Time of Trial (20 page)

‘I'm Stevens,' he said sharply.

‘Of course you are. And that would make you Mr Todd?'

Kiefer nodded decisively, as if he'd been preparing himself for this moment. ‘I am Todd. I am an inexperienced cultural attaché, but I am willing to learn.'

George shook hands mutely.

I hope the explanation for all this is a good one
, Aubrey thought
.

‘That's a good explanation,' Aubrey said, ‘but it isn't actually explaining anything I wanted explained.'

‘I'm sorry.' Hollows eased himself back into the embrace of the leather armchair. ‘I thought a quick précis of the political situation was in order.' The inner drawing room in the Albion Embassy was extremely comfortable. It was high-ceilinged, with duck-egg blue walls and elaborate eighteenth-century cornices. Landscape paintings of idyllic Albion countryside hung on the walls except over the wedding-cake of a fireplace, where a vast gilt-framed mirror took up residence and reflected with all its might.

Lady Rose was sitting in a red velvet easy chair, regarding the ambassador with some sympathy. Von Stralick and Kiefer were sitting side by side on a leather sofa. They'd discarded their disguises. Kiefer looked uncomfortable, but that was such a customary attitude that Aubrey thought no more of it. Von Stralick was far more composed, but Aubrey thought he was on edge, despite the easiness of his manner.

‘
I
appreciated it, Quentin,' Lady Rose said. ‘Don't be so ungracious, Aubrey.'

‘I'm sorry,' Aubrey said. ‘I am grateful, please don't think that I'm not.' He was. Hollows had confirmed that Dr Tremaine had embedded himself firmly as the Chancellor's most trusted adviser. ‘But what I'd really like an explanation for is these two.' He pointed at von Stralick and Kiefer, who had remained silent during Hollow's briefing.

Hollows glanced at the two Holmlanders with a touch of amusement. ‘Our helpful friends? Of course.'

Lady Rose made an impatient noise. ‘I gather that this is some sort of intelligence tomfoolery, but I don't like being kept in the dark. Everyone here except me seems to know something about these two, apart from the fact that they like wearing disguises.'

Von Stralick stood to attention. A moment later, after a subtle kick, Kiefer did as well. ‘I'm sorry, Lady Rose,' von Stralick said. ‘Todd and Stevens were assumed names, as you've gathered. I am Hugo von Stralick, at one time a junior functionary in the Holmland Embassy in your country. This is my cousin, Otto Kiefer.'

‘Hugo is the Holmland spy I've told you about, Mother,' Aubrey said.

Von Stralick looked pained, but this disappeared as he and Kiefer sat again. ‘ “Spy” is a word I do not like using, even at the best of times.'

‘What about “failed spy”?' George suggested.

‘Thank you, Doyle. I am indebted to you for your unflinching honesty.'

Hollows coughed. ‘Von Stralick is working for me at the moment. He has no official role with the Holmland intelligence services, but I find his understanding of the Holmland situation to be valuable.'

‘What about your superior's superior?' Aubrey asked von Stralick. ‘You'd hoped he may be able to help you.'

‘Ah yes, Baron von Grolman. He apparently saw the writing on the wall and resigned from the Chancellor's government. Withdrawn from public life, I understand.' He looked unhappy. ‘Whatever has gone on, I'm having trouble contacting him.'

‘Dr Tremaine's doing?' Aubrey asked.

Hollows nodded. ‘It wasn't long after Dr Tremaine assumed his new role in the inner sanctum of Holmland decision-making that Baron von Grolman was accused of embezzlement. It was a trumped-up charge. The baron is so wealthy he doesn't need to stoop to anything as sordid as embezzlement.'

‘I will try to contact him again today,' von Stralick said. ‘The baron is a good man, but perhaps too independent in his thinking for the Chancellor's liking.'

‘And now he's out of the picture,' Hollows said. ‘When von Stralick contacted us with an offer to help us, we verified a number of things and welcomed him aboard, especially since he told us of his acquaintance with you.'

‘So you see,' von Stralick said, beaming, ‘we are now on the same side, officially!'

Aubrey was less than overjoyed. He'd been prepared to work with von Stralick, but on his own terms, with his own safeguards in place.

