Time of Trial

by Michael Pryor

  ‘You would have been lost,’ Kiefer said, ‘if not for my assistance. The device has restored your balance. Your body and soul are united as they should be.’

  Aubrey couldn’t argue. He felt as whole as he’d ever felt after the disastrous experiment at Stonelea School. He went to slip the chain from his neck so he could examine the Beccaria Cage more closely.

  Kiefer’s eyes flew open wide. ‘Do not remove it! The cage is all that is stopping you from falling apart.’

  The device was heavy in Aubrey’s hand. He stared at Kiefer. ‘I think you need to tell me more. Much more.’

  Kiefer rubbed his palms on his trouser legs. With some effort, he untangled himself and stood. He took a deep breath and did his best to look dignified. ‘I have come to seek your assistance, Mr Fitzwilliam.’

  ‘I’m happy to give it.’ Aubrey touched the Beccaria Cage. ‘You’ve done a great thing for me.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Another deep breath. ‘Now I want you to help me destroy Dr Mordecai Tremaine.’

  An uncomfortable silence was a sudden visitor in the room. Aubrey pursed his lips, considering his options. ‘Destroy Dr Tremaine?’ he finally ventured. ‘What makes you think we could help you achieve such a thing?’

  Before Kiefer could answer, Caroline spoke up. ‘Let’s not dismiss such a request lightly.’ Her voice was even, but Aubrey could see the effort this took. ‘Dr Tremaine is a threat to the entire world.’

  ‘He’s the most dangerous man there is,’ George said gloomily. ‘And it’s not exactly joyful to know that he has designs on people you care for.’

  ‘I think we all agree on the peril that Dr Tremaine represents,’ Aubrey said. ‘He may be a madman, after all. But he is also a genius.’

  ‘Of that I am aware,’ Kiefer said brightly. ‘He is a most dangerous enemy.’ He sighed. ‘I risked much to bring that device to you. You must help me.’

  Almost without his realising it, Aubrey’s hand crept to cover the Beccaria Cage. ‘This is sounding awfully like blackmail, Kiefer.’

  For a moment, Kiefer looked old. He gestured – a jerky, ungraceful movement. ‘It is as you Albionites say: a means to an end.’ Before anyone could protest he climbed to his feet and went to the door. ‘Rest, Fitzwilliam. Let the Beccaria Cage work on you. We will discuss mutual assistance tomorrow.’

  Three

  Dawn had barely arrived when Aubrey woke. After he opened his eyes and saw the grey light that stole in around the curtains, it took him a moment to remember that he was in his college rooms. Then he touched the tiny Beccaria Cage and the events of the previous day came back to him.

  Quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping George on the other side of the room, he sat up and held the cage between his thumb and forefinger to examine it.

  The metal ball rolled about as he tilted the cage from side to side. It glided smoothly, and Aubrey found himself entranced by its movements and the solidity of its contact with the fine wires. He was always impressed by clever construction, and the neatness of this device was captivating – but he needed to know more about it.

  After a time, he reluctantly tucked the cage back inside his nightshirt. Then he eased himself out of his bed, found his dressing gown and slippers, and tiptoed to the door that led to the small study attached to their bedroom.

  An hour later, Aubrey was deeply immersed in research. His collection of books covering the history of magic was proving useful, as he’d already found a dozen references to the Beccaria Cage. Even in its earliest eighteenth-century developments, when Giovanni Beccaria had proposed a device that used some of the principles of electrical conduction as well as aspects of the Law of Entanglement, it had been a cunning melding of magic and technology. Aubrey’s particular device appeared to be a variation of the classical notion of a Beccaria Cage, however, with some embedded spells that he was having trouble identifying.

  Intriguingly, none of the references mentioned a Beccaria Cage with a silver ball inside.

  It was a mystery, but Aubrey loved a mystery.

  He was reaching for Kuhn’s Magical Revolutions when a tap came from the casement windows to his left. Aubrey automatically glanced in that direction to see a pigeon fluttering with some agitation. As he stared, it pecked at the glass again.

