Time of Trial (9 page)

‘I beg your pardon?' he said. His hard-learned tact kept him from the first response that came to his mind, which was, ‘Are you stark, raving mad, Kiefer?'

‘Dr Tremaine's sister,' Kiefer said, with rather less certainty now everyone was looking at him. ‘She is lost, not dead. She vanished and has never been found.'

General mayhem ensued as everyone spoke at once. Everyone, except – for once – Aubrey. He was too stunned.

Dr Tremaine's past was shrouded in mystery. He cultivated this and never denied a rumour, no matter how outlandish. He seemed to have come from nowhere– although gossip had it that he was born on the Continent, in Antipodea, the Americas or to a disreputable peer– and proceeded to cut a swathe through society with his riches and through academia with his intellect. He also wrestled, sang, painted and shot with the best of them.

The only family he ever mentioned was his sister, Sylvia, and he always spoke of her as if she had passed away a long time ago. It garnered him much sympathy, especially among tender-hearted women.

He told me his sister had died
, Aubrey thought,
but truthfulness isn't Dr Tremaine's strongest suit.
‘Kiefer, where did you get this information?'

‘I heard it,' Kiefer mumbled, ‘in Fisherberg.'

‘In Fisherberg?' George said. ‘This is useful stuff, Kiefer. Did you hear it from someone in the Chancellor's government?'

‘No,' Kiefer said in a small voice. Then he actually blushed. Two bright spots of red rushed to his cheeks and he dropped his head. The hands he'd clasped in front of him were suddenly fascinating.

Caroline tapped the table. ‘Where did you hear it, Otto?'

Kiefer sighed and lifted his head. He spread his hands. ‘Gossip. Coffee house gossip.'

His gaze darted around the table and his face fell at the reception this revelation received. He rallied and went on. ‘You see, among students, Dr Tremaine is a topic of much fascination. Where he is from, what he's up to, where he gets his clothes ... A few items are accepted fact. That his sister survived her illness is one of them.'

George snorted. ‘Are we going to rely on gossip?'

Von Stralick coughed. ‘I too, have heard this. I understood it to be common knowledge in Fisherberg.'

Aubrey rubbed his face with both hands. ‘Perhaps there's a way to find out if she is alive.'

‘I suppose we could ask Dr Tremaine,' von Stralick said, ‘but I don't know if he'd be forthcoming.'

Aubrey smiled. He took the velvet bag from his appurtenances vest and shook it into his palm. He held up the Tremaine pearl. ‘She gave this to him. I was going to suggest we put it on display, a public display. George could work on getting publicity in the papers, Dr Tremaine would hear about it and then...' He rubbed his chin. ‘But first, I think I can use it to see if Sylvia is still alive.'

Kiefer started. ‘Of course! The Principle of Familiarity!'

Aubrey nodded, saw the mystified expressions and explained. ‘Inanimate objects can form connections with people, if they're in contact with them for long enough. The human consciousness impinges itself on the object, as it were.'

‘Yes,' Kiefer said. He leaned forward and slapped his hands on the table in front of him in a rapid drumbeat. ‘Yes. And if the object is removed from the person, from their consciousness, the separation is hurtful to it. The object yearns for its owner, longs to be reunited.'

‘A trifle more anthropomorphic than I'd put it,' Aubrey said, ‘but the principle remains. It's one we can use, with the correct preparation, to point the way to Sylvia Tremaine.'

‘Just like we used the brick from the tower of the Magic Faculty in Lutetia to point the way to the Heart of Gold?' George said.

‘I used the Law of Constituent Parts there,' Aubrey said and he noted the look of intense interest on Kiefer's face. ‘That's for connections between inanimate objects. The relationship between people and objects is more complex.'

And the spell will be more complex
, he thought, running through the possibilities in his head and feeling the rising of his pulse that signalled a challenge was in sight.

Caroline and George exchanged a glance. ‘You're going to do some spell casting here?' she said. ‘Is that wise?'

Aubrey steered a course and only answered the first question. ‘Yes, right here. But let me do a little probing, first, just to make certain.'

Kiefer rubbed his hands together, eagerness itself. ‘I'm keen to see your magic at work. The new style Albion rationalism is all the talk in Fisherberg.'

Aubrey suddenly felt self-conscious. He wondered if it was because of von Stralick's noting every move. Or perhaps it was Kiefer's extreme attention, as if he were observing an operation. He focused on George and Caroline instead. He wanted to let them know that he felt stronger than he had in ages, much more able to undertake complex magic.

