Moment of Truth (4 page)

The police presence at No. 4 Credence Lane had increased, Aubrey noted as he was admitted to the Prime Minister's offices. A sign of the times.

He didn't recognise any of the constables on duty, and their business-like demeanour as they scrutinised him discouraged any light conversation. He was ushered to a waiting room near the main stairs. There, under the watchful eye of the constables who popped in every few minutes, he waited. And waited. And waited.

So much for urgency,
he thought after the first hour went by, dragging its feet so much it would have left gouges in concrete.

The sole window of the waiting room looked out on a deserted courtyard that featured a pear tree in bloom. Two remarkably uninteresting paintings hung on the walls. Aubrey had his choice of a still life with fruit or a thatched country cottage with – no doubt – a horde of rosy-cheeked children inside. After an hour or so of staring at them, they began to blur together and he had visions of rosy-cheeked bananas inside a thatched cottage, which gave him a start.

Aubrey tried not to let his irritation grow. Having a role in the Security Intelligence Directorate – no matter how peripheral – was good for his ego. Magic was one area where his father hadn't gone before him and any successes were indisputably his own. Being dragged away from it was hard to take, despite the urgency of the summons. Being ignored on top of it was even more nettling.

Aubrey did his best to divert himself from such childish thoughts. He wondered about the hushed tension that permeated the building. He'd visited numerous times since his father had regained the Prime Ministership, and he understood that the offices had never exactly been a leisurely place, but the seriousness on the faces of those who hurried past the open doorway was a sign that something was amiss. Aubrey idly considered possibilities. Someone in the Opposition caught embezzling party funds? Or, worse, someone in Sir Darius's own Progressive Party up to no good? His father had hinted that he was less than impressed with some of the backbenchers. Such had been the Progressives' election success that some had gained seats unexpectedly – and their quality was not all it should be.

A junior aide – a young man several years older than Aubrey – popped his head into the waiting room. ‘Sorry, Mr Fitzwilliam. The PM's been caught up again. Sends his apologies. Cup of tea?'

‘Did he say how long he was going to be?'

The aide screwed up his face. ‘It's hard to tell. There's a lot going on.'

Aubrey noted how the aide hadn't actually answered his question. He could go far in politics. ‘Tea would be appreciated, thank you.'

The tea was excellent, as was the light lunch that was brought an hour later. By two o'clock, Aubrey's lack of sleep was catching up with him. Soon, it had caught up, gone past, and was threatening to lap him. His eyelids each weighed a pound. His chin was regularly sucked downward to meet his chest. Blinking was taking seconds to complete.

A cough made him jump. ‘Sorry,' he said, automatically reaching for an excuse. ‘I was concentrating.'

A short, brisk woman looked over her glasses at him with the sort of polite disdain that only comes with years of practice. ‘I see,' she said, clearly unconvinced, but quite happy to allow Aubrey his delusion. ‘A motorcar is waiting for you.'

Aubrey glanced at the window to see that evening was drawing in. The gas lamps in the street were glowing cheerfully. ‘My father wanted to see me.'

‘He sends his apologies. His post-luncheon meeting went longer than expected, then he was whisked into an emergency party session.'

‘What should I tell my mother?'

‘I believe they've been in communication.' The woman pursed her lips. ‘She's expecting you.'

The motorcar was an Oakleigh-Nash and Aubrey cursed its comfort. It made it even harder to stave off sleep as it rolled through the streets, past the Houses of Parliament, over the bridge, and made its way toward the family home in Fielding Cross with the subdued rumble of very expensive machinery, a noise Aubrey decided was purposely designed to send one to sleep.

He staggered out of the motorcar, mumbling thanks to the driver and treating Harris, the butler at Maidstone, to an incoherent greeting. Aubrey had visions of his bed, but he was brought up short at the foot of the grand stairs. ‘George,' he said, with a fair stab at intelligibility. ‘What are you doing here?'

George Doyle was leaning against the newel-post, arms crossed on his chest. He was wearing a belted, striped Norfolk jacket and looked fit and vibrant. ‘I might ask you the same question, old man. Your Darnleigh House jaunt finish early?'