  Aubrey went to shout, to shoo it away, assuming it was tricked by its own reflection, then he remembered that George was still asleep. He sighed, put down his pencil and crossed the room.

  At the window, the pigeon continued fluttering and pecking at the glass. Aubrey stood there, waved his arms and made a fierce face, but the pigeon ignored him and tapped furiously at the window.

  Shaking his head, Aubrey unlatched the windows and pushed them out. The pigeon tumbled backward in a flurry of wings but instead of flying off as Aubrey had expected, it rallied and darted at him.

  He jerked his head back as the pigeon hurtled into the room like a feathery cannonball. He spun to see it career off the side wall, then gather itself with more intent than he thought a pigeon capable of before alighting on the desk where Aubrey had been researching. It immediately worried at an errant feather before fixing him with a beady stare.

  Aubrey glanced at the door to the bedroom, but the steady drone that came from that direction told him that George was still asleep.

  Aubrey stared back at the bird. No sense in trying to chase it out of the window. Small-brained as pigeons were, it would probably flap around in every direction but the one he wanted. It would be much better to throw a blanket over it first, then empty it outside.

  Before Aubrey could move, however, the pigeon bent its head and pecked at a leg. Aubrey narrowed his eyes when he saw that this leg had something attached to it– a small metal capsule.

  Aubrey’s curiosity immediately scuppered his plan to get rid of the pigeon. At least, not before examining it. The bird must be a lost carrier pigeon, and who knew what message it contained in the capsule on its leg? If he could detach the capsule, he might be able to get the message to its owner.

  Without looking, he reached behind himself and pulled the windows closed. Then he took off his dressing gown and held it in front of him, ready to stalk the pigeon.

  Aubrey was glad no-one was around to see him as he advanced on the bird. He felt distinctly foolish, in nightshirt and slippers, holding a dressing gown as a net, inching toward a pigeon that was standing on his desk as if it belonged there.

  He held his breath when the pigeon cocked its head, but it otherwise showed remarkable unconcern as he moved closer. He lifted the dressing gown, ready to cast it, then he peered around its edge. The pigeon was staring back at him with equanimity.

  Aubrey lowered the dressing gown. He reached out, and the bird didn’t show any signs of alarm.

  Of course, he thought, it must be accustomed to people. A carrier pigeon would have been handled from an early age to get it used to having capsules strapped to its leg.

  With as much gentleness as he could muster, Aubrey took the pigeon in both hands. It nestled there quite happily, and he found the capsule attached to the bird’s leg with copper bands. He removed it easily.

  The capsule was extremely light, made of thin aluminium, and only half an inch or so long. It didn’t take Aubrey long to see that it was of two halves fitted tightly together. With a twist and a tug, the halves separated and a scrap of folded rice paper dropped to the desk.

  His curiosity was circling as he carefully unfolded the paper. The capsule had no markings, but could it be military? Could the message contain secret information? He snorted. It was more likely to be a pigeon fancier taunting another pigeon fancier about how well his birds raced.

  Finally, he had the paper unfolded. He smoothed it on the desk and stared at the words written in black ink.

  Palaver. Gastropod. Snood. Philtrum.

  Aubrey’s brain turned to dust.

  It was some time later when he realised that he was still standing at the desk. The pigeon was looking at him so he went to t
he window and opened it. After the pigeon flew out Aubrey threw the screwed-up scrap of rice paper out of the window and immediately forgot about it.

  Quietly, with a nagging sense of urgency, he went into the bedroom and found his clothes. Without disturbing George, he dressed. Then the sense of urgency had him closing the door carefully behind him and sneaking down the stairs.

  On the platform of Greythorn Station, Aubrey chafed while waiting with the morning passengers. He realised that he’d foolishly forgotten to bring a book, or even a newspaper, to fill in his waiting time, but soon found himself sitting on the hard wooden slats of a railway bench. He must have been more tired than he thought, for when the whistle announced the arrival of the train the station clock told him that nearly an hour had passed without his noticing.

