Word of Honour (9 page)

The performer's skills were stunning. Aubrey
squinted, tilted his head from side to side, but eventually
had to admit to himself that he had no idea how the
Holmlander was doing it.

A
FTERWARDS, STANDING ON THE CROWDED PAVEMENT
outside the theatre, Aubrey could barely keep still.
'Incredible,' he repeated. 'Simply incredible.'

'He was very polished,' Caroline said. 'Not demonstrative,
but certainly polished.'

'Oh, he was good, but I was talking about the magic
suppressors. They're extraordinary.'

The notion had come to him unexpectedly. While
he was trying to puzzle out the secrets of the Great
Manfred's tricks, another part of his mind had apparently
been gnawing away on something else.

The magic suppressors. To perform as they did, they
must grapple with the nature of magic itself. Magic and
anti-magic. It was a frontier area of magical research, as
far as Aubrey knew, but it was immensely important for
the future of rational magical theory.

Perhaps it could shed some light on death magic – and
his condition.

M
ONDAY MORNING
, G
REYTHORN
. A
UBREY HAD BEEN
to the university town many times, and had even
been to the colleges, accompanying his father on one trip
or another. But it was different, approaching as a student
instead of a visitor.

He checked his new pocket watch to make sure they
weren't late. The Brayshire Ruby had been beautifully
set into the gold cover of the watch; Anderson and Sutch
had done a superb job, with the internal workings as well
as the decorative case.

'I'm sure I've forgotten something,' George muttered
as the motor-cab rattled through the cobbled streets.

'You're bound to have,' Aubrey said. 'You can send for
whatever it is.'

'Of course. Quite.' George settled back, but didn't
look convinced. 'When are you planning to bump into
Caroline?'

'What?'

'You know, old man, accidentally crossing paths with
her, happening to be outside her lecture, something like
that. Apostle's College isn't far away. Maybe your bicycle
will have a flat tyre, right outside her room?'

'I have no such plans,' Aubrey said stiffly, although he
had been pleased when Caroline had opted to live in
college rather than stay at home with her mother in the
town. He looked out of the window to see two dons
arguing on a street corner, one jabbing the other with a
rolled-up newspaper.

Ah, the spirited life of academic discourse
, he thought.

'No?' George continued. 'Why not? I thought you'd be
right onto it, opportunity and all that.'

'Caroline has her calling. She's at university to study.
She doesn't want any distractions.'

'I see. How's that feel then, to be a distraction?'

'Potential distraction.' He sighed. 'I'm not going to put
my foot in it again, George. Not after last time.'

'Mm. Embarrassing.'

'Embarrassment I can handle. But hurting other
people, blindly? Even when I think I'm doing the right
thing? Not any more.'

George pursed his lips for a while. 'Commendable,
that, not wanting to hurt people.'

'I would have thought so.'

'But if it means you just don't do anything, then it's a
bit limiting, what?'

'Perhaps. But better that than the alternative.'

'Are you sure?'

'Oh, definitely. I consider myself an expert in every
aspect of human relationships, now.'

'Really?'

'Of course not. I'm struggling to keep my head above
water.'

The motor-cab veered to one side. With a squeal of
brakes, it lurched close to the kerb. 'We're here, gents,'
the cabby announced. 'St Alban's College.'

T
HE PORTER SHOWED THEM TO THE ROOMS THEY WERE
going to share. Aubrey stood at the door and took grim
satisfaction in the knowledge that the quality of the
rooms was a way of reinforcing their status. First-year
students were the lowest of the low, and thus were put in
the dingiest rooms. It wasn't anything personal, it was
simply five hundred years of tradition.

Their quarters were two rooms, second floor of the
northern wing, perfectly situated to catch every hint of
icy wind when it rolled down from the hills, as it did
with clockwork regularity in these parts.

Two beds, two wardrobes and a washstand in the
bedroom; two desks with empty bookshelves in the study.
It was old, it was bare, and it was going to be their home.

Aubrey skimmed his hat onto the bed. 'Wardrobes.
They're spoiling us, George.'

George ambled to the window. He struggled, but
eventually threw it open; fresh air edged in, as if unsure
of its welcome. 'We're in the lap of luxury. Just wait until
we get those trunks up here. The importance of floor
space is greatly exaggerated, you know.'

Aubrey couldn't feel depressed, not here. University
had beckoned for some time. Stonelea School had been
as good as any in the country, but for the last two years
he felt as if he'd been marking time, intellectually. His
magical studies teachers had done as much for him as
they could but he'd been chafing, wanting to learn more.

George groaned and smacked himself on the forehead.
'Idiot.'

'You've remembered what you forgot?'

George wiped his hand over a doleful face. 'Father gave
me a book. I left it behind.'

Aubrey took this as further sign of his friend's distraction.

'It was important?'

'It was Lord Aldersham's memoirs. One of Father's
favourites.'

'The newspaper magnate? Your father enjoyed that?'

'He did. And, more to the point, he knew I would.'
George cursed his own forgetfulness again. He was so
disconsolate Aubrey started to consider what he could do
for him, but before he could think of anything, a knock
came from the open door. 'Where do you want this case?'
a voice asked.

'In the study,' Aubrey said, 'anywhere.'

He turned away from the window and stared at
the man who was carrying one of George's suitcases.
'Commander Craddock.'

'Good morning, Fitzwilliam, Doyle. On the desk?'

Aubrey gestured, a little dazed. 'Thank you. We were
on our way to get our things.'

'You'll need a few trips. Looks as if you've brought
enough to last off a determined siege.'

'It was my grandmother. She insisted on helping
me pack.'

'Ah, the redoubtable Duchess Maria. She is well?'

'You know perfectly well how she is,' George put in.
'That's your job, knowing about things and all.'

