Laws of Magic 6

by Michael Pryor

  They were interrupted by a band of soldiers limping toward them. The leading sergeant gave Davidson and Stanley an exhausted salute. ‘Major Long’s compliments, sir, but could you spare some men? We’ve been doing it hard up the line a bit.’

  The sergeant went on to report about the disaster a little further down the line.

  The 4th Foot Regiment had been under siege all night from phantom attacks without the help of magic neutralisers, getting no rest until they realised the attacks never reached them. Time and again, the horses would veer away and retreat just as they came close to the trenches, testing nerves and discipline until a suspicious corporal finally saw them passing right through solid barbed wire. After that they had successfully ignored lines of marching infantry, skirmishers and even a wave of dog attacks.

  Then a real attack nearly succeeded in capturing their position.

  It was a key location, the intersection of a number of important trenches and supply lines, a slightly elevated knob of land, perfect for machine gun emplacements. Having understood the news that the attacks were illusions, when a company of Holmlanders advanced on the position the order was given to ignore them, especially since they were wearing outmoded uniforms in brilliant scarlet, more suited to a hundred years ago than today.

  When the scarlet-clad Holmlanders launched themselves into the trenches and set about with bayonets that were deadly evidence of their non-illusory nature, the Albionites panicked and ran. It was only the efforts of a callow lieutenant in rallying a squad of men and firing by rank back along the trench that drove them off.

  It had been a close thing, and a bloody one. After that skirmish, the inability to tell phantom attack from real one started to drive the men mad. Holmland snipers added to the despair, slipping into place during the phantom advances and having great success in picking off any confused Albionites showing themselves.

  Davidson took this in calmly, despatching a squad to help, and Aubrey revised his opinion of the man again. He was coping in circumstances for which no military training would have been adequate.

  After that, things continued to fall apart. Aubrey found himself assisting Caroline with first aid, with Sophie and George as the other assistants in a makeshift infirmary where three important trenches intersected, half a mile from Major Davidson’s dugout. Caroline had calmly assured the only qualified medic in the area that he was needed elsewhere, leaving the four friends to deal with less urgent cases.

  Less urgent cases they may have been, but Aubrey hadn’t known that so much blood existed in the entire world.

  Hours stretched out. Amid the noise and confusion, Aubrey and his friends took turns in snatching sleep, curled up wherever they could find a space. It wasn’t comfortable, and was barely restful, but it was better than falling over from exhaustion.

  The men were generally stoic, putting up with basic cleaning and bandaging of wounds so they could hobble back to their companies, but occasionally a screamer was brought in. Not necessarily the most badly wounded, screamers kept up a hair-raising cry that could be heard up and down the trenches and did nothing to lift spirits.

  Caroline was magnificent. Her orders were calm and never ambiguous. She saw events unfolding before they happened and was able to direct her efforts – and the fumblings of Aubrey, George and Sophie – to the correct patients as they needed it. Soldiers moved in and out of their first aid emplacement like morning commuters at an underground station, coming and going, coming and going, but never slackening until …

  Aubrey straightened from knotting a bandage around the leg of a gritted-teeth veteran. ‘Where are the rest of them?’ he said and winced at the pain in his back.

  ‘We’re done,’ Caroline said. She was washing her hands in a bucket of crimson water. ‘For now.’

  Sophie scanned the trenches in each direction. ‘I cannot see anyone coming.’

  ‘We’re in a lull,’ George said. He peered upward at a sky that was no longer night. ‘And I’m about to say something I never thought I would.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Aubrey asked.

  George looked glum. ‘It’s morning and I don’t feel much like breakfast.’

  IN A WAR, BEARING STRETCHERS WAS AS VITAL AS FIRING rifles. Aubrey knew that, but he’d had enough. Not enough of carrying the poor soldier who could bleed to death if George and he couldn’t get him to the field hospital in time, but enough of the appallingness that put young men on stretchers to bleed to death.