  While he searched for an empty compartment, this lapse of time gnawed at him. It was unlike him to be so unaware of his surroundings. His condition, balanced between life and death, had taught him about the value of every moment. Life was brief, a transient thing to be savoured, and even sitting on a station bench was something to be enjoyed.

  It worried him, but the worry drifted away when he took his attention from it.

  The train was crowded. Aubrey couldn’t find an empty compartment but after he settled himself he scarcely noticed the other passengers. They were indistinct presences – collections of vague sounds and smells, blurred movements – as he sat fidgeting in the corner, right by the window. He spent some time watching one knee as he bounced it up and down, the jiggling movement soothing in its rhythm. At times, he thought someone in the compartment spoke to him, but by the time he’d gathered himself enough to reply it seemed pointless, unhelpful to his task at hand, so he didn’t.

  His earlier feeling of vigour had faded somewhat. He had a headache that was brooding right behind his forehead, a black presence that was threatening to grow. This concerned him, for he knew he had an important task – the responsibility was a fearsome jockey riding him with particularly sharp spurs – but he had trouble defining exactly what it was. It was as vague as the people in the compartment, shapeless as hunger, but just as demanding. He tried to concentrate, because he knew his task was important, but his attention had a tendency to wander and instead he found himself contemplating the wooden window frame. It was made of a mellow orange-brown timber, indifferently lacquered, and Aubrey spent a pleasant hour or two tracing the grain from one side to the other, a tricky task as the lines were fine and he often lost his place and had to start again.

  He amused himself by rolling nursery rhymes in his head, repeating them until the words became nonsense collections of sound, but all the more hilarious for it.

  Later, he understood that the train had stopped and that he was alone in the compartment. A figure was standing in the doorway and it occurred to Aubrey that responding to it would be a rather good idea. ‘I’m fine, thank you, conductor. Just gathering myself before sallying forth into the city. Hat on, gloves on, and I’m ready to go.’

  He stepped out of the compartment and strode whistling down the platform, even though it struck him that whistling was something he rarely did.

  Outside the station, for once Aubrey didn’t feel assaulted by the din of Trinovant traffic nor by the bustle of pedestrians as he joined the crowd. Even the slightly drizzly weather had no effect. His task now burned so brightly in him that everything else, really, was trivial.

  It was a comfortable way to be, if a little foggy. Standing at the corner of Wye and Bank Streets, waiting for a chance to cross the busy road that would lead to the Palace, he wondered why life couldn’t always be like this. It was a relief not to have to worry about things, knowing that every important decision had been made for him. All he had to do was carry out his task and everything would be perfect. He was well rid of such foolishness as ambition, duty, responsibilities.

  First, of course, a detour to the Mire. It took two underground trips and a foot journey of indeterminate length, but he eventually came to the heart of this less than salubrious part of the city. Even at this early hour on a Sunday morning, it was busy. And once it became apparent that he was shopping for firearms, he was besieged by eager sellers – men usually, well fed and expensively dressed, with no sense of fashion but with a manner that said telling them as much would be a bad idea.

  In a short time, he could have equipped a small army. Fleetingly, he felt that some of the more volatile nations on the Goltan Peninsula had perhaps done just that. Finally, he was able to purchase his desired weapon: a Symons service revolver, the Mark V model, not the more common Mark IV. The shifty-eyed vendor – ocular unsteadiness another prerequisite of the trade, it seemed – assured him that it had only ever been used on the practice range. It was large: a .450 calibre, more than enough to punch a hole right through a wall, if needed. He had to chuckle when he considered something as silly as using the pistol to make holes in walls, but he stopped when he realised that the shifty-eyed man was looking at him strangely.

  Aubrey declined an offer of heavy machine guns and mortars to go with the revolver, handed over the cash without counting it and was rewarded by a startled – and increasingly shifty – look from his new friend. It made him feel good.

