Word of Honour (11 page)

Even in the short time Aubrey had been at the
university, he had heard about the mysterious Lanka
Ravi. The young genius was the prime element of any
discussion around the Faculty of Magic – who was he,
where was he, what was he up to?

A few things were agreed on. Some time ago, a parcel
of documents had arrived unannounced on Professor
Bromhead's desk. His curiosity was aroused by the stamps
and the return address: it was from the Subcontinent, but
he didn't recognise the name of the sender.

As the Trismegistus professor of magic at the foremost
university in Albion, Professor Bromhead often received
letters from the public. Mostly, these were from people
with an amateur interest in magic. Obscure theories
would be advanced, new laws outlined, plans suggested
to overthrow established magical procedures. Almost
always, these were the products of enthusiastic, but
deluded, believers. Nothing ever came of them.

This time, Bromhead was ready to pen another polite
letter of acknowledgement when he glanced at the
topmost sheet.

Four hours later, he was still poring over the tiny,
precise handwriting. Reluctantly, he'd become convinced
that this Mr Lanka Ravi had outlined at least two
revolutionary magical laws, along with a supporting
theoretical framework.

Professor Bromhead had trouble believing that
someone so distant from modern magical discourse had
derived such brilliant stuff. It sparked a frantic correspondence.
After the exchange of a dozen letters, he was
convinced. Lanka Ravi was a magical prodigy.

It took Professor Bromhead a year to persuade Lanka
Ravi and his family, but finally the gifted isolate boarded
a steamer and made his way to Albion.

Since arriving, he had been cloistered with the top
brains from the Department of Experimental and Theoretical
Magic, but the undergraduate speculation was
constantly centred on when Lanka Ravi would give a
public lecture. Bunches of magic students would congregate
out of thin air, surge to a lecture theatre where Lanka
Ravi's appearance was rumoured, then dissipate, morosely,
when the rumour proved to be unfounded.

Of course, Aubrey was caught up in the fever. It was
a giddy, thrilling time and the exotic nature of the
unseen Tamil magician added to the heady atmosphere.
For the rest of the week, he felt like a native scout in
a canoe, swept along by rapids. By dint of furious
paddling, he managed to keep from capsizing, but it
was a near thing. College life, meals, socialising, meeting
new and fascinating people, then lectures and tutorials
and the silence of the far reaches of the library. He had
his violin lessons, but gave up after a few days of furious
practice, realising that expertise in some areas doesn't
come overnight. He regretted it, as he enjoyed the
music-making. He'd even had his fingertips temporarily
hardened thanks to a neat spell cast by his violin instructor,
to stop them becoming raw from pressing on the
strings.

He saw George first thing in the morning, last thing at
night, and at college gatherings, but since their academic
leanings were so divergent, that was all.

He didn't see Caroline. They moved in different
university circles. He promised himself he'd do something
about this, when he had time.

The Department of Experimental and Theoretical
Magic wasn't only the home of the mysterious Lanka
Ravi. It was leading the way in all manner of modern
magical research. Things Aubrey had only read about
were being discussed and refined every day. But he soon
learned that the department was made of people, the
same as any other organisation. Fads, fashions, and
favourites were rife. Some avenues of inquiry were seen
as 'rewarding' and 'challenging', while others were yawned
at, or even scorned as unworthy of serious exploration.
Currently, the feverish area of speculation appeared to
be the origins of magic, with many favouring the thesis
that human consciousness was responsible for magic.
The exact manner of this interaction was the subject of
feverish discussions and exploration.

Controversy, too, was bread and butter for the department.
It was a university, after all. One of the most
divisive issues was military applications of magical theory.
The majority of academics and students were firm
patriots, and willing to countenance the notion that the
army or the navy may benefit from their work. After all,
their reasoning went, the alternative was worse.

However, a reasonable pacifist movement also had a
presence, resisting any project that smacked of practical,
war-mongering application. The result was that these
people dealt with some of the most abstruse areas of
magical theory – and that they walked the halls of the
department building with distant, vague expressions, as
if they were seeing things beyond the mundane here
and now.

