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Laws of Magic 4: Time of Trial
ePub ISBN 9781742740683
Kindle ISBN 9781742740690
A Random House book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au
First published by Random House Australia in 2009
This edition first published in 2010
Copyright © Michael Pryor 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Author: Pryor, Michael
Title: Time of trial/Michael Pryor
ISBN: 978 1 86471 865 2 (pbk.)
Series: Pryor, Michael. Laws of magic; 4
Target audience: For secondary school age
Dewey number: A823.3
Cover illustration by Jeremy Reston
Cover design by www.blacksheep-uk.com
Internal design by Mathematics
Typeset in Bembo by Midland Typesetters, Australia
For the Centre for Youth Literature,
a national treasure.
Lili, Mike, Paula, Christine –
champions of the cause.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Book Five: Moment of Truth
One
Aubrey Fitzwilliam braced himself for the next attack from his young, tall and menacing adversary. Young and tall were manageable. It was the menacing part that was the problem.
Aubrey grimaced as sweat trickled from his brow and threatened to blind him, but he couldn’t spare a hand to wipe it away.
His adversary advanced on him, murder in his eye, and launched a thunderbolt.
Aubrey played forward and had to jerk back when the ball leaped up off a good length, whistling past his gloves with nothing to spare.
The bowler stifled a groan and stood mid-pitch. He threw his head back as if to berate the gods for the injustice. Then he scowled at Aubrey before beginning his march back to his bowling mark.
Aubrey straightened and removed his batting gloves, trying to give the appearance of someone who had so much composure that he could give the surplus away to those less blessed – while inside, his batting nerves jittered alarmingly.
The annual match between St Alban’s College and Lattimer College was a carnival, the traditional event to mark the end of term. Surrounding the oval was a throng of vastly amused spectators, as well as a brass band, a coconut shy, sundry vendors of refreshments, assorted dogs and even a tethered hot air balloon for the amusement of those not entirely interested in the cricket. The day was bright and sunny, perfect weather for such an occasion.
Aubrey was batting much sooner than he’d expected. Coming in at number eight after a pitiful collapse by the higher order, he was attempting to gather the sixty-odd runs needed for victory. If he managed this improbable event, St Alban’s would defeat Lattimer College for the first time in thirty-four years. At the moment, this was exceedingly unlikely, as it seemed to Aubrey as if Lattimer College was solely populated by six-foot-tall Adonises. Every one of their bowlers had shoulders so broad that he imagined Lattimer College was built with extra-wide doorways, to save these gargantuan athletes from having to turn sideways to enter rooms.
Aubrey’s batting partner, by contrast, was a well-meaning, second-year magic student whose mind was mostly elsewhere. He had a disconcerting habit of blinking and saying, ‘My word. Should I be running now?’ when Aubrey was haring toward him, which hadn’t helped matters at all.
The umpire cleared his throat. He was the professor of Jurisprudence, selected on the misunderstanding that a familiarity with the law meant he’d be a good umpire. His extremely thick glasses suggested otherwise. ‘Are you ready, young man?’ he quavered down the length of the pitch.
Aubrey sighed. ‘Sorry, sir.’ He pulled on his gloves. Bat and pad close together, he thought, and if it’s loose, lash it through the gap in the off side.
Aubrey hadn’t had a loose delivery in the four overs he’d faced, but he was doing his best to be optimistic.
The bowler pawed the ground impatiently. From where Aubrey stood he seemed small against the jollity of the spectators behind him. Parasols, straw boaters and striped blazers made a colourful backdrop, and Aubrey knew he’d lose sight of the ball as soon as the bowler hurled it.
He went into his stance and gripped the bat so tightly it hurt.
The bowler squared his shoulders, his shirt visibly straining not to burst at the seams. He grinned, then set off. At first he loped, easily and smoothly, like a steeplechaser. Soon, however, he accelerated, arms and legs pumping, a maniacal grin on his face.
Just as the bowler gathered himself for his huge final bound and delivery, Aubrey straightened. He smelled something – something more than the smell of mown grass, more than the tang of nervous sweat, something different from the aroma coming from the pie seller’s barrow.
He smelled shrillness – and he knew magic wasn’t far away.
Aubrey had noted, over the last few months, that his magical awareness had been developing. His lecturer in Magical Abilities had forecast such a thing. As the term had progressed, Aubrey and his fellow students had found that they could sense magic at greater and greater distances. Aubrey had also been intrigued to learn that as magical awareness matured, it could take on an odd cast, sometimes being experienced as a confusion of more ordinary senses. Hearing colours or tasting sounds, for instance. It was unsettling at first, and unpredictable, but Aubrey had quickly learned that he should be alert whenever it happened.
