Blaze of Glory

by Michael Pryor

  Three

  AUBREY AND GEORGE DIDN'T GO TO THE INFIRMARY after the debacle on the training ground. Aubrey refused. Even though George was dubious, they went back to their room.

  Boarding at Stonelea School was not Aubrey's idea. Nor his parents', really, even though his father had attended the school himself. It had simply been assumed, from Aubrey's earliest youth, and emphasised by Aubrey's grandmother, his father's mother. Duchess Maria had appointed herself the upholder of the Fitzwilliam family name. Despite the twin handicaps of not being born into the family and coming from overseas, her knowledge of the family tree was formidable. Since her husband, the Duke of Brayshire, had passed away, Duchess Maria oversaw the family traditions. In her eyes, this included boys attending Stonelea – and boarding there even though Maidstone, the family home, was only a short walk away. Since she was the fiercest old woman he'd ever known, Aubrey had never questioned her decision.

  Aubrey eased himself down on his bed and draped an arm across his eyes. 'Put a chair behind the door, would you, George? "Never disturb a wounded soldier", or so said the Scholar Tan.'

  No locks on the doors at Stonelea, so a chair under the doorknob was the best security available. Unless one used magic – and using magic for such trivial things was frowned on as a waste.

  George dropped Aubrey's pack on the floor. 'I'm sick of your Scholar Tan. He's always droning on about battles and tactics and retreats. It's so depressing.'

  'Have some respect. A thousand years ago he was a revered expert on the art of war.' Aubrey's head was throbbing. He heard the sounds of ball sports coming from the courtyard below and was glad when they were muffled by George closing the curtains.

  The physical test had been a shambles. Aubrey tried to relax, to rest and regather himself. Since the bungled experiment, he'd managed to find a few spells that eased his situation somewhat, but he still had to take more care of himself than he'd been accustomed to. He found it difficult to put on weight, regardless of how much he ate. His skin remained pale, even after time in the sun. The hold his soul had on his body was tenuous. Physical or emotional strain made it much harder to resist the call of the true death.

  So far, he'd been able to hide these things from others. Even from his mother and father.

  His motives for not telling his parents were clear to him. At least, he'd thought them through carefully and arranged them neatly, much in the way a barrister would organise a defence for a client before going to court. His aim was to avoid divulging his mistake by finding a solution for his condition before anyone found out.

  Being ashamed of what he'd done wasn't quite right. Being embarrassed was more accurate. As a dedicated perfectionist, getting something wrong on this scale was deeply mortifying.

  He was willing to admit there was more to it than that. A son who had managed to suspend himself between life and death through experimenting in forbidden magic would certainly be exploited by his father's political enemies. They would question Sir Darius's fitness for public office, with many a shake of their bewhiskered heads.

  Lastly, Aubrey was determined to clean up his own mess. It was a question of honour.

  With that in mind, he managed to slip into a troubled sleep.

  AUBREY RESTED, MARKING TWO HOURS BY THE TOLLING OF the clock over the library. Refreshed, he opened his eyes to see George slumped in the armchair asleep.

  Aubrey padded to his desk, his bare feet hardly making a sound. He took some books from the bookshelves over the desk and soon was lost in the world of arcane magical research.

  Evening was drawing in when Aubrey heard a grunt from George. He turned. 'Awake, I see. I thought I was the one who needed the rest.'

  George rubbed his eyes and yawned. 'Well, I was the only one who managed to carry a full kit back here.'

  Aubrey shrugged. 'Why should I carry all that gear when someone's willing to do it for me?'

  George snorted. He stood, opened the curtains and came to the desk. 'What on earth are you doing?'

  Aubrey held up his hand. Between his forefinger and thumb were clamped a piece of glass and a copper penny. 'Experimenting. Mr Ellwood was rambling on about the Law of Contiguity and I had a few ideas I wanted to follow up.'

  George snorted again. 'I'm glad I'm not taking Magic this year. Too taxing on the brain. I'll stick with Sport and Music.'

  Aubrey glanced at his friend. 'You don't know what contiguity is, do you?'

  George nodded and adopted an air of ancient wisdom. 'Of course I do. Contiguity. Closeness. Proximity.'

