Word of Honour (15 page)

C
AROLINE SAT OPPOSITE HIM IN THE CAB
. S
HE WORE A
jacket and skirt over a white linen blouse. Her hat was
blue velvet, rather striking. Aubrey found it hard to keep
his gaze from her, but he realised – from her startled
expression – that the alternative of flicking his eyes
around the interior of the cab and out of the windows,
never settling for long – made him look quite demented,
as well as feel dizzy.

'Are you all right?' she asked.

He gave up and looked at her. She had one small
crease, a perfectly vertical one, exactly halfway between
her eyebrows. He realised she was frowning.

'Yes. Ripping. Couldn't be better.'

She frowned harder. The crease deepened. Aubrey was
lost in wonder.

'Do I have something on my face?' she asked.

'No, no, nothing. Sorry.'

She sighed. 'Aubrey, we can't do anything if you're
going to be a goose like this all the time.'

'Quite right.'

'You'll have to learn to manage yourself. More
decorum.'

'Of course.'

'I thought it the sort of thing you could do. Most
men can't.'

'Ah. An appeal to vanity.' He grinned. 'I'll see what
I can do.'

Aubrey sat back. He'd never really considered the
issue, how tiresome it must be for Caroline to be stared
at. Her occasional brusqueness was perfectly natural
when looked at in that light.

'Here's something practical for you to think about,'
she said, 'since a modicum of practicality may be
useful.'

Aubrey sat straighter. He adjusted his tie. He clasped
one knee, composed his face and nodded. 'How's this?
Practical enough?'

She rolled her eyes. 'The Eastside Suffragists. I've mentioned
them to you before. We're on a membership drive.'

'Excellent idea. Can't have too many suffragists.'

'Then you're happy to sign up. The fees are reasonable.'

'Me?' With a thought that was quicker than instantaneous,
he managed to save himself from utter disaster
by going on. '
Just
me, I mean? I'm sure I can convince
George to join, and what about Father? That would be a
coup for your organisation.'

Caroline looked thoughtful. 'George is already a
member, but your father . . .'

'I'm sure he'd do it.'
George is already a member? I must
ask him about that
.

'Despite the party? The Opposition?'

'You know he believes in votes for women. It's just that
things are slow to move in this area. This might be the
sort of thing that could give matters a kick on.'

'It's an excellent idea,' Caroline murmured.

'And here's another. If we can get Father's agreement
– and I'm sure we shall – we might be able to seed this
in the press via George's work with
Luna
. If he could
write an article about it, perhaps interview Father, it
would be an achievement for him, and a way of bringing
the matter to public attention.'

'Aubrey, your plans sometimes have a touch of genius
about them.'

'Well, I try.'

A
FTER CROSSING THE RIVER, THE CABBY CIRCLED AROUND
a little before finding St Olaf 's. It was a squat, blockish
church in the Crozier district, right on the edge of Little
Pickling. The church was in need of repair, its gutters
were sagging, and the belltower had a decided lean.
The detached hall at the rear was more modern, but no
less shabby. A drone of massed voices came from it.

Inside, three separate groups had divided the hall into
fiefdoms. Each one was made up of a dozen or so people
sitting on wooden chairs, facing an instructor with a
blackboard. The lessons seemed to comprise 'listen and
repeat' – traveller's phrases, mostly. One group would
stumble over 'Good morning' then the next would raise
its collective voice with 'How much is it?' and, to
combat this, the final group would be forced to bellow
'Which way is the railway station?' before the first group
started again.

Watching this process, Aubrey didn't hear the approach
from behind. A hand tapped him on the shoulder.
'Mr Fitzwilliam, Miss Hepworth. What are you here for?'

It was Brandt. Standing next to him was Rokeby-Taylor with a look of honest, and delighted, surprise on
his face.

While trying to deal with this unexpected development,
Aubrey's brain slipped into his prepared story.
'Count Brandt. Good to see you. I was wondering if
you'd like to discuss the details of setting up a clinic in
this area.'

'Mr Fitzwilliam,' Brandt said, 'what a fine idea!
But excuse me, I must introduce my good friend,
Mr Rokeby-Taylor. He is an important man, knows
many powerful people. He has promised much support
for our cause.'

