‘I’ll leave the talking to you, old man,’ George said to Aubrey.
‘You’ll have to walk from Hollenbruck to Korsur,’ von Stralick said. ‘We shall meet you in Fisherberg.’
‘Sooner or later,’ Madame Zelinka added, and when she glanced at von Stralick Aubrey saw another player in this drama, one with motives all of her own.
CONFIDENT AFTER HIS RECENT IMPLEMENTATION OF HIS revised levitation spell, Aubrey took George through the garden and to the very edge of the cliff at the rear of the estate. The darkened forest was hundreds of feet below, but the increased gunfire coming from the woods on the other side of the estate was enough to convince George that this was a reasonable, if precipitous, direction to go.
Aubrey managed the spell with alacrity, and was somewhat put out by George’s refusing to open his eyes on the entire downward journey, even when the muffled thumps of twin grenade explosions came from the estate overhead.
Once on the ground, they followed the river until they found a crossing, a shallow ford a mile downstream, one that – from the hoof prints – was a favourite of stock. They pushed on for an hour. George embellished his account of the crossing of Gallia, the finding of Sophie’s parents, spiriting them out of the country, reporting to the Directorate and the aftermath. Even though he minimised his own part, Aubrey could see that time and time again the journey would have foundered if not for George’s perseverance and ability to find a middle approach between disparate ways of thinking.
In turn, Aubrey shared with George the hardships of crossing Holmland, a far more dangerous task than journeying across friendly Gallia. Despite some past antipathy with the ex-Holmland spy, George showed some sympathy for von Stralick’s illness and the difficulties it had caused.
While they trudged through the night, keeping as much as possible to the forested paths and avoiding roads, Aubrey told of the horror they had found in the basement of Dr Tremaine’s estate. He was still trying to grasp the full implications of the ghastly apparatus and a hundred details that he hadn’t realised he’d taken in began to emerge through George’s gentle probing.
Every detail he remembered, every small item that he’d filed away for later consideration, pointed to the fact that Dr Tremaine was working in ways that were not only mysterious, but were interlocking in a manner that was extremely ominous. Aubrey felt as if he were managing to catch sight of the smallest corner, the barest hint, of a huge and vastly complicated map made by a master cartographer.
KORSUR WAS ONE POINT OF AN UNEVEN TRIANGLE THAT ran over the Gallia–Holmland border. Stalsfrieden was about twenty miles away to the north-east of the tiny village, while Divodorum – over the border – was about thirty miles away, roughly north-west. Korsur itself wasn’t far from the Mosa River, the actual border between the two countries.
Two days after leaving Dr Tremaine’s retreat, Aubrey and George heard the sound of artillery from the north grow louder as they approached the tiny town, walking the five miles from Hollenbruck, the town with the closest station. They paralleled a road through heavily wooded country that was a series of low hills and shallow valleys.
Avoiding the road itself proved to be a wise decision. It allowed them to see the road block without being seen themselves and, when they found a well-concealed position amid a stand of alders, it enabled them to survey the village before they approached.
It was professional caution that prompted this, and Aubrey was glad that George and he had taken the time to stretch out on their stomachs and use their binoculars. It didn’t stop George, however, from muttering a low oath, nor from Aubrey checking his binoculars to see if they were working properly.
‘George,’ he said, ‘they aren’t Albionite troops, are they?’
‘They’re wearing Albionite uniforms.’
The armed soldiers that were patrolling the entire perimeter of the village, two hundred or more of them, were indeed wearing the distinctive khaki tunic and trousers of the Albionite infantry. Aubrey couldn’t make out a regimental badge at the shoulder, and none of the troops had the customary rifle patches above the breast pocket either. He picked one of the nearer soldiers – a private who was hauling sandbags for a machine gun emplacement that was blocking the main road into Korsur – and scrutinised him carefully, starting at the peaked cap and working downward.
When Aubrey reached the man’s boots, he echoed George’s oath. ‘They’re not Albionites,’ he confirmed. ‘No puttees, and I’ve never seen any Albionite wearing black, knee-length boots like that.’
‘You’re right. No Albionite mudgrubber would be seen dead in footwear like that.’
