and she gripped
his wrist. She helped him clamber up.

He rested on his knees, head bowed, panting.

'You're shaking like a leaf,' she said.

T
HE WAVE HAD DONE WHAT
A
UBREY HAD HOPED FOR
,
dousing the passion of both the police and the Marchmainers.
The two soggy groups separated, limping away
from each other, the unhurt helping the wounded,
while dozens were being pulled from the river. Sullen
bewilderment had replaced the spell-induced anger, with
the Marchmainers disappearing back over the bridge
before the police could rally enough to make any arrests.
Aubrey watched, wet and shivering. Caroline was
barely damp and had avoided being thrown into the
river. George was wet to his waist and had a bruised
shoulder, but was more concerned with Aubrey's wellbeing
than his own.

Aubrey sat with his back to a lamp post. He was
exhausted. A gulf yawned inside him, an emptiness that
was frightening. He shuddered, recoiling from its implications.'
Duval?' he asked. 'The others?'

George had his hands jammed in the pockets of his
jacket. He'd lost his boater. From his sour expression, he
wasn't about to go and look for it. 'No-one's too badly
hurt. They've gone, didn't seem to want to linger around
here at all.'

An oil lantern loomed out of the darkness. 'Mr
Fitzwilliam. I see you are here.'

Aubrey stood. All his muscles were sore; he felt as if
he'd been beaten and wrung like dirty washing.
'Inspector Paul. Are you in charge here?'

Inspector Paul bowed to Caroline. He was well
groomed and dry. 'I am Inspector Paul of the Lutetian
constabulary. And you are?'

Aubrey waved a hand wearily. 'Miss Caroline Hepworth,
this is Inspector Paul. Inspector Paul, Miss Hepworth.'

'She's with us,' George said.

'Of course. But what are you doing here?' Inspector
Paul gestured at the last of the retreating Marchmainers.
'They are bad men. You should not be with them.'

'The Marchmaine League? We weren't with them. We
were sightseeing with the Albion Friendship Society and
happened upon the Marchmainer parade.'

'They were going to the Town Hall,' Inspector Paul
said. 'They were very angry. Very dangerous.'

'They didn't look angry. Determined, if anything.
Quite disciplined, too.'

'Then why did they attack the police?'

'What?' George said. 'It looked to me as if the police
attacked them.'

'Magic,' Aubrey said. 'It was magically inspired anger,
setting both groups against each other.'

'You know magic?' Inspector Paul said. He frowned.

'A little.'

Inspector Paul pursed his lips. 'I see.'

Aubrey watched Inspector Paul's attitude change in
front of his eyes. Concern was replaced with mistrust, and
Aubrey stifled a sigh. It was something he'd seen before.
Regular law enforcement officers were almost automatically
wary of magic and magical investigation. This was
why Tallis, head of Albion Special Services, and Craddock,
the head of the Magisterium, had a strained relationship.

'Then who would cast such a spell?'

'Good question.' Aubrey had suspicions, but he wanted
to examine them for himself before making them public.

Inspector Paul fixed Aubrey with his gaze, as if imagining
him behind bars. 'Do not concern yourself with
such matters. You are a guest in our city.'

He stalked off.

'Come on, old man,' George said, taking Aubrey's
shoulders. 'We should go.'

'Caroline? We'll walk you home. It's on our way.'

'How do you know that?'

Aubrey opened his mouth and hoped that a plausible
answer would come out, but Caroline waved it away. 'Oh,
never mind.'

She led the way along the river, away from the police
who were assembling and trying to reinstate some order
in their ranks.

Aubrey dragged his weary, wet body after his friends.
A ragged headache gnawed at his skull. He felt flat and
drawn, but he tried to marshal his thoughts.

Setting the authorities against the Marchmainers could
ignite a political crisis for Gallia. It was exactly the sort of
thing his father had asked him to watch out for. He'd
now seen it with his own eyes and could report that the
tension was real, that the Marchmaine Independence
League was an active force.

But who was using such potent magic to pit the
Marchmainers against the authorities? What could they
hope to gain?

Aubrey had answers, but he hoped he wasn't correct –
for they all pointed toward war.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, A
UBREY AND
G
EORGE
decided to take breakfast at one of the open-air
cafés in their neighbourhood. Brightly chequered tablecloths
and bustling, white-aproned waiters made the
place inviting. Aubrey automatically sat so that he could
study passers-by.

George fretted over his pastries, playing with the pot of
strawberry jam. 'You should have kept up your Gallian,'
Aubrey said to him. He'd buttered a roll but when he
lifted it to his mouth, he couldn't face it. He sipped his
coffee, instead, and rubbed eyes that were gritty from a
fitful sleep. 'Then you'd be able to read the newspapers.'

'Not sure I'm in the mood for light diversion,' George
said. 'Last night's events have me on edge, rather.'

