George held up a hand. 'That's enough, old man. You know that magic talk makes me dizzy.' He reached on top of the wardrobe and seized his cornet case. 'I'm off to practise. I'll leave you to your stuff.'
Aubrey didn't hear the door close behind his friend. He was already immersed in the intricacies of arcane magic theory and feeling the thrill that comes from exploring the frontier of knowledge. He wondered if this was how one of his personal heroes, the great Baron Verulam, had felt.
Baron Verulam's staggering insights three hundred years ago were the birth of modern magic, taking it out of the dark ages of superstition and trickery. Verulam's insistence, despite the scorn of his contemporaries, was that magic should be treated in a scientific manner, through experimentation and observation, to try to establish consistent laws that would lead to reproducible results. This empirical approach to magic was the great leap forward, and light was brought to bear on what had previously been a dark art. Modern magic grew from ancient magic in the same way that the half-mad, half-intuitive fumblings of alchemy gave birth to the rational science of modern chemistry.
Slowly, great minds came to see the worth of Verulam's ways. Spells became more reliable as the underlying laws were established. Fewer disasters resulted from spell casting. Gradually, magic became dependable enough to be used to assist the growth in mechanics and technology in the Industrial Revolution, much to the benefit of the nation of Albion. Its growth as the powerhouse of the modern world could be traced to the savants, thinkers and practitioners who were alive to the possibilities of a rational approach to both magic and technology.
The growth in technology outstripped the rise of magic, however, due to one important aspect: magic could only be performed by those few with the natural aptitude for it. This aptitude also brought an awareness of magical forces, and an ability to see the effects of magic in a way others could not. It could be enhanced by study and diligence, but without the inherent magical capacity, spells could not be cast.
From an early age, it was apparent Aubrey had this ability. It had appeared in his family over the centuries, but only rarely, skipping whole generations and then blooming unexpectedly. It was a gift, much like a gift for higher mathematics or a gift for music. Aubrey was humbled by it and determined to make the most of it.
He seized his copy of Tremaine's Towards a Theory of Magical Forces, which he'd had sent down from the university library. He'd used Mr Ellwood's name on the request, but he was sure he'd have it back before his teacher noticed. The Tremaine book was large, leatherbound, and very, very new. When he opened it the heady fragrance of fresh print rose from the pages. He enjoyed the sensation for a moment, then began to read the introduction.
Dr Mordecai Tremaine was the Sorcerer Royal, adviser to the government on all matters magical. From his studies, Aubrey knew that Dr Tremaine was a radical thinker on the Nature of Magic, and since that subject was the current hothouse of argument, debate and occasional fisticuffs between major magical academics, Aubrey wanted to know what the Sorcerer Royal's views were.
Aubrey began to frown as he read. It didn't take long before he closed the book in disappointment. He rubbed his eyes and sat back in his straight-backed chair.
The book was nothing new. It was a compilation of a series of groundbreaking papers published last year in The Greythorn Journal of Magic, papers Aubrey had already read in his quest to know more. Dr Tremaine's notion was that magic was a phenomenon with some similarities to electricity, magnetism and light. It obeyed laws and it could be manipulated by magicians, who have the special ability to draw on a vast magical field, channelling it to their ends via the mechanism of properly constructed spells. But where did this magical field come from? In the final paper of the series, Dr Tremaine explored the possibility that it was humanity that brought about such a universal magical field, caused the generation of such a reservoir of enormous magical force. Was it human awareness? Human intelligence? Human souls? In the end, he left this question unanswered – tantalisingly so to Aubrey's way of thinking.
In class, Aubrey had learned of the shock this series of papers created in magical circles. Fusty academics who for years hadn't considered anything more important than whether to have another cup of tea or not were almost rioting in the corridors and cloisters of the universities. Dr Tremaine was praised, condemned, questioned and even, in one overdramatic display, burned in effigy. How could humankind possibly have an effect on such a powerful force? Alternative theories sprang up, where magic was compared to an invisible fluid that filled the cosmos, or a form of power bestowed by creatures unknown.