Only once did Aubrey hear his hero, Baron Verulam,
mentioned. It was with tones of affectionate disdain,
as one of the early progenitors of modern magic,
but hopelessly – hopelessly – old-fashioned in these
times.

Aubrey bridled at this, but bit his tongue. He needed
a firmer footing before he engaged in arguments on
this level.

The event, however, that caused Aubrey's studies to
take a sudden sharp turn came when he was looking for
George at the end of the hectic first week.

A letter arrived at their rooms from George's mother.
Aubrey broke off from his studies – a little dazed, as he
often was when disengaging from knotty magical theory
– and immediately grabbed his jacket. He scratched his
head over George's handwritten lecture timetable and
went looking for his friend.

Aubrey crept into the back of the History lecture
theatre and tried to spy George's sandy hair. His efforts,
however, were distracted by the lecturer.

She was petite, with light brown hair, and wore rimless
spectacles. Her hands were covered with rings, which
flashed as she constantly gestured to emphasise one point
or another.

She was passionately describing the difference between
Chaldean and the Nineveh variant of the Assyrian
language. 'While they are both aspects of the Babylonian,'
she said, 'never, ever get them confused.'
She took off her glasses. 'I did once, when I was
your age. It took me a long time to live down the
embarrassment.'

For the rest of the lecture, Aubrey forgot all about
George. He was lost in the unfolding story of early
language development in the ancient world.

When the lecture finished, Aubrey hurried down the
aisle. He spotted George lingering near the exit, talking
to a serious-looking girl in a green dress, and decided
he'd be there for some time.

'Excuse me?' he said to the lecturer.

She was still gathering her notes at the lectern. She
glanced at him. Her eyes were dark brown and Aubrey
thought she was about the same age as his parents –
considerably younger than any of the other dons he'd
encountered.

'If you've come late,' she said, 'I'm afraid you'll have to
get the notes from one of the other students.' She smiled.
'I did make a fair bit of it up as I went along, you see.'

'Er.'

'Chaldean is so intriguing, don't you think?'

'Certainly. It's perfect for most spells that require a
careful timing factor.'

She looked over the top of her spectacles. 'You're not
reading History.'

'No. I'm Magic.'

'Of course you are.' She slipped her papers into a case.
'So what can I do for you?'

'Ancient languages. How can I do more?'

She stood with her case in one hand and her other
hand on her hip, and regarded him with amusement.
'Ancient Languages? I do a handful of lectures for you
first-year Magic students in a few weeks time.'

'A handful of lectures? What if it's not enough?'

'Ah, bitten by the language bug?'

It was one way of putting it. Aubrey was thinking
in more practical terms. 'The better I can handle these
ancient languages, the better I can work spells.'

The lecturer put down her case and threw up her
hands. She addressed the lofty ceiling. 'How long have I
been waiting to hear someone say that? How long have
I been saying it to those fusty Magic dons?' She dropped
her gaze and smiled warmly at Aubrey. 'You'll have to give
up one of your magical subjects, but I can get you into
my Introduction to Ancient Languages. If you're keen.'

'Aubrey!' George said. He strolled over, looking most
content with life. 'You've met Professor Mansfield, have
you?'

'Mr Doyle,' Professor Mansfield said. 'You've completed
all your reading on early Latin?'

George made an oddly indeterminate hand gesture – a
flapping, twiddling motion. 'Not entirely, no. I've made a
good dent in it, though. Fascinating.'

'I'm sure.'

'Professor Mansfield?' Aubrey said.

'Professor of Ancient Languages. And I hope you're
not going to ask me how a woman my age happens to be
a professor.'

'Wouldn't have dreamed of it,' Aubrey said truthfully.
Knowing his mother and Caroline meant that he didn't
find competent women a shock, unlike many of his
contemporaries. 'I wanted to ask for a reading list.'

She smiled again, with dimples, and Aubrey was tempted
to revise his age estimate downward considerably. 'Good
lad. I'll get one to you. What college are you at?'