A chorus
of delight brought Aubrey back to the here and now. With dismay, he realised the sound had followed the rattle of the stumps behind him. The professor of Jurisprudence peered down the pitch. ‘Out?’ he ventured.
Aubrey was on his way.
He trudged toward the pavilion, bat under his arm, but he was oblivious to the laughter from the crowd. The mix-up of sensory experience just before he was bowled was a tell-tale sign of strong magic. But where was it? He peered at the surroundings, the treetops, the river, the nearby colleges.
‘Well done, old man,’ George Doyle said as he hurried past to take up his post at the wicket. ‘A nicely compiled six runs, that.’
Aubrey snorted. His friend was rolling his sleeves up as if he were heading for a paddle at the beach. ‘So that would make me the second top scorer?’
‘For now.’ George grinned. He took off his cap and tossed it to Aubrey. ‘Take care of this, would you? It’ll only get in the way.’
‘You’re sounding confident for a number nine batsman.’
‘They won’t be expecting anything. I’ll take them by surprise.’
George strode off, whistling, leaving Aubrey shaking his head. George had a habit of taking people by surprise, but he wasn’t sure that cricket was the time for it.
Caroline Hepworth was waiting for him at the gate. She was dressed in a long skirt and blouse, fresh and white. The blouse was fastened at her neck with an onyx brooch. Her hair was pinned, or layered, or constrained in some way that Aubrey admired but would never have ventured an opinion on exactly how it was done.
Caroline’s hair had been the cause of much thought on Aubrey’s part. When he’d first met her, he’d thought it was the colour of chestnuts – deep, glowing brown with touches of burnished gold. But he was constantly revising his opinion. Sometimes it was more golden than brown, sometimes the other way around. And he’d never been able to work out how curly it was. It wasn’t straight – at least, he thought not. But it wasn’t crinkled like a Bedlington terrier. It was shoulder-length, give or take, and he’d settle for calling it wavy.
It was just that she did different things with it. Tied it. Rolled it up. Twisted it. Sculpted it. Constructed elaborate phantasmagoria with it. All depending on the occasion, and her mood.
‘You should have played forward instead of back,’ she said. She held a lace parasol. It dappled her face with shadow.
‘I didn’t play anything at all,’ he said. ‘I was distracted. Any chance of a drink?’
‘Here.’ A tall glass of cold lemon squash was thrust into Aubrey’s hand. It slopped over the side. ‘Ach, sorry!’
Aubrey shook off the sticky yellow liquid and wondered who his embarrassed benefactor was.
He was a tall youth, about Aubrey’s age. He wore his striped blazer, white trousers and boater as if totally unfamiliar with them. His wild black hair surrounded a face that featured round spectacles and a beaky nose. He was all arms and knees, possibly the most stork-like person Aubrey had ever seen.
Caroline made the introductions. ‘Aubrey, this is Otto Kiefer. He’s says he’s desperate to meet you.’
‘Kiefer,’ Aubrey said. He transferred his glass of squash to his left hand and shook. Kiefer was oblivious to the stickiness of the handshake, and performed his part of the transaction with considerable enthusiasm, pumping up and down as if he were trying to crank a stubborn motorcar.
‘Fitzwilliam. Finally.’
Aubrey raised an eyebrow. Kiefer had a Holmland accent. While Albion and Holmland weren’t at war – yet – Aubrey was always cautious when meeting Holmlanders. Albion was seething with Holmland intelligence operatives, espionage agents and straight-out spies. Aubrey often thought he couldn’t turn around without tripping over one.
Being the son of the Prime Minister added a certain piquancy to this ubiquity. Holmland had never been above a spot of strategic assassination, so Aubrey kept his wits about him.
‘Finally?’ he echoed.
Kiefer nodded, furiously. ‘I have been at this university for some time, but I couldn’t find you. I searched many places until I saw Miss Hepworth.’ He took a moment from his nodding to beam at Caroline. She smiled back serenely. ‘From her mother, I know her. Painting exhibition. I had heard that she is your friend so I asked her where you were. Cricket, she said, so I am here.’
A cheer went up and Aubrey turned to see the umpire signalling four runs. ‘George?’
‘A remarkably fine cover drive,’ Caroline said. ‘Raced to the boundary.’
Kiefer tugged on Aubrey’s arm. ‘Fitzwilliam. I have something I must discuss with you. It is vital.’
Before Aubrey could respond, the sound of willow on leather was followed by more cheering. ‘Another four,’ Caroline observed. ‘George is batting well.’
Aubrey wanted to see his friend’s innings and tried to think how to put off the insistent Kiefer. ‘I’m happy to chat.’ He looked past the Holmlander’s shoulder to where George took a mighty swing and dispatched the ball past point for another four. The crowd was in ecstasy, cheering for all it was worth.