Kiefer looked at him anxiously. ‘So we are united in our mission?'

Hollows frowned. ‘Yes, quite. We're glad to have you both aboard.' He nodded at Aubrey. ‘Von Stralick has given us some useful insights into the way Dr Tremaine has been operating. I've coded them and sent them to...' He paused. ‘The Directorate, is that what it's called now?'

‘The Security Intelligence Directorate, sir.'

‘I really can't keep up sometimes,' Hollows muttered.

The ambassador's mention of coding reminded Aubrey of his run-in with the Veltranian rebels. ‘Who's your chief intelligence operative here, sir? I need to get something back to Albion.'

‘Major Vincent.' Hollows reached over for the bell pull. ‘You had an incident on the train? Dashed exciting mode of transport, but somewhat wearying, with all the comings and goings.'

Comings and goings. Aubrey could see how being flung off a moving train could be put into that basket. ‘I met some brigands. Not on the train, though. Near the Bramantine Gorge.'

‘Eh?' Hollows sat forward. ‘Brigands? What happened?'

Aubrey gave an account of the brigands who turned out to be Veltranian rebels. After he finished, he spent an hour or so of coding and the job was done. Major Vincent promised that the report would go in the next dispatch bag.

Aubrey wandered back to the residential section of the embassy, deep in thought. The ambitions of the rebels added another wrinkle to a situation that was already well furrowed, but it seemed as if its consequences weren't as urgent as some of the others.

Such as finding Caroline.

He brightened at this prospect, rounded a corner, and ran into von Stralick and Kiefer.

They were waiting for him on the landing above the main entrance, right under a large stained-glass rendering of the Albion flag. ‘Fitzwilliam,' said von Stralick. ‘We must find this fragment of Dr Tremaine's sister before anyone else does.'

Aubrey stopped dead, took stock, backed up a little, then took another run at his words. ‘Anyone else?'

Kiefer glanced at von Stralick, then answered. ‘I ran some experiments. Talked to some people. Ghost hunters are abroad.'

Aubrey had a fleeting longing for simple times. Then he remembered his father's hint that there was oddness in Fisherberg. ‘Ghost hunters. You're joking, aren't you?'

‘I do not joke.' Kiefer looked thoughtful. ‘Not that I know of.'

Von Stralick nodded. ‘That's right. Totally devoid of humour is Otto.'

‘But ghost hunters? It sounds like something from a fairytale.'

‘Holmland has always had ghost hunters,' Kiefer said. ‘They're part of our history.'

‘A bit of an embarrassment in this day and age,' said von Stralick. ‘But they seem to have had a resurgence recently. Especially here in Fisherberg, where people are complaining that ghosts have been harassing them.'

Aubrey had the itchy uneasiness of a mystery presenting itself, but he wanted to throw up his hands. His plate was currently full of mysteries drenched in mystery sauce, with a mystery side salad. Enough was enough. ‘And where have these ghost hunters come from?'

Von Stralick spread his hands. ‘Rural areas, I expect. Until recently, I didn't think we had any left. I thought they went the way of the fletcher and the reeve.'

‘Ghosts.' Aubrey shook his head. ‘What exactly are ghosts?'

‘Are you unwell, Fitzwilliam?' von Stralick said. ‘Ghosts are not real. They are fairy stories, something to scare children.'

‘A fairytale that's given rise to an occupation dedicated to finding them.'

‘Charlatans.' Von Stralick snorted. ‘Like fortune tellers, they prey on the gullible.'

‘Most likely,' Aubrey said, ‘but what if they aren't? What if they really can find ghosts? Or something they call ghosts, anyway.'

Kiefer frowned. ‘My friends say that people are reporting transparent figures wandering about, passing through walls, things like that. They sound like ghosts.'

‘Wait,' Aubrey said. ‘Haven't we recently seen transparent figures wandering about, passing through each other?'

‘So you told me,' Kiefer said. He touched his spectacles and added to the tapestry of smears Aubrey could see on the lenses. ‘In Dr Tremaine's pearl.' He smiled. ‘So it could be that the ghost hunters are detecting the same sort of thing: fragments, splintered souls.'