'St Alban's.'

'Name?'

'Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'

'Fitzwilliam. St Alban's.' She looked up from her
notebook. 'You're not related to Rose Fitzwilliam?'

'My mother.'

She tapped her nose with her pencil, thoughtfully.
'Wish her the best from me when you see her next.
Anne Mansfield. Oh, and your father.'

She picked up her case. 'See the secretary in the
Languages school this afternoon.' She stopped at the door.
'We'll make all the necessary arrangements.'

When she'd gone, Aubrey was left with a feeling
that he'd just complicated a life that had hitherto been
marked by a distinct lack of simplicity. 'George,' he said,
and he handed the letter to his friend, 'remind me never
to act on impulse ever again.'

'Right you are, old man.'

George glanced at the handwriting on the envelope
and frowned.

'Anything wrong?' Aubrey asked.

George didn't answer. He opened the letter and
scowled as he read it.

'George?'

George sighed. He folded the letter and tucked it back
in the envelope, then stared at it for a moment. 'Farming's
a hard life,' he said eventually.

'A letter from home, was it? Your father is all right?'

'His health's improved, at least.' George slipped the
envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket. 'You know,
it's hard enough with the seasons and the crops and
animals and all that. But do you know what worries
farmers most?'

'No.'

'Money.'

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, A
UBREY CAME BACK FROM THE
bathroom, still towelling his hair. George pointed at
the teapot on the desk. 'Help yourself.'

'Excellent.'

'Caroline's left a note. She was wondering if we
wanted to go down to the city with her.'

Aubrey took his head from the towel and stared. 'When?

'She wants to catch the half-past nine train.'

Tea forgotten, Aubrey was at his wardrobe in an
instant. Then he turned back to his friend. 'George?'

'What is it?'

'How do you know what was in the note that was left
for me?'

George grinned. 'Interesting. You're assuming it was a
note for you. It simply said "Room 14" on the envelope.'

'Well, when I said "for me", I actually meant "for us".
Of course.'

'That makes no sense at all. You're asking me how I
know what was in a note addressed to us.'

'Correct.'

'University is addling your brain. Come on, get
dressed.'

C
AROLINE WAS WAITING ON THE STATION PLATFORM
. S
HE
was comparing her watch – a man's wristwatch – with
the station clock. Aubrey started to catalogue her
clothing for later complimenting, but gave up and
enjoyed the simple fact that Caroline Hepworth would
be a couturier's dream; she made all clothes look good.

He hailed her and she glanced in his direction before
returning her attention to her watch. For an instant
he was miffed that he was less interesting than a timepiece,
but he decided that would be reading too much
into things.

'Hello, Aubrey, George,' she said when she'd finished
her inspection. Aubrey had the distinct impression that
she was annoyed with neither the watch nor the clock,
but with time in general, there being so little of it.

'Hello, Caroline,' he said. 'How's Science been?'

'Challenging. And Magic?'

'Exhilarating.'

'You're fortunate. And how's History, George?'

'Splendid. I've met some jolly interesting people.'

'Any of them male?'

'None come to mind. Unmemorable lot, History men.'

'And the Magisterium, Aubrey. Is it keeping you
busy?'

Aubrey flinched, and was glad to see they were alone
on the platform. 'Magisterium?'

'Commander Tallis told me that Craddock was recruiting
you, temporary duty or something like that.'

'Tallis? Craddock?'

'Aubrey, you've lapsed into your parrot impersonation
again, which is hardly useful. Now, why hasn't Jack Figg
been able to contact you?'

'Jack –' Aubrey began, then he bit his tongue. 'He's
been trying to contact me?'

'All week.'

'Ah. I've been busy.'

Caroline rolled her eyes. 'And you're the only one
who's been busy?'

Aubrey had the distinct feeling that he was on a very
rapid slippery dip. 'Ask George.'

'Very busy, he's been,' George said. 'Didn't even see the
notes on his desk.'