  After leaving the Mire, he bobbed along the pavement like a particularly content piece of driftwood. His feet knew his destination, and while he walked he spent some time looking at clouds as they moved across the sky, changing shapes as they were shepherded by the wind. He only became aware of his surroundings when the gates of the Palace loomed. It was a familiar sight and Aubrey’s already cheery heart swelled to see it, even though the great rectangular bulk of a building was no-one’s finest example of any sort of architecture. Because it was early, the Palace was quiet, with many windows still draped. The guards were in attendance at the gatehouse, of course, but otherwise the gardens, the paths, the parade ground were lonely, just as he had been led to believe.

  The guards made Aubrey wait, but he didn’t mind because the cobblestones were remarkably interesting. He absorbed himself in counting them and trying to estimate how many there were in the entire parade ground. He kept losing track and having to start again, but it didn’t bother him. It was fascinating.

  When Archie Sommers, Prince Albert’s aide, appeared, Aubrey was irritated – in an abstract, blurry sort of way – that his counting was interrupted, but he soon remembered that Sommers was the easiest way to see the Crown Prince, and that was why he had asked the guards to fetch him. He put on a smile.

  Archie Sommers was a young man, an ex-naval officer who had taken on the job after an accident at sea. Aubrey had always got on well with him as he had a devilish sense of humour and a keen interest in magic. One of his primary jobs was to screen Bertie from visitors, but Aubrey hardly thought that applied to him. After all, a cousin was a cousin.

  Sommers hailed Aubrey. ‘Fitzwilliam! What a surprise! Why didn’t you telephone?’ He shook Aubrey’s hand.

  Aubrey had no answer for that. In fact, it struck him as odd when he came to think about it, but the excuse came to him smoothly. ‘Couldn’t risk it, Sommers.’ He coughed significantly. ‘Sensitive matters.’

  ‘I see.’ Sommers looked pained. ‘You know, I hate this carry-on. Secrets, spies, looking over your shoulder all the time.’ He grinned. ‘Not much we can do about it, eh? Come on, I’ll get you a cup of tea. His Highness is talking with His Majesty’s doctors, but won’t be long.’

  Aubrey paused and a passing thought made him frown. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just after eight. You’ve made an early start.’

  He considered this for a moment. ‘I suppose I have.’

  He was left in one of the many drawing rooms in the Palace. He’d been in this one before, but he couldn’t exactly remember when. It looked over Barley Park, green and lovely in the morning light, where the curve of Miller’s Pond caught the sun and sparkled. It was a serene, beautiful sight and, gazing over it, he forgot all about the promis
e of tea. He tried to decide what the shape of the trees meant. They seemed mysterious and significant, so he used his forefinger to trace them on the window glass.

  He could smell the furniture polish used on the table under the window. Eventually, he decided that it smelled like beeswax.

  Dimly, he was aware of a voice, deep inside himself, that was doing its best to raise a hullabaloo. It was irksome, but only distantly, like a noisy neighbour in a district where the houses were five miles apart.

  The business of the Palace went on around him, in the hushed and discreet way that the royal household staff had made a specialty. After someone placed a tea tray on the table by his side, he was left alone. Footsteps went past, soft conversations came from nearby, a muffled telephone rang. None of this bothered – or concerned – Aubrey. Periodically, he found he had to move position as his leg muscles were starting to cramp, and he had some notion that he was hungry, but these signs of physical discomfort were muted, as if they were happening to someone else.

  The voice deep inside was doing its best to rattle the walls but it was easy to ignore.

  One of the doors opened. Sommers entered. He was frowning, and Aubrey would have described him as looking troubled, if he’d been able to rouse enough interest to do so. Instead he smiled – something told him that smiling was good – and he stood.

  ‘His Highness will be with you in a minute,’ Sommers said in a tight voice. Aubrey saw his hand was hovering over the pocket of his jacket, and for an instant he wondered what the chap had there, but no sooner had the thought flitted into his mind than it left. The matter had no impact on his mission.

  ‘Good, good,’ Aubrey said. He bounced on his toes and realised that he was excited. His hands twitched, eagerly.