Time of Trial

by Michael Pryor

  This brought various expressions of enthusiasm from the brigands – throaty cheers, assent, and a few voices struck up the Veltranian national anthem, but it petered out and became an argument about the actual words.

  Aubrey now was in a different situation from the one he had thought. Instead of facing instant death at the hands of a band of itinerant bandits, he was facing instant death at the hands of some sort of partisan underground political organisation from the Goltans that had relocated into Gallia. Admittedly, the outcome could be the same, but the complexion of this encounter had changed abruptly.

  Initially, it had been a case of bluffing his way out of the clutches of outlaws. Now he had to do that – or escape any way he could – and report back to the Albion intelligence agencies about this development. Rogue elements operating out of Gallia and attacking Holmland installations could be just the excuse Holmland needed to advance into Gallian territory, precipitating who knew what response from Gallia. Or would Holmland just assume the attackers were Gallian? The result would be the same. And, naturally, Albion would have to come to the aid of their Continental ally and the whole ghastly business would be on in earnest.

  And their expressed desire to stop Veltran from destroying itself? He knew that Veltran, like many of the Goltan States, was torn by factions. Some of these factions had links to Holmland and welcomed stronger ties with the dominant state on the Continent. Not Rodolfo’s crew, from the sounds of it.

  Aubrey was in a dangerous situation. Adventures were all well and good, but right at this minute he would have preferred being on the train with a warm cup of cocoa.

  ‘Compressed spells are dangerous,’ he began.

  ‘Dangerous?’ Rodolfo said. He rubbed at his forehead. With his sad eyes, Aubrey thought he looked more like a priest than a revolutionary. ‘We’ve grown accustomed to danger, Mr Black. In Veltran, heart of the Goltans, danger is when your friends become your enemies overnight.’

  More muttered approval from the shadows. Rodolfo didn’t have the swagger that went along with being a brigand chief, but his followers seemed devoted to him. A reluctant leader, was Aubrey’s summation.

  ‘I can get my hands on compressed spells,’ Aubrey admitted, seeing the way the negotiation was headed. These people weren’t about to be dissuaded by doubts about safety. More muttering came from the brigand chorus, rather more cheery this time as they considered the possibility of new implements of mayhem. ‘What sort of thing are you after?’

  ‘Thunderstorms.’ Rodolfo studied him closely. ‘We heard of a compressed weather spell that exploded in Albion, recently. It did much damage.’

  ‘It flattened a whole building,’ Aubrey said, hiding his surprise. He remembered the destruction of St Olaf’s church hall, one of the series of events leading up to Dr Tremaine’s attempt to turn Trinovant into a living creature. Count Brandt had nearly been killed. Weather magic was awkward – dangerous, difficult to manage, but spectacular.

  ‘Your people have access to such things?’

  ‘Oh, certainly,’ Aubrey said, thinking of the resources of the Magisterium, or whatever they’d become. He was sure that Craddock would be able to supply a weather spell if he thought cultivating these people might be useful.

  Rodolfo gestured to the giant at the entrance of the cave. ‘We have a list, what we want.’

  Aubrey had to keep up appearances. ‘Not so fast,’ he said as a sheaf of tattered paper was thrust on him. ‘We need to discuss payment.’

  Rodolfo smiled wryly. ‘Of course. You are a businessman, not a patriot.’ He dragged a stool from underneath a protesting brigand and sat on it himself. He put his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. ‘Tell me what you want. I will protest, of course, but we will eventually reach an understanding. It is the way.’

  ‘Gold. Deposited in a Helvetica bank.’

  Softly, he whispered a spell he’d been rehearsing and snapped his fingers. A bright green flame shot upward from them, an intense jet that reached the rocky ceiling before disappearing, leaving an unexpected smell of mothballs.

  Rodolfo didn’t move, but a few startled oaths came from his followers, and some dark mutterings. Rodolfo sighed. ‘Gold in a Helvetica bank? I can arrange that. Now, let’s haggle over price.’