Aubrey tried again. ‘Aren't you supposed to be at university?'

George sniffed the air. ‘You know, I think dinner is almost ready. Shall we go and see?'

With some bewilderment, Aubrey followed his friend only to run into Harris coming back the other way. ‘Dinner, young sirs,' the butler announced. He glanced at George, to let him know that he knew that his summons was superfluous but wanting it understood that it was his job.

When they reached the dining room, Lady Rose was already there. She was wearing a favourite dress, a striking blue, high-necked and long-sleeved. Immediately, Aubrey could see the concern in her eyes. ‘Mother. What's going on?'

‘Hello, Aubrey. I'm glad you're here.'

There's a wealth of commentary in that simple utterance,
Aubrey thought and he began to grow very uneasy. ‘George, how long have you been here?'

George drew up a chair. One of the serving staff arranged his napkin on his lap. ‘A few hours, old man. Came as soon as I read the telegram.'

‘Ah. From my father?'

‘That's the one. Said I should join you here. I was starting to wonder where you'd got to.'

His mother smiled a little, but Aubrey noted how she was fiddling with the gold charm bracelet around her wrist – the one his father had given her soon after they first met. ‘Your father telephoned and said he wanted you both to stay here until he could talk to you. After he'd received permission from your father, George, of course.'

Aubrey's weariness had vanished. Something was awry, seriously awry. ‘Mother? Do you know what's going on?'

Lady Rose was about to answer and the soup was brought out.

‘Potato and leek,' George said. ‘Capital.'

George finished quickly, and allowed himself to be persuaded to have seconds, while Aubrey dawdled over his. It wasn't that the soup was poor – it was excellent – but he spent most of his time watching his mother.

She barely lifted her spoon. She chatted absently with George about the putting together of the latest edition of the
Luna,
the student newspaper at Greythorn. George had received some favourable notice for his series of articles about the ordinary people of Holmland, and his prestige among the students working on the paper had grown considerably.

Engaging as she was, Aubrey couldn't help but notice that his mother's real attention was on the doorway that led to the entrance of the house. George hadn't noticed this – devoted as he was to Lady Rose – but Aubrey saw the subtle shifts of posture and position that meant that Lady Rose could see the door without having to turn away from speaking to him.

When the doorknocker hammered, Lady Rose stiffened. George's chat drained away when he saw the expression on her face. Harris appeared with a heavy, cream envelope on a silver tray. ‘M'lady?'

She held out a hand in the same way one might ask for a cobra and took the envelope and the letter opener that was also on the tray. Her lips were set in a grim line as she slit the envelope with quick, efficient movements.

It didn't take long to read, and Aubrey was dismayed to see all the colour run from his mother's face. ‘Mother?'

She didn't respond. She put a hand to her mouth and scanned the letter again. Finally, she folded the letter and held it in both hands in front of her. ‘I have some distressing news.' She took a breath. ‘Holmland has invaded the Low Countries.'

George smothered an oath. Aubrey clenched his fists and his heart pounded inside his chest. Nearly two years of tension, of plots and counter plots, had led to this moment. He'd hoped that it would never come, that a clever stroke would forestall it forever, but the tide was sweeping over them even as they did their best to resist it.

‘At ten o'clock,' Lady Rose continued, visibly growing paler, ‘your father is due in the Lower House. He is going to announce that we are at war.'

There it is,
Aubrey thought numbly. Such a simple statement: we are at war. Nation against nation, and misery would be the only inevitable outcome.

‘Holmland must be aiming to invade Gallia through the Low Countries,' he said and he tried to remember his geography. Racing through the Low Countries would be easier than trying to force through the hilly terrain and fortified areas of north-eastern Gallia. ‘Our treaty with Gallia means we have no choice but to support the Low Countries.'

‘It was inevitable, I'm afraid,' Lady Rose said, ‘after the assassination.'

Aubrey couldn't help but agree. A few weeks after they'd fled Holmland, the Elektor's nephew had been shot while touring the Goltans. Veltranian rebels had killed the well-meaning Duke Josef during a parade. Aubrey knew the loss would strike the Elektor hard. He held his nephew in high esteem, and it had been his idea for Duke Josef to visit the Goltans. It was the Elektor's effort to reassure the Veltranians that Holmlanders weren't all warmongers and barbarians, an effort than bravely ran counter to the more belligerent designs of the Holmland government.