He flexed his shoulders. A simple probing spell. Even though all magical observation affected the object observed in some way (the Principle of Conscious Scrutiny), he felt it was worth it, especially if he could construct his observation spell to have the lightest of touches, a mere feather brush so Aubrey could detect anything unusual about the pearl before he proceeded further. It was wise, judicious spellcraft.

Feeling all eyes upon him, he reached for the notebook and pencil he had in his jacket pocket. Kiefer grunted with approval, then suddenly swore, thrust back his chair and stood. ‘Don't do anything. I think I left the kettle on.'

‘Don't wait for him,' von Stralick said sourly as Kiefer galloped out. ‘He could be a long time. Difficult places, kitchens.'

Aubrey hesitated.
A simple spell
, he thought and then tucked away the notebook.
No need to scratch out anything.

A tiny cautious voice insisted otherwise, but with Caroline and George watching, he found it easy to ignore it. ‘Right. Let's see what's going on with this pearl.'

He decided to use Tartessian, a difficult ancient language he'd been studying at university. He told himself he wasn't showing off. His decision was based solely on his need to practise it. The simple matter of not having used it before in an active spell didn't seem dreadfully important.

He placed the velvet bag in the centre of the table. Then he settled the pearl on it. He adopted what he hoped was a commanding pose – arms extended, brow furrowed – while trying to ignore Caroline rolling her eyes. Striving for a deep, thrilling timbre, he started with terms outlining the direction of the spell and the vicinity, then rolled out the variables for intensity and duration, emphasising the lightest possible touch. The plosives of the Tartessian language caused him momentary alarm, but he thought he managed them well as he brought the spell to a conclusion. A tiny flourish of a signature, and it was done.

The pearl exploded.

Aubrey shook himself and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.
I see
, he thought, looking around and steadfastly refusing to be surprised.
We're in a dungeon
.

They were all in various aspects of disarray. George was sprawled against the rough stone block wall, groaning. Eyes closed, von Stralick was on his back on one of the four straw mattresses. The only one who didn't look distressed was Caroline. Aubrey was greatly relieved to see that she was unharmed, standing at the door – heavy wood, massive iron hinges, a single peephole – with her ear to its surface. She saw him looking at her and she held up a finger, demanding his silence.

He was happy to comply. It gave him a chance to make sense of the waves of magic that were rolling over him from ... where?

Such was the enveloping nature of the magic, he didn't have to concentrate or extend his magical senses. The
weight
of it pressed on him from all directions. It made his skin tingle, his bones itch, and sent a play of contradictory tastes flickering across his tongue. Odd sensations that weren't smells slid through his nostrils, making him wrinkle his nose and paw at it, trying to dislodge the birdsong that was caught there.

The overwhelming effect was disconcerting, to say the least, but Aubrey – strangely – didn't find it unpleasant. The magic had been shaped and wrought, it had a single-mindedness of purpose. But for what?

‘Nothing,' Caroline said as she descended the three stairs that led to the door. She shook her head in disgust and wiped her hands together.

‘Nothing?'

‘No sounds. We've either been forgotten or the guards are asleep.'

‘Guards?'

Caroline gave him a pitying look. ‘We're in a dungeon, Aubrey. What's a dungeon without guards?'

Aubrey considered this for a moment. He glanced at the others. George had levered himself up and was leaning against the wall looking dazed. Von Stralick was still unconscious.

‘Caroline,' he ventured. ‘How did we get here?'

‘Really, Aubrey, that blow on your head must have been worse than I thought. You shouldn't have struggled so when they burst in.'

Aubrey stood. He did it slowly, distracted for a moment by the bizarre sensation of tasting tartan. ‘I shouldn't have struggled when they burst in?'

‘You argued at first, as usual, then you struggled.'

‘With whom?'

‘With ... With...' Caroline frowned. ‘They came to get us and brought us here.'

‘Of course they did. We were abducted. How else would we wind up here?' Aubrey went to the wall and put his palm against it. He bit his lip. The magic was coming from the walls. Or through them? ‘Do you remember the journey?'

‘What are you getting at, Aubrey?' Caroline came close, glancing at the others. It was not an altogether unpleasant situation, Aubrey decided, Caroline's deciding to come nearer to him.

‘The journey,' he said in a hushed voice and had the pleasure of her leaning closer. ‘How did it take place? How did we get from von Stralick's place to here? Motorcar? Omnibus? Airship?'