'Mr Doyle, you go straight to the heart of the matter,
as is your wont. Now, if you'd be so kind, could you go
and fetch some more of those heavy things? I need a
word with your friend here.'

George raised an eyebrow. 'Aubrey?'

'I'll be fine, George. Thanks.'

George frowned, but went. Craddock waited for the
sound of his footsteps on the stairs, then closed the door.

'You're being mysterious,' Aubrey said.

Craddock took off his black, broad-brimmed hat.
Underneath, his hair was fine, and so blond as to be
almost white. It was straight, thick and surprisingly
luxurious.

'Mysterious?' he said. 'It goes with the job, rather.' He
paused and took an envelope from the pocket of his long
black coat.

Craddock, as head of the Magisterium, had responsibility
for policing all magical affairs. It was a brief
he interpreted broadly and Aubrey was convinced that
he enjoyed the clandestine nature of his activities.

'I can't imagine this is a social visit,' he said.

'Quite right. I'll get to the nub of the matter.' He drew
the curtains. Thin as they were, the room was plunged
into half-light. 'I want to formalise your relationship with
the Magisterium. I want you as an irregular operative.'

Aubrey almost smiled. Entering the service of the
Magisterium had been one of the possibilities he'd
considered for this year. He'd wondered how to do it –
without having to ask his father for assistance. He'd put
it aside, deciding instead to concentrate on his studies,
and now here the opportunity was presenting itself.
'I can't. I'm studying.'

'That's one of the reasons I want you on board. You're
at Greythorn, a legitimate student, studying magic. I need
someone in that department and none of my operatives
have been able to get in.'

'They've tried?'

'Tried, failed, been reassigned. I need you.'

'Surely I don't have the training, the skills.'

'The Magisterium takes all kinds, as long as they
have magical ability. We can teach you the rest. As
needed.'

It was tempting. 'What does my father say about this?'

'I haven't asked him. I'm asking you.'

That was enough. Aubrey put out his hand. 'I'm happy
to help.'

'Good man. I'll be in touch, soon. Here.'

He held out the envelope he'd been cradling. 'It's from
the Rector of your college. I took it from your letterbox
on the way up.'

A bumping noise came from outside. Craddock
opened the door to find a red-faced George battling with
a huge steamer trunk. 'And here's your friend, just in time
to hear about the invitation.'

George leaned on the trunk. 'Invitation?' he panted.
'That's quick. No-one knows we're here.'

Aubrey flapped the card. 'We've been invited to a
ceremony, tomorrow. The awarding of degrees.'

'Ah,' Craddock said. 'The Rector likes it when the son
of the Prime Minister is part of his college. Expect more
of these invitations.'

Aubrey groaned and George chuckled. 'Don't laugh,
George,' Aubrey said. 'Your name's on this invitation, too,
you know.'

George's groan was even louder than Aubrey's.

T
HE NEXT DAY WAS A WHIRL OF FACES, NAMES, PLACES AND
timetables. Aubrey didn't see George until the late afternoon,
a bare few hours before the ceremony was to begin.

They hurriedly dressed in their evening dress, full
white tie and then their undergraduate gowns. 'Astounding
stuff,' George said as he struggled with his braces.
'The Dean of History himself interviewed me, asked
what sort of history I was interested in.'

'A fair question, the past being as huge as it is. It helps
to narrow it down,' Aubrey said. 'Have you seen my collar
studs?'

'Over there, in that box by the door. You're right, it
was a fair question, on reflection, but at the time it rather
took me by surprise. You see, I'm in favour of history in
general, if you like. The concept of it.'

'You're saying history is a good thing. Your shoes need
a shine.'

'So do yours. Cleaning kit is in that case, I think.'

'Ah, excellent.'

'Now, I didn't think I'd be getting off on the right foot
if I told the Dean of History that history was a good
thing. It's the sort of stuff he knows, I'd say. So I said I was
interested in Classical history.'

'Why?'

'My line of reasoning is this. The further ago the
period is, the less we know about it.'

'True. Mostly.'

'And the less we know about it, the more I can make
up. I didn't put it exactly in those terms, you understand.'

'I'm glad.'

'So it looks like I'm studying Roman history, which
I'm not altogether displeased with.'

'The Romans? They had some fine magicians in their
day.' Aubrey straightened. 'There. You look acceptable.'

'And so do you. Let's go.'

The University of Greythorn and the town of
Greythorn had a relationship that Aubrey thought of in
biological terms. Either the university had spread through
the town like weeds through a fertile field or the town
had enveloped the university like a strangler fig on a
jungle palm. Regardless, it was a symbiotic relationship –
each depended on the other, even though they were
loath to admit it.

The heart of the university was the Prescott Theatre.
It was here that the great university ceremonies were
held, as well as concerts and recitals. Aubrey had always
admired its stately elegance – its many-pillared façade, the
hexagonal dome – and he was ready to admit that Sir
Robinson Hookes was at the top of his form when he
built it for Lord Prescott.

The ceremony was the sort of thing that a seven-hundred-year-old institution can get very polished at.
The procession, with the most senior academics from
each of the colleges, made Aubrey think he'd slipped
back in time. Gowns, robes, ermine, gold and silver
chains, the professors, wardens, rectors, principals, masters
and other big brain boxes paraded their full spectrum
of colours. Aubrey amused himself by deciding which
animal each of their caps looked like. He saw quite a
number of moles, a few mangy cats and one outstanding
badger, while organ music made the hall shake.

Soon after the raft of post-graduate degrees, he
glanced at George and almost laughed aloud – which
would have ruined the solemnity of the occasion. George
had the glazed, stony-eyed look that he adopted when
enduring ceremonial boredom. He could keep it up for
hours – like an eastern mystic on a bed of nails.