'You're not the only one.' Aubrey gestured at the
quartet of police officers on the opposite side of the street
and winced as pain rolled around inside his skull. 'Notice
how they're not strolling, hands behind their back, as is
the wont of the Lutetian police? They're much more
businesslike.'

'Quite right, too. Ghastly affair.'

Aubrey put a hand to his temple.

'Not well, old man?' George asked.

Aubrey shrugged. Then, while George turned his
attention to his breakfast, he used his magical senses to
take stock of his condition.

He closed his eyes and probed. It didn't take long
before he realised that things were not good. The balance
he'd painstakingly achieved over the months since the
experiment was no more. His soul had been jolted loose.

With growing pessimism, he tested himself by leaning
back in his chair and stretching. Sharp pain in his shoulders
and elbows made him clench his jaw. The joint pain
and the excessive weariness were further signs.

He opened his eyes. 'The anger spell.'

'What?'

'Last night. The spell. I've been knocked around by it.'

'I didn't see you get angry.'

'No, it's affected me at a deeper level. My soul's
coming loose again.'

'I see.' George made a face. 'That would mean you're
not sleeping well, then. And it would explain why you've
gone off your food.' He gestured at the untouched roll on
Aubrey's plate.

Aubrey gave a wry smile. George noticed much more
than people gave him credit for. 'It means I may have to
reconsider my priorities. Locating the Faculty of Magic
at the university is rather more important than it was.'

'How so?'

'I was hoping to find some help there for my condition.'
He drummed his fingers on the table. 'It's difficult,
George, trying to do the right thing for so many people.'

'I know, old man. Duty and all that.' He pointed his
butter knife at Aubrey. 'Perhaps this is a time to be selfish.
You won't be much good to others if you're . . . well
. . . severely inconvenienced, as it were.'

'"Severely inconvenienced". I like that. Makes it sound
eminently manageable. Like a bout of indigestion. Thank
you, George.'

'Any time, old man. Now, you told me about the
errands you've been asked to run, but I didn't catch the
details. Care to share them now?'

Aubrey glanced around. The only other diner was an
old man with a startling amount of grey hair sticking
out from under a flat, black cap. He was reading a book
and absently feeding pieces of bread to a small dog in
his lap.

Aubrey doubted that the old man was making an effort
to overhear their conversation, but he felt particularly
cautious. He took a spell he'd prepared earlier, an application
of the Law of Entanglement, and confined it to
aural phenomena. It was a well-tested and refined spell
and he rolled out the short series of Akkadian syllables
under his breath.

He was taken aback, however, by how drained he was
after casting the simple spell. He felt as if he'd run a
serious cross-country race.

'Aubrey? What have you done?'

He gathered himself. 'I've just muffled our conversation.
If anyone is more than a foot or so away, they won't
be able to make out anything at all.'

'Good,' George said, but his expression was sceptical.
'I've checked under our table so we should be safe.'

'It seems as if much is happening in Gallian politics.
The fiasco last night would suggest that there are forces
arranged against the Marchmaine Independence League.'

'Well, the government would be, for a start.'

'But the government wouldn't set off a spell like that.
The only reason to use such a thing would be so the
authorities would blame the Marchmainers for the
violence, while the Marchmainers would be certain it
was the police who started it all.'

'Governments have done worse in the past,' George
said darkly.

'When did you develop such a cynical streak, George?
What happened to the sunny, open-faced country lad
I used to know?'

'I started associating with you, I suppose. Since you
dragged me into this politics business, helping your father
win the election and all, I think I've begun to understand
how far people can stoop in order to achieve their ends.'

Aubrey had to agree. When the prize was power, there
seemed to be little that some people wouldn't do.

'George, I have a problem. A number of problems. But
my main problem is which problem to worry about first.'

'You know, old man, Lady Rose would never forgive
me if I let anything happen to you. It's my duty to keep
an eye on you.'

George's devotion to Aubrey's mother was one of the
few things left unsaid between the two friends. Aubrey
was quite happy to let George mask it under the pretence
of 'duty'.

'I need to find out more about the Marchmaine
situation before I can make any meaningful enquiries.
But I have those other tasks – for my grandmother, my
mother, and myself.'

'And the Crown Prince. Don't forget him.'

Aubrey chewed his lip for a moment. 'What if we find
this Dr Romellier for my mother, and while we're at
the university I can look for the Faculty of Magic? After
lunch we can make our way to the Cathedral of Our
Lady. Bertie suggested I start there on this quest for his
ancestors.'

'A full and fine day,' George said. He brushed crumbs
off his chest. 'What about Caroline?'

'I didn't arrange this holiday solely as an excuse to see
her, you know.'

'Really?

'Well, not entirely.' He stood. 'We may be able to catch
up with her this evening, she said. She has a full day of
practical work.'

'Lucky girl.'