'Apparently not. That's why Jack contacted me, to
contact you, to contact him. If you see what I mean.'

'Perfectly,' Aubrey said faintly. He was still trying
to sort out the barrage of information. '
Commander
Tallis?'

Caroline snorted. It would have been unladylike in
anyone else. 'He's been promoted. To match Craddock,
they say. Keeps the Special Services and the Magisterium
balanced against each other.'

'You've been speaking with him?'

A whistle sounded. Caroline looked down the track.
'Right on time.' She glanced at Aubrey. 'You mightn't be
the only one on special detachment, you know.'

Their gazes met. Caroline smiled, just a little, and
Aubrey immediately knew how a lump of wax felt when
it's held over a candle flame.

Then, as one, they turned to look at George. He
returned their regard evenly. 'Special detachment? Of
course I am. Apart from my standard brief to keep an
eye on you two – son of PM and daughter of one of
the country's most famous artists – a representative of the
Press is vital in these times. Who else can we trust if we
can't trust the newspapers?'

Aubrey and Caroline burst out laughing. George
couldn't keep a straight face, and the other passengers
waiting on the platform stared at them with puzzlement.

The seats in the first-class compartment were roomy
and comfortable. Aubrey and George were sitting
opposite Caroline. Aubrey had been torn over the
seating configuration. He much preferred sitting so he
was facing the direction of travel – sitting with his back
to the engine seemed unnatural, somehow, going
backward into the future. But Caroline took the
window seat – once again, Aubrey's preference – on this
side of the compartment, so Aubrey had to decide
whether to sit next to her – delightful – or sit opposite
where he could see her without moving his head –
perhaps even more delightful. The permutations were so
labyrinthine that at first he stood in the middle of the
compartment, unable to move until George nudged
him. Aubrey let the direction of the nudge make the
decision for him, and so he ended up travelling backward,
but with the agreeable compensation of having
Caroline in his sight the whole way.

After they'd settled into the clacketty-clack rhythm of
the train, Aubrey felt as if things were resolved. Caroline
still had a distance about her, but she smiled and joked
merrily. If she had been a favourite cousin or a sister, all
would be well, but Aubrey still harboured feelings for her
that – it seemed – would go unrequited.

'So, what did Jack Figg want?' he asked, mainly to
distract himself from that line of thought.

'Jack?' Caroline's chin was resting on the back of her
hand as she gazed out of the window. A ghost of a reflection
hovered in the glass, and Aubrey wished he were a
painter. 'He wanted you, is all he'd say.'

'I hope he's not in trouble.'

'Don't be so gloomy,' George said. 'P'raps he's found
the perfect solution for poverty and wants to share it
with you.'

'Possibly.' It was the sort of thing Jack Figg would
come up with, Aubrey decided. The plan would assume
endless goodwill from everyone, plus absolute rationality
to boot, where the entire population would collectively
strike their foreheads and exclaim 'Of course! Why didn't
we think of this before?'

And Jack would get dreadfully disappointed when
flaws in his plan were pointed out to him, but it
wouldn't stop him from organising, lecturing, arguing
and simply badgering those around him into good
works.

Jack Figg was one of the few truly humane human
beings Aubrey had ever met. Aubrey did worry about
him, living and working in some of the worst, most
crime-ridden parts of the city, but Jack never faltered in
his efforts to improve the lot of those around him.

Caroline still gazed dreamily through the window.
George had unfolded one of his beloved newspapers and
was immersed in the minutiae that so intrigued him.
Aubrey was left alone with his thoughts.

Some time later, George nudged him. Aubrey started.
'What?'

'You were asleep.'

'No I wasn't.'

'No, of course not. You snore when you're awake, just
to keep everyone on their toes.'

'And the closed eyes,' Caroline said. 'To keep out the
sunlight?'

'I wasn't snoring, was I?'

'No,' Caroline said. 'Not really.'

George held the paper under Aubrey's nose. 'Like to go
to a show while we're in town?'

'I don't think so. I've had enough of shows for a time.'