A doomed effort, it would seem.

Immediately after the assassination, Holmland – urged on by its ally, the Central European Empire – had issued a series of demands to the Veltranian government. Some of the demands called for the quashing of anti-Holmland political parties and taking immediate action against the assassination suspects and co-conspirators. Holmland went further, insisting that the Veltran government control the press, which had been notoriously anti-Holmland. With the factions in Veltran, this was always going to be impossible, and Aubrey suspected that Holmland knew this.

Ambassadors from Holmland and the Central European Empire withdrew when the Veltranian response to the ultimatum was deemed inadequate. War was declared soon after – and Muscovia rallied behind its Goltan ally, Veltran, which meant that instead of a small-scale spat, the incident was now a heavyweight contest.

This was the headache the Continent had become. A web of treaties and alliances linked all countries, sometimes in multiple ways, and Aubrey knew that this is what his mother meant by inevitable. One country declaring war on another drew in more countries which dragged in the rest. It wasn't so much a line of dominoes as a fishing net soaked in oil and set on fire, spreading flames in all directions at once.

Once Holmland was at war with Muscovia, its ambitions were given free rein. While it engaged the enemy to the east, one faction of the military generals apparently thought opening a western front, advancing troops through the Low Countries, would be a fine idea. Why have one battlefront when you can try out your new toys on two?

Albion had no choice. It had to go to war – and Dr Mordecai Tremaine was on his way to immortality.

Aubrey spared a thought for Rodolfo, the Veltranian patriot he'd come to know in his guise as a brigand. The last Aubrey had heard, Rodolfo had been going home to try to stop his brother from being swept up in the machinations that were only too rife in the benighted country. Rodolfo had had rumours of assassination plots, rumours that sounded ominous in the light of Duke Josef's death.

George broke the speculation that had seized Aubrey. ‘Lady Rose,' he said tentatively, ‘sorry to ask, but does Sir Darius say why he wanted me here? Wanted
us
here?'

Aubrey was pleased. George had gone to the heart of the matter.

Lady Rose looked uncomfortable. She turned her charm bracelet for a time, rotating it around her slender wrist and looking at neither George nor Aubrey. Finally, she came to a decision and lifted her head. ‘He did. I'm not sure if I agree with his motives, and I'm not sure that you will either.'

Aubrey and George looked at each other. ‘I assumed he wanted support for you,' Aubrey said, but his words dried up as soon as he said them.

‘And why would he think I'd need support?' she asked calmly. Aubrey thought it was the sort of calm that travellers from the colonies, survivors of tropical cyclones, reminisced about, saying, ‘Remember that lull just before the house was crushed by falling palm trees then swept away by the landslide and flood?
That
was the calm before the storm.'

Aubrey backtracked as fast as he could. ‘Support each other, I mean. Quite an announcement, that. Strength in numbers, someone to share the load, that sort of thing.'

‘Hmm.' Lady Rose narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced but willing to let the matter drop. She picked up the letter, which had been lying on the table next to her wine glass, as unobtrusive as buffalo at a wedding.

‘Darius was most concerned for you both,' his mother said after she scanned the letter again.

‘Concerned?' Aubrey echoed. He didn't understand. If he wasn't safe in Darnleigh House, where on earth did safety lie?

‘Indeed. He's worried about you doing something foolish, as he puts it.'

‘Ah.' Aubrey sat back. ‘I think I see.'

‘You do?' George said. ‘I'm afraid you've left me behind, old man.'

Lady Rose smiled at George. It was a smile with a touch of sadness. ‘He doesn't want you to enlist, George.'

After a dinner that had become understandably sombre, Lady Rose retired to her study. It was George who suggested cocoa in the library while they waited for Sir Darius to come home. Aubrey promised to join him, but with trepidation went via his room to check on his Roman fragment, the cousin to the Rashid Stone.