T
HE
U
NIVERSITY OF
L
UTETIA WAS MUCH AS OTHER VENERABLE
institutions of higher learning – a hotchpotch of buildings,
paths, lawns and gardens that had grown in many
different directions at many different times. As Aubrey
walked around the perimeter of the large city block, he
tried to judge from the architectural styles when each
faculty had reached the height of importance. The Law
Faculty was obviously one of the early achievers if its
gaunt gothic-arched buildings were any guide. Theology,
in the north-western part of the campus, harked back to
an even earlier era, a blocky warren of buildings that
Aubrey was sure would be dark inside. Its major feature
was the belltower that had offended Dr Romellier.
Science, Philosophy, Mathematics and Arts were all
imposing, designed to impress and establish themselves as
serious areas of scholarship.

Aubrey and George stood on the street with their
backs to the Theology belltower. Aubrey kept an eye
open for bicycles, which seemed to be ridden solely by
maniacs to whom the difference between street and
pavement meant nothing.

Across from the university, an unattractive tenement
building faced them – about a hundred years old, four
storeys of drab brick, rendered grey. Dozens of windows
gazed down on them, mournfully. Aubrey thought it had
all the architectural flair of a cliff.

'If Dr Romellier was disturbed by the Theology bells,
then his rooms must be up there somewhere,' Aubrey
said, pointing. He drew back his hand just in time to
avoid decapitating a cyclist.

'I suppose we should just start knocking on doors,'
George said. 'What's Gallian for "Hello, are you Dr
Romellier?"'

Aubrey shrugged and winced at the dull pain in his
shoulders. 'Perhaps we can find a porter or someone in
charge.'

George tilted his head back and stared at the sky.
'I don't think we need to do that, old man.'

'What is it?'

'Bird expert, this Dr Romellier, isn't he?'

'That's what Mother said.'

'Now, if I were a renowned expert on birds, what do
you think my hobbies would be if I lived in the middle
of the city?'

Aubrey gazed upwards, shading his eyes. 'Hobbies?'

'Pigeons, old man. Let's go and see if Dr Romellier
keeps a pigeon loft.'

T
HE ROOF OF THE TENEMENT BUILDING GAVE A FINE VIEW
of the university grounds. Aubrey was pleased to see a
few small patches of greenery that had escaped the urge
to build bigger, taller faculty fiefdoms.

The pigeon loft was a substantial construction. No
ramshackle assembly of cast-off building material, this
large rectangular bird mansion looked as if it was strong
enough to withstand a Force 10 storm.

George squinted through the wire. 'They're pigeons, all
right. Lots of them.'

'I'm glad I brought an authority,' Aubrey said. He made
sure he stood upwind of the loft. Even though it was
well cared for, the smell of pigeon droppings was eyewatering.

'I had to learn something, being raised on a farm,'
George said. 'Animals, birds, agricultural machinery, I'm
your man.'

Aubrey scanned the surroundings. The rooftop sported
pipes, ventilators, enigmatic shafts and doors that led to
stairwells. Which would take them to Dr Romellier?

A whirring overhead made him look up. A flock of
pigeons swooped low, then veered off again to circle the
building. Aubrey shielded his eyes from the sun, but was
startled by a barrage of angry shouting. He dropped his
hand and saw a short, bald man hobbling toward them,
waving a stick that would have been better used to help
him walk.

George nudged him. 'What's he saying?'

'He's threatening to report us to the association.'

'What association?'

'The Pigeon Racing Association.'

The old man came closer, jabbing at them with his
stick and keeping up a torrent of angry Gallian.

'He says that he's been waiting for us,' translated
Aubrey, 'and now he's caught us red-handed.'

'How does he come to that conclusion? We could just
pitch him off the roof.'

'He says he's been on the lookout for whoever's been
nobbling – that's not the Gallian word for it, of course –
his best birds. Oh, and the police have been called and
we're not to move.'

The man's abuse wound down and he fixed them with
a beady eye that looked remarkably like that of his
charges. Aubrey took the opportunity to ask him if he
knew Dr Romellier.

This set the pigeon man off in another torrent, but this
time smiling broadly.

'It appears, George, that if we're friends of Dr
Romellier, all is forgiven. This was the good doctor's
loft and the home of his scientifically bred flock, which
he gave to this man, Monsieur Moir. He asks forgiveness
for his suspicions, but bad men have been poisoning
his birds.'

'Does he know where Dr Romellier is?'

This query brought forth a shrug. Further questions
revealed that Dr Romellier had disappeared some
months ago. No goodbyes, no forwarding address.

They left Monsieur Moir berating a hungry-looking
cat that had foolishly come within fifty yards of the
pigeon loft. Aubrey didn't fancy its chances.

Back on the street, he looked up at the tenement
again. The windows were identical, anonymous. 'To the
university, George. Dr Romellier can wait for another
day. Let's find this Faculty of Magic.'