  Aubrey shook his head. ‘We never haggle.’ He glanced at the sheaf of papers and he plucked a figure out of the air. ‘Ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘Done.’ Rodolfo raised his eyebrow sardonically and caught Aubrey’s eye. Immediately Aubrey knew he’d come in too low. It galled him, not because he had anything at stake, but he hated losing even when he had no personal interest.

  When Rodolfo gestured and the hospitality phase of the negotiations began, Aubrey was torn. He knew it was dangerous to refuse food and drink offered like this – and he was ravenous after his trek through the woods – but he knew the train was getting further and further away.

  But there was no stopping Rodolfo’s band. While their leader brooded, leaning against the wall of the cavern with his arms crossed on his chest, a brace of pheasants roasted on a spit. A cask of wine was broached and soon the cave was full of lusty singing.

  Someone pushed a mug of wine on Aubrey. He nodded his thanks but only pretended to drink.

  He worked his way around the cavern, weaving among the happy band, making mental notes for his report. The origination of the boxes that most sat on. The calibre and make of the rifles. The makeshift radio equipment at the rear of the cavern. The maps unscrolled on the table. A ragtag bunch they might look, but they were reasonably well equipped, and deadly serious.

  Aubrey was having trouble labelling them. Were they brigands? Freedom fighters? Revolutionaries? He decided that this would only be known in hindsight, when all was done, and the histories were being written by the victors. It gave him pause, the shifting nature of things, the uncertain times in which he lived. Belief could lead to great deeds or it could lead to horror – the line was a delicate one and again hindsight was the only way to know when one had stepped over it.

  Sizzling pheasant meat, mushrooms, sliced roast potatoes and fresh bread on a tin plate appeared in front of him. ‘Eat, eat,’ Rodolfo said. ‘You are too skinny. Eat.’

  Aubrey’s stomach insisted that Rodolfo was right. He took the plate, sat on a coil of rope, and, while the singing around him redoubled, its contents vanished with surprising speed.

  He wiped the plate with the crust of bread, wondering where it came from. A nearby village friendly to their cause? An elderly man staggered past, roaring what could be considered a song, even if it was a completely different one from that the rest of them were trying to sing. It was as if he’d taken a tune, gutted it, stuffed it with random notes while preserving the words and then decided that volume was more important than tune anyway, dammit.

  Aubrey looked for their leader, and found him away from the centre of activity. He was still sitting on his stool, still brooding, watching his band enjoy themselves. ‘They’re happy,’ Aubrey said.

  ‘Happiness passes, but it is good while it lasts.’

  ‘You’ve been out here long?’

  Rodolfo glanced sidelong at Aubrey. ‘Long enough.’

  ‘It must be difficult, fighting for your cause.’

  Another sidelong glance. ‘Fighting is difficult at any time.’

  ‘You’re not a soldier then?’

  This time, Rodolfo turned to face Aubrey squarely. ‘I was a school teacher, Mr Black. When Holmland sympathisers murdered the president of my country, I was appalled but did nothing. When anti-Holmland agitators killed the man who led our army, I was aghast. When the government began to round up people to stop the killing, I lost track of who was who. When my brother was seduced by those who claimed that Veltranians were historically a Holmlandish people and joined a group who wanted to blow things up, I wrote a letter to the newspaper denouncing such things.’ His face hardened. ‘I was called in by the headmaster, told that I no longer had a job. When I went hom
e to my flat, the landlord threw me on the street. A band of men then assaulted me and as I lay in the gutter I realised that being appalled and aghast and affronted wasn’t enough. I knew I had to fight.’

  Rodolfo’s voice was soft, but Aubrey heard every word, despite the carousing that was going on. He felt the man’s pain, his anger, his loss, but he had to ask. ‘And you’re certain you’re fighting for the right cause?’

  Rodolfo’s dark eyes were intense. He leaned forward. ‘Certainty is a fool’s crutch.’ He stood and stretched. ‘Now, Mr Black. You seem to be still here.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk about.’ Aubrey brushed off his trousers. His stomach was full; he felt warm and strong. ‘What’s the best way to get back to my train?’

  ‘You want to rejoin it?’ Rodolfo made a gesture as if it were a matter of little importance, something of the order of an annoying fly. ‘This is no problem. Carlito will take you. Carlito!’