‘Don't be silly,' she said, but a frown creased her perfect brow.

‘Humour me.'

‘I...' She shook her head and looked angry, fetchingly angry, rather than frightened. ‘What's going on here?'

‘We're trapped in a metaphor, I think.' He slapped the stone wall. ‘Although I think this one has gone right through the other side of metaphor into the realm of cliché.'

‘You're being obscure again. I warned you about that.'

‘The pearl, Caroline. Remember the pearl?'

‘Oh.' Caroline's eyes opened wide. ‘I'd forgotten. We were gathered around the table. You were posturing, ready to do your magic, and then...'

Aubrey winced a little at the ‘posturing'. ‘And then we were here.' He swept an arm around. ‘This place is reeking with magic of the Tremaine sort. We've been transported here. I must have triggered something.'

‘Kiefer isn't here because he wasn't close enough to be swept up?'

At that moment, von Stralick sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Where am I?'

‘And the cliché is complete,' Aubrey said.

Von Stralick scowled. ‘If this place is a metaphor, as you say, then shouldn't we approach it on that level? Shouldn't we look to escape? Trick the guards? Tunnel out of here? Bend the bars and squeeze through?'

George turned from looking out of the barred window. ‘I'm not sure if that would be a good idea.'

Aubrey had to stand on tiptoes; he wasn't really surprised at what he saw.

The window looked onto a shaft. It was square, some ten yards across. Across from their window was an identically barred window. Aubrey looked up and he groaned. The shaft stretched up as far as he could see. Thousands, tens of thousands of barred windows disappeared into infinity. He looked down and saw the same depressing scene.

A tap on the shoulder. ‘Make a stirrup, Aubrey.'

He blinked as Caroline slipped off her shoes. She held her dress up over her ankles while Aubrey fumbled to lace his hands together. It was no effort to lift her, and soon she was gripping the bars and staring at the improbable sight that lay outside.

Aubrey found his head resting against her knee. Solely to retain balance, he told himself, but he wished that her inspection would go on forever.

‘You can let me down now,' Caroline said.

‘Are you sure? Take your time. I mean, there are a lot of windows out there.'

‘I've seen enough.'

He lowered her reluctantly. She took his shoulders to help herself down. ‘Thank you, Aubrey. You're very useful, sometimes.'

Lost for words, and lost in the moment, he nodded. Then he straightened a tie that he felt must have deviated by at least half a degree from the vertical.

‘Please,' von Stralick said with a knowing smile, ‘if you'll step aside, I too would like to see this amazing sight that has rendered you speechless.'

Aubrey backed away and stumbled into George, who was hunched over and attacking the wall with a penknife. He grinned at Aubrey. ‘If I have my clichés right, the mortar should be weak around one of these blocks.'

Caroline peered at George's efforts. ‘And on the other side will be a grey-bearded prisoner? The one who knows all the secret escape routes?'

Aubrey shrugged. ‘I'm not sure we can rely on every aspect of the cliché. What if the originator of this place grew up with different clichés? Like one with the pit of boiling oil on the other side of the loose stone block?'

‘We'll just have to be careful,' George said. ‘Ah.'

‘That sounded like an “ah” of satisfaction, George,' Aubrey said.

‘Satisfaction and discovery, old man.' George straightened and dusted his hands together. ‘We do, indeed, have a loose block of stone. With a bit of an effort I think I can drag it out.'

‘Rather than pushing it in and losing it?' von Stralick said, joining them after his introduction to the ominous shaft. ‘We don't want to leave an obvious hole in the wall if we have picky gaolers, do we?'

It took George only a few minutes – and plenty of needless suggestions from his onlookers – before he'd managed to free enough mortar to get a grip on the sides of the stone block. Grimacing with effort, he inched the block forward. It grated, nearly stuck, then it was finally balanced ready to come out.

‘If it's too much for you,' von Stralick said to George, ‘I'm sure I can lend a hand.'

‘Appreciate the offer, von Stralick,' George said, ‘but I think I have it under control.'

Aubrey wished that George and von Stralick would stop sparring, but it seemed as if they were in a drawn-out battle of niggling, like a pair of five-year-olds in a sandpit.

George leaned against the block with his shoulder, wiped his hands on his trouser legs and nodded. ‘All right, everyone. Stand back.'