  The sun, still low in the sky, flashed in Aubrey’s eyes as George and he jogged as smoothly as they could. He couldn’t spare a hand to shade himself, but this was a minor discomfort compared to the patient on the stretcher. On either side, Caroline and Sophie steadied the lad – and that’s all he was – while the red stain spread on his chest. He’d lost consciousness as soon as they set out, which was a blessing, but Aubrey had an idea that jolting was the last thing he needed.

  This isn’t good, he thought. The breath laboured in his lungs. His muscles burned and his hands were aching from gripping the handles of the stretcher. This isn’t the way to solve anything.

  Seeing the battlefield and observing its furtive, haunted inhabitants, Aubrey had realised that the war had sprung a life of its own. It was a sprawling, greedy monster that was devouring soldiers and machinery and leaving wrecks behind. The allies were doing what they could, but battles couldn’t be won on promises. Any time now, reinforcements were coming. Any time now, the specialised magical help would arrive.

  Dr Tremaine didn’t work on an ‘any time now’ schedule. He moved heaven and earth to suit his ends, and he did it when he needed to.

  A squad of wide-eyed youngsters hurried past headed for the front, rifles slung on their backs. Each of them had a pack so heavy that it made them run almost doubled over.

  Once they delivered the wounded soldier to the field hospital, Aubrey and his friends could continue, making their way back to Divodorum and then across Gallia back home to Albion. They’d be able to give first-hand reports of the front, the deficiencies and snags and where best to help. If nothing happened quickly enough, he was sure that they could use Sophie’s friends in the newspapers to create the sort of scandal that would have politicians scurrying to do something about it – or, at least, to be seen to do something about it. It was a reasonable, clever plan.

  He glanced at the almost bloodless face of the boy they were rescuing. His freckles were now standing out starkly against his pallor.

  It jabbed at him. While they were safe in Albion, boys like this would be dying. Aubrey would be fleeing danger, but leaving others to take his place.

  As fond as he was of his own skin, there was something indecent about such a prospect.

  They reached the chaos that was the field hospital just as the Holmland artillery opened up on the trenches they’d left behind. The Holmland Supreme Army Command wasn’t giving the Allies any rest.

  ‘This is what they must call softening up,’ George said after they’d handed over their burden to real doctors, bloodied and harassed, but with knowledge that none of them had.

  ‘It would seem so,’ Aubrey said. They found some shade, an obstinate laurel tree next to one of the smaller medical tents. The smell of disinfectant was strong and Aubrey shuddered. ‘They’ll aim to make us exhausted, frightened, on edge, and then launch a major attack. It’s from the manual.’

  ‘I’m sure the magical feints are not,’ Sophie said. ‘Generals are suspicious of magic, I hear.’

  ‘They used to be,’ Caroline said. She was stretching, pushing her hands up over her head in a display that drew glances from those hurrying past, officers and troops alike. ‘Now they’re happy to entertain any possibility that could help them win. Isn’t that right, Aubrey?’

  ‘Certainly. That’s why Dr Tremaine has had no trouble convincing the Holmland Supreme Army Command about his tactics. They love success.’

  George snorted. ‘Supreme Army Command. They wouldn’t be so chuffed if they
could swap with some of their front-line infantry.’

  Aubrey sometimes imagined his mind as a long line of dominos, with bits and pieces of information – observations, readings, overheard conversations – as tiles, standing independently until one is given a tiny shove.

  This time, George Doyle was that shove.

  Aubrey jumped to his feet. ‘Does anyone know where Colonel Stanley is?’

  ‘Before we left, he said he was going to check the other neutralisers,’ Sophie said. ‘Then he was coming back to headquarters.’

  ‘What is it, Aubrey?’ Caroline said. ‘You have that look again.’

  ‘What? This look?’

  ‘Not that one. Another one. The one that says you have a hare-brained, dangerous idea that could save the day.’

  ‘Day-saving is one of his specialities,’ George pointed out to Sophie. ‘And if ever I saw a day that needed saving, it was this one.’