  A scrawny figure stumbled out of the unruly choir, nearly tripping on the outstretched sleeping form of a replete outlaw. He wore a stocking cap over greasy, greying hair. He was small and ferret-like, with a prominent nose. He looked inquiringly at Rodolfo, who gestured at Aubrey. ‘This man wants to get to the Transcontinental Express.’

  Carlito screwed up his eyes. ‘Now?’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ Aubrey said.

  ‘Carlito will get you there,’ Rodolfo said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Raft, signor. Raft,’ Carlito said, grinning in a gap-toothed way that made the word sound like the equivalent of ‘death trap’.

  It was.

  Seventeen

  The raft trip was madness. Within minutes, Aubrey was convinced that Carlito was the man for the job.

  The raft itself was a ramshackle assemblage that looked more like an accidental coming-together of flotsam than a water-tight, navigable vessel. Some of it was made of barrels, some of it was sheet metal, some of it was rope and netting, a fair proportion of it was prayers. Branches were woven in and out of the chaos, but most of the raft was still open space. Carlito had to steady Aubrey as he boarded because his feet found gaps more easily than solid construction. The raftman’s grin didn’t waver as Aubrey wobbled, lurched and eventually threw himself at the spot Carlito indicated with a blackened finger. Then, picking a rope somewhat at random, Aubrey thought, Carlito cast off and they were whipped into the maelstrom.

  Aubrey’s first reaction, after a faceful of icy spray, was that the river had more than grown up. He’d first encountered it as a wild mountain stream, wayward, but still young and with a chance to reform. Now, it was a hardened villain of a waterway, carving its way through solid rock at the bottom of the perilous gorge. In seconds, Aubrey’s breath was driven from him in a series of plunges that jarred his bones and drenched him in water he was sure would have frozen if it had stayed still for even an instant. His teeth chattered; his hands hurt from gripping whatever structural component was closest and least likely to detach itself.

  The darkness at the bottom of the gorge was almost complete, so Aubrey couldn’t anticipate the wild changes in direction and the plummeting, swerving passage of the raft. Flashes of white foam made him jerk his head left and right but imminent death was on every side, only interrupted by the towering darkness of immense rocks that even the thunderous river couldn’t shift.

  As they were flung through the watery violence, Aubrey was constantly battered by the roar the river made as it sped along, madcap and unbridled. The noise filled the narrow space and assaulted them as if it were alive and malicious. It was an all-consuming sound, a head-filling sound. It hissed and bellowed, and underneath was the grinding of boulders being dragged along the riverbed.

  Carlito’s navigation was eccentric. He stood, swaying, at the rear of the craft, with a heavy wooden pole under his right arm which he used to fend off the rocks that threatened to bring their journey to an abrupt end, although how he saw them Aubrey had no idea. This was a rational, even sensible course of action, but it wasn’t consistent. At times Carlito simply grinned as the raft slammed into the sides of the gorge or into a fang of rock, and allowed the raft to career away down the gorge. How he chose which to fend off and which not to defeated Aubrey. He gave up trying to work out the raftman’s method. Instead he concentrated on hanging on.

  He had no idea how long the passage took. The ride took a few seconds or a few lifetimes, one or the other.

  Carlito left the jelly-legged Aubrey on the outskirts of Agoulle, where the river burst from the chasm, widened and lost most of its violence. Behind them was the dark cleft of the gorge, which Aubrey was sure had a charming local nickname like ‘the Widowmaker’. Any description of it would be accompanied by the opinion that only lunatics would attempt passage through it.

  Carlito, apparently a professional lunatic, steered the raft under some willows. He pointed to the lights of the houses and to where the railway line ran alongside the main street. For a moment, Aubrey sat on the raft and stared upward, enjoying the stars and the way they’d stopped wheeling crazily across the sky. Then he took a deep breath and launched himself onto the river bank. It was soggy and evil-smelling from what Aubrey suspected was animal droppings, but it had the immensely wonderful benefit of not being the raft.

  With some reluctance, he looked over his shoulder. ‘How will you get back?’ he asked Carlito.