  Aubrey smiled. 'You continually surprise me, George. Yes, that's what contiguity means. With the right spells, a magician can invoke one of the variations of the Law of Contiguity.' Deftly, he separated the two items and held the coin in front of his eye. 'Look.'

  'Fascinating. A penny.'

  'I can see you, George.'

  George raised an eyebrow. 'You're looking through the penny?'

  'The Law of Contiguity, in action,' Aubrey said. He was pleased with himself. He hadn't been sure if his variations on an approach he'd read about in an obscure tome would work.

  'Ah,' George said. 'The coin and the glass were in contact. Close proximity.'

  'Contiguous. That's right. Go on.'

  'And so, magically, the coin has become a little like glass?'

  'Exactly!' Aubrey jumped to his feet and flung the curtains wide. 'It cuts both ways, of course.'

  He held up the fragment of glass. Through it, the light was decidedly coppery. George took it from his hand and stared at it. 'So, with some effort we can have transparent metals?'

  Aubrey threw his hands in the air. 'George, don't be so straightforward. If the Laws of Contiguity can be properly fathomed and codified, the possibilities are endless.'

  'Well, that's all very good.' George looked away.

  'Yes? You have something to say?'

  'Today's little spectacle on the Hummocks isn't going to impress your grandmother, is it?'

  Aubrey made a face. 'I'm not worried about her reaction.' It wasn't a lie. He didn't have to worry about her reaction. He knew what it would be.

  'You must be the only one in the entire country who isn't.'

  'I'm more concerned about my father.'

  'He won't say anything, will he?'

  'That's the problem,' Aubrey muttered. He glared at the window, not seeing the view of the ivy-covered library.

  Aubrey readily admitted – to himself – how difficult it was to be Sir Darius Fitzwilliam's son. His father being one of the most prominent men in the country, a war hero and former Prime Minister, meant that Aubrey had much to live up to. Everywhere he went he was faced with expectations and people who wanted to measure him against the great man.

  'You know how it is, George. I want to please him, but I end up disappointing him. Not that he'd say anything. It'd be the "Gallant try, Aubrey" speech.'

  'Awkward, that.'

  'Indeed.' Aubrey sprang out of the chair and grinned. 'And tonight you'll see just how awkward it is.'

  'Tonight?' George frowned.

  'When we have dinner at home at Maidstone. I have special leave from the school and I asked for one for you, too.'

  'Me? I can't go. I've got to study. I have cornet practice. I've got something else to do.'

  'Good food at our table, George,' Aubrey purred. 'Succulent beef, roast potatoes, green beans. Nothing overcooked, watery or cold.'

  George brightened. 'Pudding?'

  'Of course. Cook is superb at pudding. It'll probably either be bread and butter custard or jam roly-poly.'

  'When do we leave?'

  Four

  'HOW'S MY COLLAR?' GEORGE ASKED AUBREY AS THEY stood on the doorstep.

  'Perfect.'

  'The tie?'

  'Elegantly and firmly knotted.'

  'My hair?'

  'On top of your head, as it should be. Now, do you want me to produce a full-length mirror?'

  The walk from Stonelea School to Maidstone,
the Fitzwilliams' city residence, hadn't taken long. On such a pleasant summer's evening, many people were abroad. Courting couples were strolling arm in arm, oblivious of the passing parade. Families were walking with more purpose, mostly led by parents whose faces seemed to suggest that they knew the walk was a sound idea but that they'd rather be at home with a good book.

  Maidstone was the house where Aubrey had grown up, and where generations of Fitzwilliams had grown up. It was one in a long, curving row of elegant three-storey townhouses facing a small park in Fielding Cross. The park was dominated by an ancient willow tree which shaded a tiny pond. Aubrey had spent many hours there, sailing wooden yachts and studying tadpoles.

  The entire neighbourhood was clean, quiet and reeked of money.

  Wealth was in the discreet, but expensive, brass doorknockers. It was in the uniformed domestic staff who appeared at doors whenever they opened. It was in the curtains, the clothes of the passers-by, the prize-winning dogs being walked by anxious-looking kennel lads. It was in the smoothly gliding prams pushed by pretty young nannies.