Such controversy excited Aubrey's curiosity and fired his imagination. He wanted to be part of the great enterprise, to debate, to spar, to cross intellectual swords with others afire with the quest to discover the Nature of Magic – and more. Magical Theory still had much to do. Many areas were virtually untouched as savants experimented, observed and tried to quantify the effects of magic. Names were made in an instant by researchers stumbling on new laws or new applications of old laws. Great and powerful functions were being discovered almost daily. These were heady, exhilarating times, but Aubrey's great fear was that everything would be discovered before he could finish school and begin serious research. So he'd decided he couldn't wait.
He scanned the pages he'd been working on. All his preparations were in order. It was time. He closed the books on his desk and gathered his papers. He slipped them into a satchel and threw it over his shoulder. He found several sticks of chalk, which he dropped into his pocket.
He left a light on for George, then hurried out of the room.
The corridor was still lit by gas jets, the program for converting the school to electrical lights having stalled at the library and the assembly hall while contractors and the headmaster argued over costs. The gaslight gave Aubrey's shadow a yellow cast, as if it were jaundiced. He reached the end of the corridor and went into the night.
The wind seemed to have leapfrogged 'breeze' and gone directly to 'gale'. Its ambition seemed to be causing as much mischief as possible. Aubrey held a hand in front of his face to avoid the dust and shredded ivy leaves. Assorted bangs and clatters echoed around the quadrangle as unfastened shutters enjoyed their freedom and branches whipped at stone and glass. He squinted and leaned into the wind and, in the manner of a man walking through thigh-deep mud, pushed step by step towards the Magic Laboratories.
The Magic Laboratories were contained in a large stone building a hundred yards to the south of any other structure at Stonelea. After a series of fires and explosions and one memorable earthquake had destroyed fourteen centres for magical experimentation, it had been decided that moving such a facility away and surrounding it with a good deal of open space was a wise step in assuring the ongoing future of the school.
Aubrey had trod this path many times before, so his feet took him automatically through the darkness and the wind. It gave him time to think as he pressed on through the avenue of elms and past the broad sweep of lawn that led to the caretakers' barracks. The wind was coming from his right and he had to lean to one side to counter it. He screwed up his eyes as a blast of sand flew from the mound near where builders were constructing an extension to the music wing. The music wing was dark and silent and Aubrey wondered idly where George was practising his cornet.
His thoughts turned to rehearsing some of the more difficult parts of the spell he was about to cast. Much of it was in language unfamiliar to him, but there lay its potential.
Language was at the heart of magical manipulation. Baron Verulam had established that language was part of the vital talent that enabled magicians to bend magic to their will. The trappings of spells since the dawn of time – incense, hand-waving, ingredients rare and often distasteful – were simply not essential. Sometimes they could be used as props to help focus the magical force, but that was all. Language was the key.
Magical energy was so powerful, so wild, that every spell had to be organised in m
eticulous detail, with every element in the spell naming and limiting the variables and constants involved. There was no room for inaccuracy, ambivalence or ambiguity. Precision was the paramount quality of each spell, and magicians shared this painstaking approach with watchmakers, accountants and tightrope walkers; only the last had the same awareness of the perils of not achieving perfection.
Aubrey knew that much magical language used today was the descendant of spells that had been used from the earliest days of shamans and hedge wizards, a language quite unlike the language of everyday communication. It had grown into an argot, a jargon special to spells, and it had been augmented by every language imaginable, especially any with pretensions to learning. Latin and Greek elements were common in the language of spells, and experimentation threw up other possibilities as well. Magical language was an unruly beast with a thousand fathers and a thousand mothers, none of whom would recognise their offspring. The result was a language that tended to be inexact.
This had always irked Aubrey. He was dissatisfied with every scheme to reform magical language. None had the clean, systematic structure that he dreamed of. He saw the construction of a universal language for magic as the true culmination of Baron Verulam's Magical Revolution, when spells would be clear and consistent at all times.