  Carlito glanced at the raft he was standing on. It was noticeably smaller than the vessel in which they’d begun their journey. ‘I will walk. A few days, I will be back with Rodolfo.’

  ‘What about your raft?’

  He shrugged. ‘They only last one journey.’

  Aubrey understood. He shook the man’s hand and Carlito disappeared back upriver.

  Aubrey straightened his dripping jacket and staggered toward the lights. A few minutes later, the Transcontinental Express rumbled into the town, slowing for the tiny village. Aubrey ran hard as it rattled through a series of switches. He sprinted alongside, sure-footed in the dark, and swung up with the sort of cavalier deftness that comes after staring utter annihilation in the face and surviving it.

  The rocking of the train and the warm blanket nearly made Aubrey nod off. With an effort, he listened to George and his mother take turns in explaining how worried they’d been.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again after they ran out of ways to make him feel guilty for having been thrown off the train.

  ‘Good,’ George said and he sat back, arms crossed.

  ‘And what do we do now?’ his mother asked. ‘Are those people still on the train?’

  Aubrey yawned, stifled it. ‘Send one of Tallis’s people to see. He can liaise with the conductors and train officials.’

  ‘You’re not worried about them?’ George asked.

  Aubrey thought that he’d had a surfeit of worry in the last few hours. ‘All I really want to do is sleep.’ His fatigue-muffled brain lumbered through a number of thoughts. ‘No. Must compile a report first. Get it to Craddock. Or Tallis. Or whoever it is today.’ He looked at his mother. ‘Or should I go straight to Father?’

  ‘You’ll go straight to bed.’

  ‘I agree, old man,’ George said. ‘Any report you try to write tonight is likely to be three parts nonsense. Plenty of time for clear thinking in the morning. We’re not due to arrive in Fisherberg until eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Code,’ Aubrey mumbled. His head suddenly felt very heavy. Or had it somehow turned to iron, attracted to the magnet concealed in the armrest of the chair? ‘I’ll have to work up a code to use.’

  ‘I’m sure the embassy in Fisherberg will be able to help,’ Lady Rose said.

  Aubrey studied her for a moment, the time it took for him to make sense of her words. Finally, he nodded, which was a mistake, one that sleep had been waiting for. It enfolded him and he didn’t resist.

  Aubrey woke feeling groggy, but a fine breakfast revitalised him enough to spend an hour feverishly writing an account of
the bizarre encounter with the Veltranian rebels. George and Lady Rose both wisely left him alone, retiring to the lounge car and only returning when the train reached the outskirts of Fisherberg.

  Fisherberg was a fine old city that was making a determined effort to be a dominant modern city. Aubrey put the finishing touches on his account – folding it up and patting it into an inside jacket pocket – in time to see that the train had slowed and was making its way along the bank of the Istros River. The riverbanks here seemed to be totally devoted to factories which were competing to see who could belch out the most smoke, with a subsidiary competition in foulest-smelling wastewater discharge.

  He wished Caroline were with him. Not for her company, he quickly reassured himself. Her knowledge of Fisherberg would be useful, that was all. She’d know if the factories were a recent development or not. She could be a handy guide. Helpful, in a practical way. And he couldn’t be chided for seeking her company on that basis, could he?

  Having convinced himself of this – and he told himself he was hard-headed and rational on this score – he tried to estimate how many factories they were passing. It was heavy industry here, obviously, and no doubt it was part of the Chancellor’s grand plan for Holmland. He wondered how many of them were making arms and weapons.

  George strolled in. ‘Remind me never to play whist with your mother again, old man.’ He peered out of the window.

  Aubrey stretched. ‘Ah, yes. I should have warned you.’

  ‘She’s a demon. Wiped me out conclusively. Would have been embarrassing, if anyone had have been watching.’

  ‘The lounge car was empty?’

  ‘A veritable ghost car.’

  ‘Hmm. It makes me wonder how many people have managed to slip off this train en route.’

  ‘Very mysterious. Now, where are we staying in Fisherberg? Somewhere with a good table, I hope. Lunch is just around the corner.’