After he opened the safe behind the portrait of his great-great-grandfather, he found the empty velvet bag. He didn't trust his eyes, so he plucked the bag from under the pile of legal documents. He opened it, felt inside, turned it inside out, then sat on the striped sofa against the wall, his stomach hollow.

Dr Tremaine was an astounding magician. He knew that – but he hadn't imagined the man could cast a spell which would bring him objects
he couldn't possibly have knowledge of.

It was a pointed reminder of the capabilities of the foe with whom he was dealing.

Making his way to the library, Aubrey was at sixes and sevens, imagining the scenes in Parliament as the rumour of war swept through its halls. His father would be under siege by members of his own party and members of the opposition, all wanting extra information, or favours, or appointments. It didn't matter what the nature of an emergency was; some saw an opportunity for advancement while others wanted to come to the aid of the country in dire times.

Aubrey hoped that his father's Cabinet colleagues – good people, most of them – were able to keep the petitioners away. He knew his father would want to work on his speech.

His father was a fine speechmaker – and speechwriter, when it came down to it. Several of his colleagues used professional speechwriters to hammer out the words needed for the public, but this was an area where Sir Darius was old-fashioned. He insisted on writing his speeches for himself.

At times, he'd used Aubrey as a sounding board, trying out early drafts and asking for criticism. Aubrey liked the way his father used direct language and avoided the circumlocutions that too many others in Parliament were entranced by. Sir Darius loved to salt his speeches with blunt, one-syllable words and phrases that were pithy, commonplace, but memorable.

This speech, declaring that the nation was at war, would need all of his skill and care.

Aubrey wondered, too, what effect the declaration would have on the Magic Department and the Security Intelligence Directorate as a whole. It had virtually been on a war footing for some time, but the training week had suggested to him an organisation that was ready to move up a gear, to bring all its resources to bear on the twin jobs of gathering information and protecting the nation from espionage.

Of course, the university would need to take stock. Many of its people would be reserve officers, likely to be called up immediately – and Aubrey had heard rumours that many had already been seconded, abandoning courses mid-semester. Deans all over the campus would no doubt be frowning over reallocations, cancellations and amalgamations. The university was likely to become a serious place indeed. Aubrey thought of the days by the Greythorn River, the long afternoon teas and the fun of the cricket matches. It may be a long time before such carefree days ever resumed, especially if Dr Tremaine's plans came to pass.

He imagined Dr Tremaine was feeling satisfied as nation after nation declared war on each other. It was the sort of scale he'd been after all along, the magnitude of war that was needed to complete the Ritual of the Way.

George opened the door to the library. Aubrey could see that, in the warmth of the evening, the windows had been open. The smell of honeysuckle made his favourite room in the house even more inviting. He took one of the large leather armchairs and let his gaze wander over the thousands of volumes on the shelves.

The Ritual of the Way was death magic of the worst sort. It was theoretical, because no-one had ever thought that a sufficient blood sacrifice could be organised. Dr Tremaine, however, was a man who dared do what others recoiled from. He had realised that war was nothing if not an organised blood sacrifice. If he could harness it and orchestrate a battle of gargantuan size, he could achieve his ends.

Immortality. Even the warmth of the summer evening wasn't enough to stop Aubrey from shivering at the prospect of an immortal Dr Tremaine. Given eternal life, could anything stop him?

There was a knock at the door and Harris brought in a tray. George took it from him and placed it on the table between his chair and Aubrey's. He poured, and Aubrey was charmed when he saw that Harris had found his favourite childhood mug. Solid brown earthenware, a smiling cow beamed out at him from it.

George had a more mature mug – a thoughtful-looking duck – and after he sipped he sighed. ‘Good cocoa, that.'

Aubrey sipped. ‘Harris made it himself.'

‘Not cook?'

‘Harris prides himself on his cocoa.'

‘I see.' George took another mouthful, then placed his mug on the table. ‘All right, old man. Now that the cocoa discussion is out of the way, I need to ask you a question.'

Aubrey lifted an eyebrow. ‘Mmm?'

George pursed his lips, scratched his chin, frowned and then rubbed his hands together. Running out of time-wasting gestures, he finally fixed his gaze on Aubrey. ‘What are we going to do?'