He switched position and grasped the underside of the block. Gritting his teeth, he edged it forward until he was taking its full weight. He grunted and moved backward, slowly, knees bent. ‘Nothing behind me, is there?' he asked, the strain in his voice evident. The tendons in his neck stood out.

‘All clear,' Aubrey reported. He knew his friend was strong, but this was an impressive display.

‘Good.'

George shuffled back, then sank at the knees. With care, he moved his grip until he was holding the sides again, then gently lowered the block to the floor.

He straightened, sighed and massaged the small of his back. ‘There. Easy as you like.'

‘Liar,' Aubrey said.

‘True.' George flexed his hands. ‘I was just doing my best to keep up the cliché count.'

Aubrey went to reply, but his attention was caught by the hole in the wall and the words died in his mouth. He stared, then moved closer – carefully – to confirm what the removal of the stone block had revealed.

White. The hole opened onto pristine white.

George looked quizzically at Aubrey. Von Stralick narrowed his eyes and took a small step back. ‘What is it?'

Aubrey squinted, then frowned. What he'd thought was a blank, white space was anything but. It had a lustre, a subtle, shifting sheen that looked as if it was composed of a thousand different shades of white, shifting as he moved his head.

He reached into the gap. George caught his arm. ‘I was going to say “be careful”, old man, but I realised who I was talking to. What about “try poking it with something first”?'

Aubrey patted the appurtenances vest through his jacket, then he looked around.

Von Stralick, with a solemn face, handed him a long straw. ‘From the mattress. It was the best I could do at short notice.'

Aubrey thanked him. He edged his makeshift probe into the hole. When it reached the whiteness, the straw buckled. ‘It's hard.' Then he shrugged.
In for a penny, in for a pound.

Before anyone could stop him, he put his hand into the gap, forefinger extended. He tapped the white surface with his fingernail. ‘Quite hard.'

‘Pearl usually is,' Caroline said.

Aubrey straightened. ‘Pearl?'

‘Pearl,' she repeated. Then she gestured, encompassing the dungeon and its surrounds. ‘We're trapped in Dr Tremaine's pearl.'

Of course
. Immediately before waking in the dungeon, what had he been doing? Probing the pearl. He must have triggered a defensive spell and it had caught them all.

Von Stralick nodded. George peered into the hole. ‘Makes sense to me.'

‘Brilliant notion,' Aubrey said to Caroline.

‘I'm glad you're impressed,' she said, offering him a smile.

The door to the cell suddenly swung back with a satisfyingly melodramatic creaking, and crashed against the wall with enough force to shake dust from the ceiling.

‘Ah. More have been sent.'

Framed in the doorway was a young woman and Aubrey was actually relieved. He'd half-expected to see a guard – hunchbacked or otherwise – leering at them, and was thankful that this wasn't the case. His active imagination had provided fleeting visions of being asked questions while keepers enjoyed working the various means of extracting information. He wasn't overjoyed at the prospect.

Their visitor was a striking figure, nonetheless, as she stood at the top of the stairs, studying them. She wore a long velvet gown the colour of old blood – a crimson so deep it was almost black. Her hair was thick and black, hanging past her shoulders. Aubrey had the distinct impression that she wasn't well, for her skin was pale and her dark eyes sparkled with fever one moment, then lapsed into dullness the next. On top of this he had the creeping sense that she had a close resemblance to someone he knew well.

‘Sylvia?' he said.

She inhaled sharply and turned her attention to him. ‘Why do you call me that?'

‘Because you look like Dr Mordecai Tremaine.'

‘Mordecai?' She put a hand to her throat.

Caroline was grim. ‘What has he done to you? Imprisoned you here?'

She shook her head and her black hair danced. For a moment, animation came to her face and her eyes glinted with vigour. ‘No, never imprisoned,' she said, but the energy fled and once again her face was almost a doll-like mask. ‘This is my home. I belong here.'

‘In a pearl?' Aubrey said.

‘A pearl?' Her brow wrinkled. ‘What a strange notion you have.'

‘Then what is this place?' George asked.

‘Come with me,' she said. ‘I'll show you.'

‘We're free to go?' Von Stralick asked.

She shrugged, as if this was unimportant. ‘You're free to come with me.'

Aubrey had more than a few misgivings. Her demeanour didn't inspire confidence. ‘You
are
Sylvia Tremaine, are you not?'

‘I like the name.' She turned away, back toward the corridor outside the doorway. ‘But it's unimportant.'