  They found Colonel Stanley halfway from the front. He was making hard work of it, pushing against a mass of troops heading to bolster numbers against the expected attack. He cheered up remarkably when they greeted him.

  ‘Transference Magic?’ he shouted over the tramp of marching feet and boom of artillery, the allies beginning to return fire. ‘It’s been a while, to tell the truth. The last few years I’ve been in admin, mostly. Not much chance for practical magic.’

  ‘You’re the best we have,’ Aubrey shouted back. ‘If you can help, I might be able to buy us some time.’

  ‘For our reinforcements to arrive?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Aubrey shouted, loudly enough to attract stares. He lowered his voice. ‘But I need to know if I’m attempting something incredibly stupid or not.’

  MIDDAY WAS NEAR BY THE TIME THEY FOUND A DUGOUT IN the secondary line of trenches, one that showed signs of being temporarily unused. Wooden packing boxes were scattered about, and a wit had used one of the uprights that supported the ceiling to begin a list of fine restaurants in Trinovant.

  While troops hurried past in both directions and the crackle of rifle fire sounded near and far, George and Sophie organised the packing boxes into instant seats while Aubrey wandered vaguely to the far end of the dugout and lit a lantern to illuminate the map that was spread on the wall, an old Gallian map of the region. He rocked back and forward, toe to heel, humming softly at the back of his throat while he studied it. He was aware that his friends were busying themselves, but if pressed, he probably couldn’t have nominated exactly what they were up to.

  Aubrey took the map from the wall and spread it on a few packing boxes that George and Sophie had just dragged together. He sat and began tracing the various tracks that had been pencilled in.

  Colonel Stanley approached, and Aubrey looked up. ‘Sir, I need your help in constructing a transference spell. Several transference spells.’

  ‘What sort of transference spells? Moving material? It’s easier and more reliable to do it the conventional way.’

  ‘I want to shift people.’

  Stanley raised an eyebrow. ‘Snipers, eh? We tried shifting snipers about, early on, but you know the disorientation such a thing causes, even if you can find a magician who’s capable of such high-level magic. They wouldn’t be much use for anything after moving a single sniper any distance at all, either. Too costly.’

  ‘I’m aware of the Principle of Cost.’ He held up a hand, anticipating Stanley’s next objection. ‘Sir, I also understand the implications of the Law of Transference, where the further a magician proposes to move an object by magical means, the more complex the spell.’ Aubrey rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. ‘I’m not afraid of a little complexity.’

  ‘I’m glad of that, Fitzwilliam, but I understand that you’re not a transference specialist.’

  ‘I’m more of a magic generalist, I suppose.’

  ‘Quite. My experience is in this particular field and I can assure you that we’ve canvassed all the possibilities and costs of such magical action and we’ve ruled them all out.’ Stanley crossed his arms on his chest and glanced at Caroline, who was seated nearby, stripping down and cleaning one of her firearms. George and Sophie were also doing their best to appear as if they weren’t eavesdropping while they compared stories from their notebooks. ‘I must say that I’m disappointed. I’d been expecting something rather more innovative, if I can put it that way.’

  Aubrey contemplated the rough boards that made up the floor. ‘I wasn’t thinking of snipers,’ he said softly.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’m thinking of transporting all the members of the Holmland War Cabinet and the generals of the Central Staff from their comfortable positions in Fisherberg to the middle of no-man’s-land.’

  Again, Aubrey was immensely proud of his friends. They barely reacted, accustomed as they were to the outlandish. Caroline merely caught his eye and nodded, while George rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Sophie looked startled for an instant, but when George took her hand she bit her lower lip and looked determined.

  Colonel Stanley, however, made up for their lack of surprise by a superabundance of his own. He half rose, then his knees gave way and he sagged onto his wooden box. His mouth opened and closed several times before anything emerged. He flapped a hand, once, then pointed at Aubrey before faltering. When a sentence finally made its way from his lips, it was broken, the essence of disbelief: ‘You … No … It’s impossible … That’s the most …’ He settled for shaking his head. ‘No. No. No.’