'We've met, Kurt,' Rokeby-Taylor said, reaching out
and shaking Aubrey's hand. He took Caroline's hand and
held it for rather longer than Aubrey thought appropriate. '
Miss Hepworth. You look as if you've recovered from
your nautical adventure.'

'I have, Mr Rokeby-Taylor,' Caroline said gravely.
'Thank you.'

Rokeby-Taylor put his hands on his hips. 'A clinic, eh,
Aubrey? Should have thought of it myself.'

'No, Clive,' Brandt said, 'you are already doing more
than enough. Your generous donations to our cause, your
introductions to important people, taking our talented
people into your company? How can we thank you?'

'No need, Kurt, no need. We all benefit. I needed good
magical talent, your people were unable to get positions
here.' He took out a pocket watch and barely glanced at
it. 'Goodness. I'm afraid I must be off.' He touched his
tie – a striped, navy blue and white number. 'Miss
Hepworth, would you be free next Friday evening?
I have tickets to a recital at the Regent's Hall. Palliser
is playing.'

'I don't think so, Mr Rokeby-Taylor.'

'I see. The day after?'

'I'll have to look in my diary, but I don't think so.'

'Eh? Well, if you do find a gap in your schedule,
I'd consider it an honour if you'd telephone me.'

Caroline frowned at the card he handed her, but she
tucked it in her bag.

Aubrey was glad no-one had glanced in his direction
during all this. He was sure that his face had turned as
stony as an Aigyptian statue. It was all he could do to
prevent himself from cheering when Caroline declined
Rokeby-Taylor's offer.

'Insistent man,' Caroline said when Rokeby-Taylor
had left the hall.

'Hmm?' Aubrey said. 'Sorry, I was miles away. Didn't
notice a thing.'

Caroline glanced at him sharply, but Aubrey was alert.
'Tell us, Count Brandt, what are you up to here?'

'We are up to as much as we can,' Count Brandt said.
'In exile, we do our best.'

Brandt led Aubrey and Caroline out of the hall.
Around the corner was another, smaller hall in a courtyard
surrounded by tall buildings. It was full of people
– thirty or forty – arranged in old pews. Aubrey recognised
Bloch at a lectern, and Madame Albers, but the
others were strangers. Bloch was allocating a list of tasks
and Aubrey was thankful for his father's insistence on
the importance of foreign languages.

Those in the pews were well-dressed, if their clothes
were a little out of fashion. Most were taking notes.

'We are exiles,' Brandt said. 'We take care of our own,
and such requires organising. We meet, we discuss, we do
what we can.'

'Do you discuss going back to Holmland?' Aubrey
asked.

Brandt nodded. 'Of course. Delightful though your
country is, we are not here by choice. We were in danger
if we stayed and in danger if we go back now. Troublesome
opponents of the Chancellor have a habit of disappearing.'

'But you must have plans.'

'Plans? He who does not plan lives half a life. We
would love for the corrupt regime in our beloved
Holmland to come crashing down. If we can help that
happen, it is good. How to do it is the question.'

'You must be in communication with those still there,'
Caroline said.

'Of course. Carefully.' Brandt shook his head. 'The
Chancellor and his government cronies are popular.
They build ships, they have parades, birthday parties for
the Elektor. There is little support for our cause.'

'There is always an opposition to a government,'
Aubrey said. 'What about them?'

'Tame rabbits. Powerless. Equally corrupt.'

Standing at the lectern in front of the small audience,
Bloch broke off and waved. 'Brandt,' he called in Holmlandish.
'Leyden here says that his cousin in the navy has
been approached by the Circle.' Then he saw Aubrey
and scowled.

Brandt shook a finger at Bloch. 'Mr Fitzwilliam is a
trusted friend. You can talk in front of him.'

But before Bloch could continue, Madame Albers
laughed. 'The Circle. When are they going to do something
to match their big talk?'

'Talk?' Brandt said. 'Talk? The Circle is our best hope
of return. The offers they've made, the people . . .'

'Many promises, little action,' Madame Albers said. 'We
need more than words.'