In that instant, Aubrey saw it. ‘That piece of his sister's soul. It's out there.'

‘And someone might be hunting it as we speak,' von Stralick said.

‘Perhaps we need to talk to some of these ghost hunters,' Aubrey said.

Von Stralick sighed. ‘You can't trust them. They will tell you what you want to hear.'

Kiefer put a hand on his cousin's arm. ‘It can't hurt to talk to them. They gather at the Blue Dog, do they not?'

‘They do.' Von Stralick glanced at Aubrey. ‘You are free tomorrow, Fitzwilliam?'

Aubrey winced. He'd been hoping to find where Caroline was staying. ‘I'll see what George is up to.'

‘Splendid,' von Stralick said. ‘That way we'll be well prepared if we need someone to act as a sack of potatoes.'

The next morning, Aubrey decided that the Blue Dog was well named, because the sign hanging out the front of the tavern was as blue a dog as he'd ever seen. Not grey, not a delicate seal colour, but an eye-watering, startling blue, the sort of blue that tropical fish adopted as a warning of their extreme toxicity.

The tavern lurked in an old district of Fisherberg that rejoiced in the attractive name of Thart, near the river. At first, as they made their way down the hill towards the bridge that bisected the tiny locale, it appeared to Aubrey as if Thart was composed entirely of taverns, inns, hotels and grog shops. When they drew closer, however, he was able to make out that a few eateries had squeezed in between the rowdy, low-slung bars, and a pawnbroker had a prominent position on the crossroads, ready to buy, sell and loan day and night.

From the top of the hill, Aubrey had seen how Thart was turned inward, resisting the tide of modernising that had enveloped the rest of the city. Its buildings were all low – none more than two storeys – and built in a combination of wood and stone that reeked not just of age but of smoke, dirt, grease, oil and other, mostly inflammable, substances. It was only a few city blocks, perhaps two or three streets wide and the same again across.

Kiefer gestured vaguely at the bridge. ‘Many of the ghost hunters sleep under there, when they're in the city.'

‘They come from the countryside?' Aubrey asked as George surveyed the scene.

‘Hmm?'

Aubrey sighed. Kiefer had been even more absentminded than usual this morning, his thoughts quite obviously elsewhere. Aubrey had never realised that catalytic magic was so fascinating.

Von Stralick snorted. ‘Usually, the people in the city are not näive enough for the ghosthunters' business. In the country, though, they can ply their trade, make their money by preying on the peasants.'

Aubrey had no time for frauds who deliberately preyed on the insecurities of people – hopes, fears, losses – but he didn't like the way that von Stralick lumped all country dwellers as simple-minded dullards who were just as culpable as the shysters.

Aubrey understood how von Stralick could be sceptical about the ghost hunters, but he wasn't about to leap to that conclusion. While great strides had been taken in rational magic in the past few decades, most of that was the result of work done in universities and other academic institutions. The results had found their way into industry and life in general, but this didn't mean that all traditional folk practices had ended overnight. Many had been shown to be worthless but others had demonstrable results that kept them in circulation. At the farm on Prince Albert's estate – Penhurst – Aubrey knew of a worker who could reliably cast a spell that would lead him to a lost lamb. As Aubrey's own magical talents had developed, he could sense the man's magic and he had no doubt that it was real, not just some combination of luck and local knowledge. It was the only spell the man could cast, and it was an erratic, fugitive talent, so it was fortunate that he was a cheery fellow with a broad back and an almost unlimited ability to work hard.

Aubrey wasn't willing to discount the ghost hunters. If they had any insights into what was happening in Fisherberg, he was happy to glean what he could.

The Blue Dog's entrance was below street level. He and George followed the two Holmlanders, and together they found themselves in a place that looked as if it was designed to deter strangers.

Whatever light the windows let into the tavern – and it wasn't a great deal – was instantly turned grey and tired by the build-up of noxious exhalations and fumings from the patrons and the huge open blazes that filled the fireplaces on either side of the single large room. The air, thus, took on a character of its own and became a feature of the place. Aubrey, accustomed as he was to air that was mostly transparent, was intrigued by the smoky indistinctness. For a moment, it was as if he were looking through gauze.