The wind shifted slightly and, as if sensing Aubrey's slight imbalance, buffeted him anew. He staggered and turned his head in time to see certain death hurtling towards him.
It was a large plank, six feet long at least. The wind had picked it up from the building site near the music wing and it was tumbling towards him. He had time to straighten and it speared past his nose, whistling as it went.
Aubrey was counting his good fortune when a crash came from the Magic Laboratories ahead. He sprinted as best he could through the wind and arrived to see that the plank had crashed through the large, expensive and famously ugly leadlight window above the front door. It had been donated forty years ago by the large, wealthy and famously tasteless Lord Wallington, who'd made a fortune in soap by selling it by the ton while not using it himself. The plank jutted from the remains of the window like an arrow in the eye of a king.
Aubrey surveyed the damage and decided he was better off well away from the Magic Laboratories tonight. Not that he'd be accused of anything, he assured himself as he slipped into the darkness. It was just that he'd made a number of disparaging remarks about the window and had often mused about the best way to rid the school of it.
He struggled against the wind and made his way to dark and silent Clough Hall, the oldest part of the school. It was a gaunt Gothic monstrosity, a collection of towers, steeples and pointed arches. Its upper reaches were the home of thousands of pigeons in a state of constant warfare with the groundskeepers, one division of which had the sole job of trying to keep the dark slate roof as free of white streaks as possible. It was a futile task.
Clough Hall was used as the assembly hall for the school. Its main hall was filled with wooden seats legendary for their hardness, despite centuries of being smoothed by the rear ends of schoolboys. A gallery looked over the ranks of seats, but it was strictly OUT OF BOUNDS to students. It was for the use of parents and dignitaries, once or twice a year, to endure prizegiving or the school play.
Aubrey was seriously keen about the stage. Ever since he'd been at Stonelea he'd been part of the school productions, playing everything from a tree stump to a murderous librarian. He'd worked backstage, helping to paint backdrops and haul sets. He'd swept, cleaned, prompted, sewn and applied makeup. He'd fumbled lines, gone blank and tripped on props. He'd made entrances, sung in the chorus and revelled in applause – something he adored.
In this, his final year at Stonelea, he was looking forward to The Barrister's Lament, a chance for a grand finale to the acclamation of parents, staff and students.
Aubrey found a door at the rear of the building and slipped into the crowded space behind the stage. It was full of canvas, rope and timber, the remains of productions from years gone past. He conjured up a small glow globe with a spell he'd perfected through repetition. It used an application of the Law of Aspiration, and Aubrey's clipped, careful syllables conjured an orb the size of his hand. It floated at his gesture and cast a soft, golden light on a rolled-up backdrop. He recognised the storm-tossed sea from Sailors of the King, which was used again in The Adventures of Sir Augustus Frog before making a surprise appearance as a dream backdrop in A Night of Memories. Aubrey shuddered when he remembered how his part in that play required him to sing a duet with Mrs De Winter, the sweet-voiced but vast wife of the Geography Master. George had later remarked that he was afraid that Aubrey was going to be eaten, so wide did Mrs DeWinter open her mouth when straining for the high notes.
Aubrey started to make his way to one of the small rooms off the main hall. He'd used it for some of his experiments before and it was private enough – and solid enough – for his purposes. But he paused. Was that a sound? With a word, he extinguished the glow globe. Carefully, he felt his way past boxes of costume remnants and trunks of wigs, scarves and other accoutrements, making his way to where he'd heard the sound. Probably some third-formers having a secret feast, he thought and decided it was his duty as a sixth-former to throw a decent scare into them, as it would be theirs when they were sixth-formers. It was traditions such as this, Aubrey reflected with a grin, that made Albion great.
Judging from the crashes and stifled oaths, the intruder wasn't entirely familiar with the cluttered confines. And it wasn't one of the more magically talented boys, either, or else he wouldn't be blundering around in the dark.