Bloch glanced at Aubrey for a moment. 'Words are
powerful. Look at the Chancellor's new adviser. When
he speaks, everyone in the government listens.'

'This Dr Tremaine?' Brandt said, and Aubrey was
suddenly much more interested in what had seemed like
an argument over petty rivalries. 'Do you really think he
has that much influence?'

'He's a persuasive man,' Aubrey put in and they all
stared. He shrugged. 'I've had some dealings with him.'

'Your insights may prove useful,' Brandt said, then he
turned back to his compatriots and soon they were deep
in discussion about the best ways to return to Holmland.

Aubrey only half-listened. The revelation that Dr
Tremaine had expanded his influence from the Holmland
espionage wing to the government itself was
terrifying. Aubrey didn't want that man close to the
highest decision-makers in any country – let alone warlike
Holmland.

Aubrey looked up. He had the oddest sensation – as
if reality had suddenly creaked at the seams, shifting
uneasily before settling again.

'What was that?' he asked Caroline.

'What was what?'

'Nothing. Probably nothing.'

He couldn't shake it off. A curious double feeling took
hold of him, one sensation overlaid on another, and he
realised he was detecting magic – but he couldn't define
it. It was fractured and indistinct.

The meeting broke up. People moved past, nodding
to Brandt as they went. All of them glanced curiously at
Aubrey and Caroline.

'Ach,' Bloch said. His voice echoed in the nearly
empty hall. 'Someone has left a bag.'

'No.' Aubrey grabbed Brandt's shoulder. 'No!' he
shouted, but it was too late.

The hall blew apart.

A
UBREY WAS ON HIS BACK, HIS HEAD RINGING
. H
IS
cheek hurt. Blurrily, he realised that he was
looking at the sky. Boiling upward like a geyser from hell
was a whirling mass of black cloud. Lightning shot from
it, jagged bolts that hurt the eye, lancing left, right, up and
down with manic glee.

Weather magic
, Aubrey thought as dozens of individual
aches and pains jostled for his attention.
What fool would
mess about with weather magic
?

Aubrey had, once, and he'd learned the hard way the
First Law of Weather Magic: localised weather changes
have effects that can't be predicted. This was why weather
magic was discouraged. A simple spell to stop rain falling
on a picnic could end up with a massive drought half
a continent away. Aubrey had a suspicion that some
inherent disorder was at work in most natural processes.
When he had some time, he intended to investigate this.

The pocket thunderstorm flattened overhead, as if
it had run against an invisible ceiling. It swirled angrily,
then gradually dissipated.

He lay there a moment and felt the heart-scurry of
panic. His soul. Had it been jolted free again?

Then, a greater fear swamped this one. Where was
Caroline?

He climbed to his feet, hurting all over, and faced utter
devastation. The hall had been shredded by the thunderstorm.
The walls had been flattened, apart from a few
splintered uprights. Broken timber was strewn about, as if
a giant had been playing pick-up-sticks. The brickwork
nearby was studded with shards of wood that had struck
hard enough to embed themselves.

Caroline stumbled from behind a pile of debris and
Aubrey began breathing again. That instant, when she
reappeared, defined what she meant to him. His condition,
his hurts, his existence were secondary. His greatest
concern was her wellbeing.

His chest ached, but he limped toward her. She sagged
to her knees and he nearly cried aloud. She saw him
approaching, gathered herself and stood. 'I'm all right.'
She frowned. 'My hat's gone.'

Aubrey put a hand on her shoulder and inspected her.
He sent a prayer heavenwards when he saw that she was
untouched. 'You were lucky.'

His heart began to slow and he took a series of long,
slow breaths to steady himself. He took a moment and
used his magical senses to inspect his condition.

His body and soul were still united. His recent lack
of magical exertion had apparently made his state more
robust and he was well pleased.

So intense had been his focus on Caroline and his own
condition that it took Aubrey some time to hear the
groans. 'Over there.' Caroline pointed.

It was Count Brandt. He'd been thrown ten yards
by the sudden thunderstorm and had slammed against a
brick wall. He was sitting, splay-legged, amid shards of
glass from the empty window above him. Aubrey hurried
to his side only to discover that the Holmlander was
unconscious.