The room was entirely constructed of dark wood, grimed and blackened by the same miasmas that had done the job on the windows, lack of diligent cleaning apparently being a prerequisite for owning the Blue Dog over the centuries. Directly in front of him was the bar, a long counter that looked solid enough to withstand a siege. On reflection, Aubrey decided that this was probably a good thing. Behind the bar were empty shelves where, in a more genteel establishment, bottles may have stood.

Two mighty wooden pillars held up the ceiling. They were scarred, slashed, carved and burned but looked as if they wore these marks as trophies.

Long tables and benches, arranged with almost military precision, filled the room. Aubrey had trouble seeing this array at first, because the benches were packed with customers. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder, a solid lattice of squat, silent, broad, fur-clad people.

Aubrey stared from the doorway. For a moment he thought that they'd stumbled into a meeting of a fraternity of extremely well-behaved bears.

Kiefer sniffed, then – quite obviously – regretted it, for it meant that he inhaled more than he needed to of the rich aroma that fought with the light for possession of the air.

Von Stralick took charge. He strode between the tables, looking straight ahead, and confronted the barman. Aubrey, feeling that in unity there was strength, hurried along behind, with Kiefer, who was still struggling for breath, and George – who was doing his best to look formidable.

The barman was short, but he was as broad as two men. He had shaggy, shoulder-length hair. His hands were spread on the bar in front of him, ready, as it were, for anything.

‘Are you gentlemen lost?' the barman said, making a fair stab at civility. As long as he didn't make a fair stab in any other way, Aubrey was satisfied with this.

‘I don't think so,' von Stralick said. ‘This is the Blue Dog?'

The barman turned this over, let it brown for a moment or two, then judged it was done. ‘Could be,' he allowed.

‘Well, we're looking for ghost hunters.'

‘A pity,' the barman said, only missing a verse or two of beats, ‘there's no ghost hunters around here.'

Aubrey sighed. He knew evasion when he saw it, being somewhat of an expert. Even without turning around, he had the sense of dozens of pairs of ears listening to every word. He had the distinct feeling that they were getting the preliminaries to a very long run-around. It was time to change the game, he decided, so he stepped forward. ‘A pity indeed,' he announced in his clearest Holmlandish, ‘because I have a hundred marks for the best ghost hunter in Fisherberg.'

Aubrey hadn't meant to start a brawl, but he was proud that having initiated one it became such a good brawl. Once von Stralick, Kiefer, George and he were safely on the same side of the bar as the barman, he watched in wide-eyed wonder as the furry men hurled themselves about the tavern in an attempt, presumably, to be the last standing and thus the only one able to claim the role as best ghost hunter in Fisherberg.

Seeming to defy the laws of physics, and most of the laws of Fisherberg, they howled, bit, kicked, wrestled, headbutted, punched and flung each other in all directions until the bar room was full of flying furry bodies filling all available space. Benches and tables were pressed into service, splintered, abandoned, cursed at and then forgotten as it got down to hand-to-hand assault. Aubrey saw ghost hunters hurled against the giant uprights with such force that – if correctly harnessed – it could power entire cities; he stared in amazement as the flungees simply staggered to their feet, shook themselves in furry outrage and waded back into the fray.

When he saw a ghost hunter thrown against one of the large windows and simply bounce off he shrugged, accepting that the glass had transmogrified over the years due to its exposure to the air of the room into something only remotely glasslike.

Gradually, it became apparent that little actual damage was being done in the fracas. The heavy furs that swaddled the ghost hunters acted not just as insulation and homes to entire species of insects, but as padding. Equally apparent was that this expenditure of energy in mayhem had a ritual aspect about it, as if it had been done many times before. Singly, then in twos and threes, the ghost hunters reached some sort of understanding of their place in the great pecking order of ghost hunters. After picking themselves up and dusting themselves off, the lesser ghost hunters sauntered off, leaving the tavern with the air of people who just remembered an appointment. Not an important appointment, just a mildly diverting one, like a chance to see a man about an interesting dog.