‘I have an idea who might, though. Do you remember when we were in Fisherberg? The Imperial Household Guard?’
‘Those beggars? The ones who thought they were a cut above everyone else, strutting about as if they owned the place?’
‘They may have been arrogant, but they did have a preference for a distinctive type of black, knee-length boot.’
‘So, we have Holmland troops, masquerading as Albion troops, blockading a tiny, out-of-the-way Holmland village. What is going on?’
‘I don’t know yet, but if we add this to Dr Tremaine’s interest in this place, I’m more than keen to find out.’ Concealing the identity of troops was a highly dubious undertaking and Aubrey dreaded what it indicated – and he feared for the inhabitants of Korsur.
He moved the binoculars over what once would have been an idyllic outlook. Korsur was a handful of buildings, all whitewashed, neatly arranged around a minute village green, complete with a bordering duck pond. Smoke came from chimneys, the steeple on the church stood proud against the blue sky. The perfection of the scene was marred, however, by the activity of the Albion-uniformed soldiers.
A score of them were working on a road barricade, intent on making it a substantial emplacement, with a heavy machine gun guarding the main road into the town. The rest were standing around the perimeter of the village, almost shoulder to shoulder, unsmiling, weapons at hand. They were facing inward, toward the village.
The commander – a colonel? – inspected the perimeter guards and once he was satisfied took up position in front of the sandbags, standing with his hands behind his back in the middle of the road, looking back toward Hollenbruck and occasionally checking his pocket watch.
Aubrey sketched the lie of the land in his notebook: a handful of neat houses, one road through the centre, a smaller joining it where the church marked the centre of the place. He followed this secondary road past the barricade being erected, and it wound into the forest and the hills, where a plume of dark smoke rose. ‘The Johannes mine,’ he said, and pointed.
George grunted. ‘Even if this Green Johannes is a national treasure, as von Stralick claims, I don’t think the Holmland bosses would commit troops to guard it.’
‘Not dressed in enemy uniforms, no.’
‘Nor to guard the villagers.’
‘They’re not guarding the villagers, George. They’re stopping them from running away. Tell me what you see.’
George picked up his binoculars. After a moment, his jaw tightened. ‘Children. Old people. Being menaced by their own soldiers pretending to be our soldiers.’
A young mother, with a babe in arms and a toddler hanging onto her skirt, came out of the inn. Weeping, she tried to ask one of the officers what was going on but the soldiers who were only a few yards away from the inn prevented her from approaching. The officer ignored her entreaties. Even though she was only a few yards away, he turned his back on her.
It was as if she didn’t exist.
All day, Aubrey and George observed as the troops patrolled the tiny town. The distraught villagers kept pleading with the soldiers and begging the officers. One of the soldiers became irritated and rammed the butt of his rifle into the stomach of a particularly loud old-timer. In the uproar this caused, a well-built greybeard took the opportunity and burst through the line, roaring and heading for the woods. Aubrey silently cheered this act of d
efiance, but the greybeard was quickly caught and clubbed to the ground. After that, the villagers moved away from the perimeter and clustered on the village green next to the pond. Some were crying, others were fearful. The village and its surrounds became a place of ugly, tense anticipation.
The afternoon wore on. Eventually, defeated and dispirited, the villagers returned to their homes. Light came from windows, the soft, yellow light of oil lamps rather than the bolder light of electricity or town gas. Aubrey could smell food cooking. Life went on, even with a few hundred ominously beweaponed soldiers only a few feet away, black silhouettes against the white-washed buildings.
From their observation post in the alders, Aubrey used binoculars to study the soldiers. None of them was a baby-faced, fresh recruit. These were hard-eyed, lean men with the air of those who’d seen action before. All day, Aubrey had heard barely a handful of words passing between them. They moved with precision and efficiency, guided by gesture and a terse, limited set of hand signals.
Aubrey scowled. He scrambled back into the stand of alders to find George cleaning his Symons pistol and munching on some food he’d been given by the Enlightened Ones. ‘One good thing about Holmland sausage,’ George said. ‘You can’t tell whether it’s gone off or not, so it sort of lasts forever. Like a bite?’