'He's breathing,' Caroline said. 'Only a few small cuts.
There's not much else we can do.'

Carefully, as shouts and cries for help rose from the
streets nearby, they picked their way through the remnants
of the hall. The floor was intact, if buckled in a few areas.
The thunderstorm had obviously appeared and expanded
both horizontally and vertically. Aubrey noticed part of
his mind cataloguing details, knowing that immediate first
impressions from a trained observer could be crucial in
any investigation. His magical experience would be useful
in documenting what had been, without doubt, a magical
attack. Craddock would want to know everything.

'Here, Aubrey!' Caroline was crouched next to the
stump of what must have been one of the main uprights
of the hall. It was a massive piece of timber, but it had
been snapped off as if it were a straw.

Aubrey hurried across the uneven and protesting floor
to see that Caroline had found Bloch. She was crouching,
cradling his head, but the unnatural angle of his limbs
indicated that the Holmlander had been subject to much
of the force of the storm.

'The bag,' he said, when he saw Aubrey's face. 'I should
not –'

He broke off and his body jerked with a horrible
spasm. He started to cough, but hissed with pain and bit
it back.

'Rest,' Aubrey said. 'Help will be here soon.'

'I should not have opened it.' Bloch fought for breath
after each word.

'It wouldn't have mattered,' Aubrey said, and even as he
said it, he realised it was the truth. 'The weather magic
was in the bag, but it was compressed.'
That was why I felt
more than one layer of magic
. 'It would have expanded some
time. Soon.'

Aubrey bit his lip. It was messy magic. Spell compression
was useful, sometimes, to let a spell unfold at a
bidden time. It could let a non-magician set a spell in
place, where a magician was unavailable. But compression
was touchy. Templeton's First Law of Compression had
been hammered out over fifty years ago, in the laboratories
of experimental magic in Greythorn. Professor Victor
Templeton had established, after much trial and error,
that the force required to keep a spell in compression is
proportional to the force of the spell itself. Mighty spells
required much power to keep them compressed.

While rebuilding the experimental magic laboratories
at Greythorn, Professor Templeton had engraved his
Second Law of Compression over the doorway: an
inadequately compressed spell, when it works free, will
be multiplied in effect by the power of the spell used to
compress it. Or, in student shorthand, bad compression
leads to horribly bad outcomes.

To which Aubrey was tempted to add Fitzwilliam's
Corollary to the Laws of Compression: Compression
isn't worth it.

Bloch mumbled, then quivered. 'My arm isn't
working,' he said, in a conversational tone. 'My nose
itches.'

Caroline scratched it for him.

'I don't suppose it's a good sign,' Bloch said, 'not being
able to move my limbs.'

'No,' Aubrey said. He didn't see how he could say
anything else.

'I didn't think so.' Bloch glanced at Aubrey. 'It's
Fitzwilliam, isn't it?'

'That's right.'

'I thought so.' He paused and grimaced. 'Thought so,'
he repeated, softly.

'Don't speak. Save your strength.'

'For what?' Bloch tried a laugh, but the result was
horrible – wet and desperate. 'I suppose I should tell you
something important, seeing as I'm dying.'

'Sh,' Caroline said. 'Easy now.'

'Don't,' Bloch said. 'I know what's happening.'

'Are you in pain?' Aubrey asked.

'I was. Now I'm not.' He licked his lips. 'There is a
plot. To steal Albion's gold. From the bank.'

'The Bank of Albion?'

Bloch nodded. 'Your Albionite friend. The magician.'

Aubrey clutched the man's shoulder. 'It's Tremaine's
plot? Tell me more.'

'I will.' He looked puzzled for a moment, and he
cocked his head as if listening. Then he glanced at something
over Aubrey's head.

And died.

T
HE POLICE ARRIVED, JUST AFTER THE
H
OLMLANDERS
flooded back. Brandt came to his senses and began
issuing orders before realising that nothing could be
done. He moved about among his countrymen, attempting
to console them.