Aubrey put his mug on the table as well. He sat back and crossed his arms on his chest. ‘That's a very good question, George. It deserves to have a very good answer, but I'm dashed if I know what it is.'

‘Let me throw a few words into the ring: duty, responsibility, obligation.'

Aubrey made a face. ‘You don't have to remind me about duty.'

‘I know, old man.'

‘King and country, that sort of thing?'

‘Sounds old-fashioned when you put it like that.'

‘If you mean unthinking obedience and loyalty to something as abstract as a country, then I think it
is
a bit old-fashioned.'

George nodded, but Aubrey saw this was potentially upsetting. ‘Don't mistake me, though,' he went on. ‘I happen to think you can do the same thing for two different reasons. While some people might rally to Albion just because of patriotism, with no questions asked, I like to think that I support Albion because I've asked the questions and I'm satisfied with the answers.'

‘Like your magic,' George said slowly.

‘What?'

‘You keep going on about Rational Magic, where you magic types ask questions and work things out intelligently. Maybe you're doing the same with patriotism.'

‘Rational Patriotism.' Aubrey tried it on for size, and was quite comfortable with the fit. ‘If I'm rationally patriotic, I can admit that while Albion isn't perfect there
is
a lot to be proud of.'

‘Freedom of the press,' George said. ‘Freedom of thought.'

‘More or less. And there's the rule of law. And Democracy.'

‘Votes for women?'

‘Coming soon,' Aubrey said firmly. He uncrossed his arms and counted on his fingers. ‘Writing. The Arts. Sciences.'

‘Charity,' George said. ‘Don't forget charity. Albionites know that it's the right thing to do to help those less well off than you are.' He held up a finger. ‘And don't forget cricket.'

‘How could I? Aubrey said. ‘It's a good country. Not perfect, but it's better than the alternative. I'd hate to see it crushed.'

‘That's the other thing,' George said. ‘We're talking about defending ourselves here.'

Aubrey had visions of invaders marching on Parliament House. Or the Palace. Or Maidstone. He shuddered. ‘While I wouldn't want Mother to hear it, I'd do what I could to protect her.'
And George's parents. And Caroline, of course. And Mrs Hepworth. And Harris. Then there's Bertie...

‘Of course.' George scowled. ‘I'm worried about Sophie and her family.'

George had met Sophie Delroy a year ago, while on their Lutetian escapade. They'd been diligent correspondents ever since, and Sophie had visited Greythorn on one memorable occasion. Aubrey thought they were well matched. The sharp and ambitious Sophie and the clearly smitten George.

‘Why not ask them over here for a holiday?' Aubrey suggested. ‘Plenty of room here at Maidstone.'

George chewed on this. ‘Or I could ask them to the farm. Father would like that.'

‘They'd be out of harm's way.'

‘If you allow me to leapfrog sideways, so to speak, it's true, what you say.'

‘It is?'

‘The best way to lessen worry is to do something about it. One of your maxims, that.'

‘It is?' Aubrey hadn't realised he'd appropriated one of his
father's
favourite mottos. Not that he minded – he agreed. Doing something –
anything
– was about the only remedy for the paralysis that worry could bring about.

‘A favourite,' George said firmly. ‘Now, I don't think we've really decided what we're going to do.'

‘A question for you, then. How do you feel about being summoned here?'

‘Summoned?' George frowned. ‘I didn't really see it like that.'

Am I being oversensitive?
Aubrey wondered, but he went on. ‘Well, what about being described as “foolish”?'

‘Steady on, old man. I think it was our possible actions that were described as foolish, not us.'

‘Aren't you splitting hairs, George? It sounded to me as if we couldn't be trusted and we needed to be sheltered for our own good.'

‘I suppose there was a bit of that...'

‘I'm not sure how well that sits with me.' Aubrey reached out for his cocoa, but his cow mug was cold. ‘I'm worried about this war, George.'

George stood and brushed off his jacket. ‘Let's sleep on it. It's too late to do anything now.'

Aubrey glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece over the fire. It was after eleven. He'd wanted to wait for his father, but if he wasn't home by now he may not be home at all. ‘Tomorrow morning it is. Plenty of time then to do something rash.'