  Before Aubrey could respond, Caroline cleared her throat and raised a finger, drawing Stanley’s attention. ‘Colonel? He’s quite capable of it.’

  Slowly, his head swivelled, turret-like, until he was gazing at Aubrey. He swallowed, a mighty Adam’s apple moving up and down his throat. ‘How do you propose to do this?’ he croaked.

  Aubrey sighed. ‘Well, it’s not easy …’

  The limitations of long-distance transference were immense. Many recent experiments suggested that some sort of uncertainty was built into such shifting, with potentially disastrous results. The relative locations and determining them were crucial in hoping to achieve any satisfactory result. Such a thing was fiendishly difficult.

  On top of that, Aubrey knew about costs to a spell caster. The more complex a spell, the more sapping the effect on the magic user. Transference spells were staggeringly complex, and the reaction was potentially enormous.

  Approaching such a scheme in a conventional manner was fraught with danger and, most likely, doomed to failure. Which is why Aubrey was banking on another line of attack.

  ‘Colonel, bear with me, if you would. The source of magic is human consciousness, correct?’

  ‘That is the current accepted theory.’ Stanley hesitated. ‘You understand that I’m being cautious here. I have no reason to believe otherwise. Human consciousness intersecting with the universe itself spawns the magic field, for want of a better description. A talented and skilled magic user can shape this to their will through constraining and channelling the medium of language.’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it any better myself,’ Aubrey said. ‘It’s the shaping and wielding that cost the magic user. The more shaping, the more wielding, the higher the cost.’

  ‘So transference magic has traditionally been small scale and with less-than-bulky objects. Very rarely over distances and rarely on living objects.’ Stanley addressed the others, who had given up on their transparent pretence of not listening. ‘Living objects being more complex than inert ones, you see.’

  ‘I’m confident I can construct a spell that will take account of all the required elements – parameters, variables, constants – and bring these important Holmlanders to the front. What I want to build into the spell is a mechanism that will deflect reactive flow – the cost, if you will – back onto the collective humanity in this region.’

  ‘Good grief!’ Stanley straightened. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

  George snorted. ‘
Welcome to working with Aubrey Fitzwilliam, sir.’

  ‘Is such a thing possible?’ Stanley asked, and he stroked his chin. ‘I mean, I can imagine it –’

  ‘“If it can be imagined, a magician can do it,”’ Aubrey quoted. ‘Baron Verulam.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Stanley’s voice shook with excitement. ‘With so many people in this area, the shared cost would be negligible. No-one would notice it.’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping.’

  Stanley stood. He smacked a fist into a palm. ‘But this is remarkable. Extraordinary.’

  ‘Innovative?’ Sophie offered.

  ‘Well, naturally it’s innovative …’ The colonel trailed off. ‘This could change the course of magic studies for decades.’

  Aubrey shrugged and added the codicil that was hanging unspoken in the dugout. ‘If it works.’ He shuffled in his satchel and pulled out the papers that von Stralick had supplied. He spread them on the map. ‘The Central Staff. The Cabinet.’

  ‘Ah.’ Colonel Stanley’s face fell. He sat, heavily. ‘For a spell like this to work, you’d have to know exactly where they are. Not to mention their height and weight, necessities like that. I don’t suppose you do.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Aubrey said. ‘I was thinking of splicing some other sorts of spells into the usual transference spells.’

  Stanley wrinkled his forehead. ‘Splicing?’

  ‘I’ve had some success in bringing spells together, to make the best of each. I know it’s not exactly the traditional way of going about things …’

  Stanley literally chewed this over, working his jaw while he examined the photographs. Aubrey had to give the man his due – he was taking Aubrey’s wild suggestions seriously instead of dismissing them out of hand.

  Or dismissing them any other way, Aubrey thought, dismissing being rather final, whether done manually or by some sort of mechanical device.

  ‘Exactly what are you suggesting?’ Stanley said finally.