Craddock and a dozen Magisterium operatives arrived
soon after, while the ambulance porters were attending
to Bloch's body. Craddock made immediately for
Aubrey, while his operatives fanned out and examined
the area. He crossed his arms and grimly looked over the
ruins of the hall, a scene that still shocked Aubrey with
the completeness of its devastation. 'Holmlanders against
Holmlanders, here in Albion. Can't have this.'

'What makes you think it's Holmlanders who were
responsible?'

'Who else do you think it could be? Disaffected local
troublemakers?'

'It's possible.'

'Possible, but not likely. Manfred warned us that
the refugee Holmlanders had attracted attention at
the highest level back in Fisherberg. He didn't foresee
this sort of action, though.' He rubbed his long chin.
'Ruthless or careless?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Was this action ruthless or simply sloppy work?'

Such practical issues had been far from Aubrey's
mind. He'd been too stunned by the ferocity of the
attack and – he admitted – too relieved that he and
Caroline had survived. They had survived, where Bloch
hadn't. In the lottery that was the unfolding of events,
it could have happened differently. He could have opened
the bag. The spell may not have gone off. Bloch may
have taken the bag outside and the effects would have
been felt over a wider area.

Aubrey had been lucky. Caroline had been lucky.
He was thankful.

With an effort, he turned to Craddock's question.
'I hope they were careless. I'm afraid they were ruthless.'

Craddock nodded. 'This is real.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Sometimes, we forget that this struggle is real. We see
it as a game, a jolly spate of push and shove, of wrangling
over who's the best.' He looked tired and Aubrey was
startled to find himself feeling sympathy for the man.
'It's murky stuff we're dealing with, Fitzwilliam, down in
the depths that no-one sees. Are you up to it?'

'I hope so.'

'Good man. Now, I understand you're interested in
forensic magic? Go and see what you can learn from my
people. Top notch, all of them. Ah, Miss Hepworth, good
to see you're unharmed.'

Craddock went to Caroline. Aubrey winced, and
limped a little, as he picked his way over to the nearest of
the black-clad Magisterium operatives.

This sort of thing signalled a new world, a world that
Aubrey didn't like the look of. It made him even more
determined that Holmland wouldn't force a war. With
that sort of attitude, it would be a war of a sort that had
never been seen before – indiscriminate, callous, but on a
scale beyond imagining.

He could hear Dr Tremaine's laughter.

F
ORENSIC MAGIC WAS A CURIOUS MIXTURE OF THE
commonplace and the arcane. Sharp eyes were useful, but
more essential was a finely attuned magical sensitivity.
Here, Aubrey was able to help. Such a thing was passive,
like a mirror catching a sunbeam, and required no magical
effort. He could sense magic, taste its flavour and feel its
texture, without affecting his condition at all.

After a quick briefing, he became part of the line of
Magisterium operatives that picked its way across the
site, bent nearly double. He concentrated hard and was
only dimly aware of the activity to one side, where the
police were blocking off access, hauling wooden barricades
across the lanes between the surrounding buildings.

He could feel the magical residue that overlay the
disaster area, a wasteful, clumsy sign that tended to
suggest the perpetrators were in the careless camp rather
than the ruthless. Although he admitted they could be
both. Some of the residue had a tantalisingly familiar
aspect about it, but he couldn't find enough to be more
definitive than that. It could be a Continental approach;
it could be a Holmland style of magic. Or it could be
someone who'd studied under a Continental master and
actually lived around the corner.

A shout came from the opposite side of the courtyard.
One of the operatives had a long pole and was fishing
about in the denuded branches of an elm tree. Craddock
hurried to her side and helped retrieve a singed and
battered object that flapped about in the breeze.

'Eyes down,' the operative next to Aubrey – a few
yards away – growled, and Aubrey went back to poring
over the broken floorboards. He spread his hands, fingers
stretched, as if warming them over a fire. He felt the
buzzing magical leftover, and he did his best to break it
into its constituent parts. What was the exact nature of
the spell? Where did it come from? And, more importantly,
could he detect any fragment that hinted at the
final element of a spell, the identifying signature?
He grappled with what he was sensing, but although
he could identify parts, he couldn't grasp the larger picture.