Light flared. Aubrey stood back behind a tattered fishing net as the intruder held a match high and peered around. Aubrey smothered a laugh as the match burned quickly and singed the intruder's fingers, followed by more oaths – less stifled this time. He summoned his glow globe again. 'Stay there, George,' he called. 'You're right next to the throne of the fairy queen from Aurelia. Topple that on top of you and you'll regret it.'
Aubrey clambered over to join his friend, who looked as if he'd been on his way to visit the King, discovered he was wearing someone else's trousers and it was now too late to do anything about it. 'Ah, Aubrey. You're here too.'
Aubrey shrugged. 'I was about to try a few things.'
'I take it these would be unauthorised magical experiments?'
'Only if you were being picky.'
'I see. I'd expect as much, finding you skulking around Clough Hall in the dark like this.'
Aubrey raised an eyebrow. 'Skulking? And how would you describe your movements?'
George looked around at the tangled, jumbled, cluttered space that surrounded them. 'Boyd says his sister is coming to visit next weekend. I thought I might take her on a tour of the school.'
'Boyd? Fifth form? Tall, dark hair, good painter and –'
'Extremely ugly. Yes, that's him. Nice chap.'
'And you want to show his sister around the school?'
'It's amazing,' George enthused, 'how heredity works. Boyd is grotesque – hideous, really – but his sister is heart-stoppingly attractive. Red hair, freckles, quite lovely.'
'I thought you were more interested in country girls, husky milkmaids, that sort of type.'
George drew himself up. 'I may be from the country, Aubrey, and I may have done my best to uphold the traditions of country friendliness and hospitality among the female folk in our district, but I'll have you know that I'm an admirer of all members of the opposite sex. Bless them all.' He grinned. 'And bless Boyd for bringing his sister next weekend.'
Aubrey grinned in response. George was incorrigible. He enjoyed the company of females with a fervour that was only matched by the enthusiasm they had for him. The life he'd led on the Doyle farm had given him an aura of extraordinary good health and vigour that they found highly attractive.
Aubrey admired him. 'Good luck, George. Don't let me keep you from your scouting expedition.'
George thrust
his hands in his pockets. 'I don't think I'll bring her here, though. Too dusty.' He squinted at Aubrey. 'So you're about to do some experimenting?'
Aubrey patted his satchel. 'I could be onto something.'
'Dangerous?'
'Perhaps.'
'I'd better come and keep an eye on you, then. Besides, I might learn something.'
'George, you're probably the least magical person I know. I think the school dog has a better chance of learning magic than you do.'
'Probably. Let's just say I'm interested. Which way?'
Aubrey's destination had once been a small office, longer than it was wide. It opened from the entrance vestibule at what was now the rear of the main hall. Its walls were solid stone, while its slanted ceiling was a good eighteen feet overhead. One small window, with diamond-shaped panes of glass, opened onto the night sky but Aubrey pulled heavy, blue velvet curtains across it, turned on the electric light, and dismissed his glow globe. The floor was parquetry, but most of it was covered with a worn rug of vaguely Eastern design. The only furniture was a rectangular table made of dark wood, with four mismatched chairs around it.
'Make yourself useful, George. We have to move the table and chairs out of the way. Then the rug.'
George grumbled, but soon the floor was clear. Aubrey studied it with a scowl. 'I really should be tidier,' he muttered.
'That awful scrawling? Looks as if someone gave a baby a packet of chalk.'
'It's the remains of the last focusing figure I drew here. I should have erased it better. I can't leave it as it is – it will interfere with the new one I need to draw.'
Focusing figures were the refinement of the pentacles and mystical symbols from the dark days of magic. They were a diagrammatic representation of some aspects of the spell being cast – mostly the restraining and limiting factors. They tended to be combinations of geometrical shapes, and Aubrey found the clarity and precision of their drawing aided his concentration.
Blaze of Glory Page 2