Once this part of the process had begun, things moved quite swiftly. Dozens became scores became tens became a handful. Then it was two ghost hunters facing off, snarling oaths that sounded blood-curdling but were incomprehensible to Aubrey's ear. They circled each other, arms outstretched, like giant fuzzy crabs. Then, in a perfect pantomime that could have been seen by a shortsighted audience member in the rearmost of the back stalls, one of the two – they were quite indistinguishable – straightened, snapped his fingers, spun on his heel and limped toward the doorway.

The remaining ghost hunter rubbed his hands together for a moment then ambled to the bar. ‘You have a hundred marks?'

Fleetingly, Aubrey wondered what would happen if he said no. Pushing the impulse aside, he took out his wallet. ‘Are you a ghost hunter?'

The triumphant warrior beat his chest with the flat of a hand. ‘Bruno Fromm is the best in Fisherberg.' Pause. ‘Best in Holmland.'

George took this carefully. ‘You're certainly the only one still here, at any rate.'

‘Those others? Impostors. Cheats. Fools.'

‘You know them well?' von Stralick said.

‘Fromm should. They are Fromm's cousins.'

Bruno Fromm peered at them from the narrow gap between the brim of his furry hat and the start of his woolly beard. His eyes were dark and shiny, glinting through the steam of the coffee cup in front of him. ‘You want to find a ghost.'

Aubrey, George, Kiefer and von Stralick were on the other side of the righted table. At Fromm's insistence, they'd been supplied with coffee as well. Aubrey had sniffed his, but not tasted it since he had an aversion to sipping anything that promised to dissolve his teeth. ‘A special ghost.'

‘Ah.' Fromm stared at his coffee. The movements of his cap made Aubrey realise that he was wrinkling his brow underneath all that fur. ‘Fromm thought you were just sightseers.'

‘Sightseers?' George said.

‘Rich folk. Want to see a ghost. Plenty of them about.'

‘Rich folk or ghosts?' von Stralick asked.

‘Both, lately. Lots and lots of ghosts, lots of work for ghost hunters.' Fromm grinned with a mouthful of startlingly good teeth. ‘But finding what you're after, something special, that's different.'

‘You can't do it.' Aubrey made motions to rise.

Fromm shook his head. ‘Fromm didn't say that. Fromm just said it was different.'

‘How?'

‘Costs more.'

‘How much?'

‘How much is it worth?'

‘What if I offer you fifty? After which you'll get all offended and demand two hundred, and I'll get up to leave only to hear you suggest a hundred.'

Fromm looked nonplussed, then suspicious. ‘You're making fun of Fromm?'

‘Not all. I don't mind haggling. I just don't like the time it takes, so I sped through it. For both our sakes.'

‘A hundred?' Fromm brightened. ‘Must be important. Someone close? Relative? A friend?'

‘A friend of a friend,' von Stralick said. George snorted.

Fromm drained his coffee and rose. For a moment, he stood there and examined his hands. ‘They're not really ghosts, you know.'

Aubrey was alert. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Fromm can see you're not stupid. Not just looking for cheap thrills, you. So Fromm doesn't want to lead you astray.'

‘If they're not ghosts,' Aubrey said carefully, ‘what are they?'

The ghost hunter groped for words. ‘Ghosts are meant to be what some people leave behind when they die.'

‘That's the story,' Aubrey said. The room had become tense. George, Kiefer and von Stralick were silent. Kiefer had grasped the edge of the table and was leaning forward as if that would make him remember better.

‘Good story. Not good truth,' Fromm said. ‘When we die, souls don't linger here. They go somewhere else.'

Aubrey was very still. Could the crude magic of the ghost hunters shed some light on his condition? When his soul had been wrenched from his body, it had immediately been drawn to the portal that led to the true death. No chance of loitering, ghost-like, haunting anyone or anything.

He tapped the Beccaria Cage under his shirt. ‘That's my understanding, too.'

Fromm peered at him. ‘Fromm was right. You aren't stupid.' He huffed for a moment, then he groped in a hidden pocket. Aubrey tensed, and felt George stir at his side, but relaxed when Fromm merely took out the hundred-mark coin, the reward Aubrey had already given to him. He turned it over and over in his hands. It sparkled, golden. ‘Ghosts aren't souls. Not whole souls.'