  When growing up, Aubrey had taken some time to realise that the whole city wasn't like this. Small things, like the shabbiness of the visiting knife grinder and wondering where he came from, had aroused Aubrey's curiosity and sent him out of Fielding Cross and into the sprawling streets of the city.

  He'd discovered the vast Newbourne railway yards and the blunt engineers and navvies who worked there. He'd found the Narrows, Newpike and Royland Rise, each with their thriving communities so different from the gentility of Fielding Cross, and visited Little Pickling, Crozier, and even the Mire, despite its reputation.

  The city was a grubby, brawling conglomeration, and Aubrey loved it, but Fielding Cross remained home.

  The entrance of the Fitzwilliam residence was grand. A sandstone portico that would have done justice to a minor pagan god sheltered the door from the elements. The door itself was painted a glossy, dark blue. A bell pull on the wall didn't draw attention to itself, but was there for those who were brought up well enough to know what to look for.

  Aubrey took a deep breath, bracing himself. It was always tense, returning home. Sometimes it was like entering a battleground and he knew he had to have his wits about him.

  He reached out and rang the bell.

  'Ah! Master Aubrey! Master George!'

  The butler who answered the doorbell was tall, silver-haired and ruddy-cheeked. The fact that Aubrey had always thought he looked like a weary basset hound didn't detract from the affection Aubrey felt for him. 'Harris. Good to see you. Is he in?'

  'Not yet, young sir. Something has come up in Parliament. The PM's called an early election.'

  Aubrey whistled. 'An early election? Something must be afoot. When?'

  'He's called it for just after the King's birthday.'

  'Very clever. No doubt he hopes the goodwill from the King's Birthday procession will spill over to the election.' He shook his head. 'What about Mother? She's not at the museum, is she?'

  'No, sir. She's bathing. She said she stank of formaldehyde and needed a good long soak before dousing herself with Padparadsha.' Harris said this with an impassive face, as if he were reporting on the weather. He did not have a high opinion of Lady Fitzwilliam's choice of perfume.

  'Good. Good. George and I will be in the library.'

  Harris looked as if he were about to say something, but simply nodded. He shut the door behind them before disappearing into the cloakroom. Aubrey stared at Harris's receding form, wondering what it was that he had been about to say.

  When they entered the library, Aubrey found out what the butler's discretion had prevented him from mentioning.

  Aubrey's grandmother was in the library.

  Duchess Maria was sitting in a huge armchair, facing the door. The room smelled of old leather, cigar smoke and woollen carpet that's absorbed too much port and too many secrets.

  Duchess Maria was over eighty years old, but her face was smooth and unlined. She was tiny, almost lost in the leather immensity of the chair. Her silver hair was arranged under a black snood and she wore black lace gloves on her long, thin hands. Her eyes were bright and attentive. Aubrey knew, from past experience, that those eyes didn't miss anything.

  She didn't look surprised to see them, something Aubrey attributed to her legendary network of informers and spies. An image of Duchess Maria as a spider at the centre of a web stretching across the country and much of the world came to him and he shuddered.

  He bowed and kissed her hand. She smelled of violets. 'Aubrey. You're too thin.'

  She turned to George. George had learned enough to kiss the hand held out to him. 'George Doyle. It has been six months since I've seen you. You have grown.'

  In someone else it would have been a cliché. In Duchess Maria it was a careful observation. 'Yes ma'am. Five inches in the last year.'

  'Well done.' She turned her attention back to Aubrey. 'You didn't complete the training course today.'

  'No, I didn't,' Aubrey said. Then he waited.

  'I see. And you know that this will make it difficult for you to become an officer in the cadets?'

  'Yes.' Aubrey kept his answers brief and, he hoped, not open to misinterpretation.

  'You know that every Fitzwilliam male in the last two centuries has been a cadet officer at Stonelea School?'

  'Yes.'

  'So what do you have to say for yourself?'

  Aubrey looked mildly at his grandmother, knowing that anger was not a useful reaction where Duchess Maria was concerned. 'I'm allowed one more attempt. I'll make sure I complete the course.'

  Duchess Maria nodded. 'I see.' She turned back to George. Aubrey thought the smoothness of the action was like a swivel-mounted machine gun. 'Are you keeping up your cornet practice, George?'

  It was an hour before they escaped.

  'I feel as if I've just been over the Hummocks myself,' George said as he closed the library door behind them.