‘We have people in trouble here, George.’
‘What? Holmlanders being guarded by Holmlanders? Isn’t it their problem?’
‘Even if we forget Dr Tremaine’s interest in this place, which I haven’t, I’m not happy about civilians being threatened by soldiers, no matter from what country.’
George thought this over. ‘They do appear to be in a pickle.’
‘More or less. And I do hate to see people in a pickle.’
‘I know that, old man. So what are we going to do about it?’
Aubrey cocked his head and listened for a moment. The faint, distant sound of a motor gave him an idea for infiltrating the village. ‘Help them, of course.’
‘JUST GETTING RID OF THESE SOLDIERS WON’T BE enough,’ Aubrey said as they jogged south toward Hollenbruck, the direction from which he’d heard noise. The sun was setting behind the hills. ‘Something more must be done.’
‘You say that as if getting rid of the soldiers is a simple thing.’ George was munching on an apple even as they ran. ‘I counted two hundred of them, with nine officers including that colonel. I don’t think two fellows with pistols and brave hearts are going to worry them much.’
Aubrey vaulted over a rotting stump. ‘True. So what we lack in numbers, we have to make up for with magic and outright trickery.’
‘I love trickery.’ Then George sighed. ‘I wish Sophie were here. She’d be helpful in the magic department.’
‘I’d be glad of any help.’
‘She’s been learning magic at a great rate, old man. She’s like a sponge, and she’s come on in leaps and bounds.’ He caught himself. ‘Not that I think of her as a leaping and bounding sponge, mind you.’
‘I suggest you keep that one to yourself, George.’
‘I shall.’
The distant rumbling Aubrey had been keeping track of was noticeably nearer. He picked up the pace as they moved through the trees. He was careful to keep the road in sight at all times, even though this was difficult as the light faded. When they were a mile from the village, he stopped where the road curved around a large boulder so they were hidden from the road.
‘I’m afraid of reprisals,’ Aubrey said as they caught their breath. The warmth of the sun was still leaching from the stone and it felt good as he leaned against it. ‘If we remove the troops, what’s to stop the Holmland command sending more?’
‘I could answer that question better if I knew what the troops were doing there in the first place.’
‘True, but let’s put that aside for the moment.’ Aubrey lifted his head. The lorries he’d heard were definitely closer. ‘What if we take this in two stages? Firstly, we remove the troops. You can call me squeamish, but I’d rather not kill any of them if we can help it.’
‘You’ll get no argument from me on that score.’
‘Secondly, we hide the village.’
‘That sounds perfect. How are you going to do it?’
‘I’m not quite sure yet. That’s why it’s the second step rather than the first.’
George slapped him on the shoulder. ‘I have confidence in you, old man. Put that brain box to work.’
‘Don’t worry – it’s going full bore.’
‘What about the first part of the plan? Removing the soldiers?’
‘For that, we need to get close, which is why I’ve been waiting for this lorry. Quickly, take off your jacket.’
George didn’t argue, simply unbuttoning the garment and handing it to Aubrey. ‘Is that all? Are you sure you don’t want my trousers as well?’
To George’s palpable horror, Aubrey paused a moment before shaking his head. ‘Jacket is enough, George, but if you can spare that cap I’d be grateful.’
George handed it over without a word.
Aubrey scurried out into the middle of the road with the jacket and cap. He arranged them hastily and then dived back behind the boulder.
‘That won’t trick anybody, old man.’
‘I’m not done yet.’ Aubrey had the spell ready, a variation of one he’d used an age ago, when trapped in the late Professor Hepworth’s workshop with its murderous magical guardian. He spoke quickly, conscious of the approaching lights, and was relieved when the clothing began to fill out as if being inflated. Within seconds, in the gloom, it was easy to see a large man lying face down in the middle of the road.
George snapped off the safety of his pistol, reminding Aubrey to do the same, just as the lorry came into view, heaving itself up over a shallow crest before setting out on the long slope that would bring it near the boulder behind which Aubrey and George were hiding.
Aubrey grew tense. Crouched as he was, his leg muscles were threatening to cramp at the most inconvenient moment. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and was conscious that he hadn’t sweated as much during the day when it had been much hotter.