‘Good, good,’ Kiefer said. He peered over the heads of the excited spectators. ‘Where will we go?’
‘Not now,’ Aubrey said. ‘What about–’
He broke off. Once again, a wrong-way-around smell came to him. This time, he wrinkled his nose at the bizarre sensation of roughness, something that his sense of touch should be bringing to him. He grimaced and looked around, searching for its source.
‘Look out,’ Caroline said.
‘What?’
She didn’t repeat herself. She simply took his shoulder, moved him aside, then darted out a slender hand. She caught the cricket ball easily, despite the solid smack it made.
She was immediately the heroine of the moment. A storm of applause erupted, and more than a few appreciative whistles, as she flung the cricket ball back to the panting fieldsman who was slumped on the fence. ‘I didn’t know George could bat,’ she said. ‘That was a fine six. Took it right off his nose.’
‘Did he?’ Aubrey said distantly. He looked upriver, past the dense line of willow trees, toward Canon’s Bridge. The clouds, gathering in that direction...
George’s next six landed ten yards away, right in the middle of a tea-set spread in front of an elderly clergyman, then rebounded into a refreshment tent before coming to rest in a bowl of ginger punch.
Aubrey didn’t notice. He’d left the confused Kiefer behind and pushed through the crowd in the direction of Canon’s Bridge. He wanted a better view of the unusual cloud formation, and he was tasting discordant music at the back of his mouth as he went. A small terrier cocked its head as he slipped past a betting tent (the odds on St Alban’s College were tumbling as George cracked another boundary). The dog looked up at the sky and whined. ‘You feel it too?’ Aubrey muttered. He frowned at the cricket bat in his hand and the pads on his legs. It took him a moment to remember why they were there. The dog looked at the sky to the north, whimpered, then ran off through the crowd, tail between its legs.
Animals run away from danger, Aubrey thought. Perhaps it knows something I don’t.
The river bent around the back of the cricket oval, making the sort of ridiculously picturesque scene that usually had a score of artists battling each other for easel space, the better to sketch the trees and ducks and Saturday afternoon rowing boats full of bright young things. Aubrey found it to be strangely quiet.
He came to Canon’s Bridge and the road to the town. With his view clear of the willows he could see that the weather was turning alarmingly bad – a fact that would concern the spectators and cricketers, rain being the natural enemy of the game. Clouds had heaped up to the north like immense grey gunboats, a fleet of them stretched out across the sky and streaming toward the oval with malign intent.
He stared, and even though he was still in sunlight, he was suddenly chill.
There was no wind. Not a breeze, a zephyr, a fitful gust, nothing at all. Air is never t
his still, he thought, not even in a tomb. The thought made him shudder, then he blinked. If there’s no wind, what’s driving those clouds this way?
Realisation hit him, a solid punch to the chest. They weren’t clouds that looked like battleships. They were battleships made of clouds, steaming toward him in the afternoon sky, dark-grey as thunderheads. Clouds made solid and menacing in a mighty show of magic.
Dizzily, Aubrey put a hand on the stone of the bridge to steady himself. He stared, and shaded his eyes, unwilling to believe what he was seeing. Battleships in the sky? He swallowed in a throat suddenly dry. He counted half a dozen or so cloud-built battleships, but they were accompanied by destroyers and cruisers, as well as tenders, troop ships and dozens of lesser craft. It was a skyborne fleet.
Even in his shock, Aubrey’s mind was whirring, trying to work out the principles behind such a formidable, such a bravura, such a showy display of power.
A burly worker leading a horse and cart was coming along the road toward him. He smiled and tipped his cap to Aubrey. ‘Make any runs?’
‘A few,’ Aubrey said faintly.
The man looked behind him, following Aubrey’s gaze, and the grin faded from his face. ‘My sainted aunt.’
Aubrey was glad. He wasn’t the only one who could see the skyborne fleet. ‘We’re under attack.’
The worker swore. ‘Don’t stand there, son. Find cover.’ He urged his nag on and hurried along the road out of town.
The cloud-built battlefleet surged nearer. They rose over the Torwell Hills to the north of Greythorn as if they were cresting huge waves, rolling down the other side in formation. Aubrey tried to count them, but lost track after four dozen when he realised a second rank of cruisers and destroyers was following the main line of battleships.
He could feel the magic even at this distance, like ice flung ahead of a storm.
He gripped the stone parapet of the bridge, then turned. No-one at the cricket match was looking to the north. All attention was on St Alban’s spirited revival. The music played, dogs barked and the observers in the tethered balloon bobbed gently.
Time of Trial Page 1