  'You see why I don't much mind living at the school?' Aubrey said. 'Let's go to the billiards room.'

  Aubrey enjoyed a contest. He always felt that he could make up for any lack of skill with a good grasp of tactics, strategy, and the weaknesses of his opponent. He had been playing against George in all manner of games since they were four years old, and despite George's easy co-ordination and strength, he usually managed to beat him.

  Aubrey was ahead by a few frames when Harris found them. 'Dinner, sirs.'

  Aubrey racked his cue. 'Lucky for you, George, that this table has just been relaid. I was just starting to get the feel of it.'

  George shrugged into his jacket. 'I'm sure. A few more decades and I would have been begging for mercy.'

  Aubrey laughed. 'Harris, are my parents seated?'

  'They are, Master Aubrey.'

  Aubrey sighed and his head drooped for an instant. Then he gathered himself. 'Tally-ho, then!'

  Gaslights shed yellow softness on the dark, polished wood that was the dining room. Wood panels, wooden floor, immense wooden sideboards and mirrors with heavy wooden frames filled the room, leaving space for the large oval table in the centre. Aubrey had eaten a thousand meals in this room and had always wondered how many trees had gone into the making of the Fitzwilliam dining room. A small forest or two, he was sure.

  Duchess Maria was motionless, while seated at either end of the table were his parents.

  He looked at his mother, Lady Fitzwilliam. Masses of dark blonde hair were flung over her shoulders, eyes the colour of summer sky at midday, a face that the greatest portraitists would fight to paint . . . Only her sun-tanned skin prevented her from being universally acclaimed the foremost beauty in the land in an age when white skin was the hallmark of those who didn't have to work in the sun and who – therefore – came from the leisured classes.

  Aubrey glanced at George. George's face was red and he wasn't looking at Lady Fitzwilliam. Anywhere else in the room, but not Lady Fitzwilliam. Aubrey knew t
hat George had always been totally devoted to his mother, and that she was the only female who unsettled him. Agog, enraptured, in love, George was all of these things. Aubrey was sure his mother knew it, and she tolerated it with warmth, never embarrassing George or revealing she knew of his infatuation.

  A discreet throat-clearing drew Aubrey's attention to the head of the table.

  Sir Darius Fitzwilliam was tall and slim. His centre-parted hair was beginning to grey, dramatically standing against the original blackness. Aubrey had often heard his father described as dashing but he'd always thought that if he grew a beard he'd look like a pirate, such was the glint in his eye.

  'Father,' he said. He kissed Lady Fitzwilliam on the cheek. 'Mother.'

  'Aubrey,' she said. 'Are you well?'

  'Of course he is, Rose,' snapped Duchess Maria. 'Can't you see?'

  'I'm not sure.' She put her hands on Aubrey's arms and turned him this way and that, allowing the light to fall on his face. 'You look pale.'

  'He always looks pale, Rose,' Duchess Maria said. A touch of acid lay on her response like frost on a well-kept lawn.

  'George, Aubrey, why don't you sit down?' Sir Darius said, amused. 'They could be at this for hours.'

  Aubrey admired his father's voice. He could understand why the man had been able to inspire loyalty in his troops, leading them into – and out of – certain death. He also knew why the government flinched every time Sir Darius stood up in parliament.

  'Thank you, sir,' George mumbled, taking his seat.

  'Your parents are well, George?' Sir Darius asked.

  'Mother's healthy as ever, sir. Dad's leg has been playing up, but he doesn't complain.'

  'He wouldn't,' Sir Darius said. 'He never did complain.'

  George's father had been Sir Darius's sergeant-major, saving his life in the Battle of Carshee – but losing his leg at the same time. Sir Darius had never forgotten, making sure that William Doyle received the best hospital treatment. After the war, Sir Darius had kept up the friendship and their sons had grown up together, Aubrey spending much time at the Doyles' farm. Aubrey knew that his father had sponsored and paid for George to attend Stonelea School, but only after much arguing with George's father. This was only one small part of Sir Darius's ongoing gratitude, but Aubrey also knew that such things were not spoken of. Loyalty, duty, honour were fundamental values, as important and as unnoticed as breathing. Debts were repaid, friendships maintained.