'Look again, old man.' George shook the newspaper
significantly. 'Wouldn't you like to go to a show?'

Aubrey started to bat the newspaper aside, then his
gaze landed on the advertisement in the middle of the
page. 'Oh.'

'I thought so,' George said smugly.

'What on earth are you two going on about?' Caroline
asked.

'Nothing,' Aubrey said.

'Nothing,' George said.

Caroline narrowed her eyes. 'Why do I suddenly feel as
if I'm a headmaster? Come now, out with it.'

'Arturo Spinetti,' George said. 'Lovely tenor. Good
reviews, too. "A fine repertoire, excellent control, first
class presentation."'

'It doesn't sound like your sort of thing, Aubrey.'

'It's not, exactly.'

'Then what is it?'

Aubrey hesitated. Caroline's father had been killed by
Dr Tremaine. Should he tell her of his suspicions? Would
it be kinder to shield her until he knew more?

If she finds out later that I suspected and didn't tell
her . . .
'You deserve to know.' He leaned forward and
put his hands together. 'I think Dr Tremaine is back.'

All the blood ran from Caroline's face. Her eyes became
diamond-hard points. 'Dr Tremaine,' she breathed in a
voice that was full of such loathing, such fury that Aubrey
almost felt sorry for the man.

He also thought it wise not to point out that it was
Caroline who was now echoing. 'Yes. At least, I think so.'
He glanced at George. 'George isn't sure.'

'Not sure?' she snapped. 'Either you saw him or you
didn't.'

'I saw him. George didn't. Or George didn't think it
was him.'

'Tell me everything.'

So Aubrey recounted the fiasco at the awards
ceremony. When he paused, George filled in and Aubrey
was grateful for his friend's impartiality. Listening to him,
it didn't sound as if he were a complete raving fool.

Caroline sat silently, but Aubrey saw how the clenched
hands in her lap went whiter and whiter as the story
unfolded.

When Aubrey finished the account, she groped
for words for a moment. 'And you weren't going to tell
me this?'

He sighed. 'I considered it. But lessons learned and all
that. This is the first chance I've had – we've had – to
tell you.'

'I see.' She gazed out of the window again. 'This
changes things. We must put it to rest once and for all.
Is this Spinetti Dr Tremaine or not?'

'You really think he might be?' Aubrey asked.

'Magic, Aubrey,' she said. 'It's you who should know
that just about anything can happen where magic is
concerned. Some sort of disguising spell or other, I'd
imagine.'

'One that I can see through but no-one else can?'

'I'll leave that for you to work out.'

Aubrey opened his mouth and then closed it again.

'Excellent.' Caroline regarded Aubrey with a steely
ferocity. 'Is there anything else you're not telling me?'

J
ACK
F
IGG HAD ASKED TO MEET AT THE HALL IN
L
ENNOX
Street, the headquarters of the Society for the Preservation
of Manners. The last two members of the fading
society – a Miss Alwyn and her cousin Mr Renshaw –
were on the Continent and had let Jack Figg have the use
of the almost pristine building.

The hall was narrow, sandwiched between a barber and
a boot repair shop. Jack Figg was standing on the stairs,
leaning against one of the pair of fluted pillars, waiting for
them in the morning sunshine.

He brightened when he saw them approach. 'Aubrey!
Caroline! George! At last!'

Jack Figg was tall and thin. He stooped and his shoulders
were rounded. He wore battered spectacles, a dark
blue waistcoat, and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled
up. He looked harassed, but Aubrey knew it was his
customary expression. Like him, Jack had many things he
wanted to do with life and felt that there simply weren't
enough hours in a day.

'Sorry, Jack.' Aubrey shook his friend's hand. 'Things
have been hectic.'

'Saving the country again, I suppose?'

'No, not for a while, I haven't. I'm at Greythorn now,
you know. Busy.'

'Ah, and how is the featherbed of the elite? Full of
lotus eaters whiling their lives away?'

'Not exactly. I haven't had a lotus all the time I've been
there. Have you, George? Caroline?'