As the lorry neared, its headlights caught the prone shape. The lorry slowed, approached, slowed again, then stopped with brakes that noisily indicated their lack of maintenance.
‘Wait until they get out,’ Aubrey whispered to George.
The driver’s door was flung back, groaning with the same complaint as the brakes, but instead of booted feet touching the macadamised road, a fierce electrical light stabbed out. Before Aubrey could move it swept across the road and pinned him against the boulder. He heard the unmistakeable sound of five, then six, rifle bolts, then he lost count, which didn’t really matter because half a dozen was probably enough.
‘Ah, Fitzwilliam! We thought we’d find you hereabouts! Care for a lift?’
Aubrey’s jelly legs almost betrayed him as he rose, with George at his side. He plucked at a remark he’d prepared earlier, one that he felt useful whenever surprised and wanting to appear unfazed. ‘What kept you, Hugo?’
‘What kept me, Fitzwilliam? Your Miss Hepworth and your Miss Delroy, that’s what kept me. They’re in the back of the lorry.’
IT TOOK A FEW SECONDS OF COMPLETE FLABBERGASTEDNESS before Aubrey and George regained enough control of their bodies to sprint to the rear of the vehicle. Caroline and Sophie – in anonymous Holmland garments – looked down at them, smiling and sceptical.
George roared with laughter and seized Sophie by the waist. He lifted her bodily over the backboard, then whirled her away. She laughed with him as they spun up the middle of the road.
Aubrey was caught open-mouthed. He knew that by now he should have held out his hand, bending at the knee, to help Caroline down. Then he should have gazed into her eyes and said something that was witty, disarming and thoroughly heartfelt. After that, he would have batted away her half-formed thanks and endeared himself to her in every possi
ble way.
He mentally rehearsed the swoop and stoop, but then became aware that Caroline was regarding him coolly. ‘Aubrey,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to see you.’
He found a grin dragging his mouth upward. It was an acceptable start. After her unexpectedly emotional departure the last time he’d seen her, he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her say: ‘Please forget what happened. It was an unfortunate lapse. I’ve come to my senses now, so never speak of it again.’
‘Hello, Caroline,’ he said and he flailed for something to add. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
He closed his eyes for an instant, then he went to apologise for a greeting entirely devoid of panache – and George and Sophie nearly crashed into him on their final madcap swing.
Sophie laughed again. ‘Aubrey,’ she said, still making the first syllable of his name sound like ‘Ow’. ‘Madame Zelinka and Hugo found us in Fisherberg and brought us here.’
Von Stralick strolled along the side of the lorry, Madame Zelinka at his side. They were both smiling: him broadly, her less so, as was her way. ‘Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere else?’ the Holmlander said.
‘We can’t go far,’ Aubrey said, ‘not unless we want to run into a Holmland special unit disguised as Albionite infantry.’
Von Stralick raised an eyebrow. ‘You have much to share with us.’
Caroline leaped down from the back of the lorry, landing lightly. Aubrey broke out in a very different sort of sweat when she steadied herself by taking hold of his shoulder. He enjoyed the sensation while part of his brain – a needlessly analytical part – insisted that he’d never seen Caroline need to steady herself before.
‘Hugo, shouldn’t we back the lorry in beside this boulder?’ she asked and then her fingers brushed away something from the nape of Aubrey’s neck. He nearly fainted on the spot.
In minutes, it was done. Even better, the lorry was disguised with branches torn from nearby trees, which allowed them all to sit under the canvas in the rear. A shaded lantern helped them share provisions. They sat facing each other on the benches with the food spread out on an ammunition box between them: smoked salmon, bread, pastries and milk that von Stralick had thoughtfully packed in Fisherberg. George and Sophie were next to each other, as were Madame Zelinka and von Stralick. Aubrey couldn’t help but notice that Caroline sat next to Madame Zelinka, on the opposite side of the lorry from where he was. He ran through a thousand possible explanations for that, until he was quite giddy, then gave up and just enjoyed the fact that she was there.
Laws of Magic 6 Page 7
