Blaze of Glory

by Michael Pryor

  'You too, Aubrey. Don't let the ladies keep you.'

  Aubrey nodded and took a chair. The instant he had, servants brought soup.

  Lady Fitzwilliam wouldn't be diverted. 'I hope this has convinced you that the army isn't for you, Aubrey.' Her gaze was direct, not allowing him to escape.

  'Of course he hasn't,' flared Duchess Maria. 'Every Fitzwilliam goes into the army.'

  'And many's the Fitzwilliam who regretted it,' Sir Darius murmured. 'If they had the chance to. As the Scholar Tan said: "Warriors are often chosen, sometimes made, but seldom remembered."' Every eye at the table was on him. He lifted his head. 'My, this soup is good.'

  Aubrey looked down. He realised it was pumpkin and that he'd eaten half the bowl. He hadn't tasted it, which was fortunate as he hated pumpkin soup.

  Lady Fitzwilliam picked up her spoon and attacked the bowl much as she took to her specimens at the museum. 'George,' she said, 'you were there, weren't you? Tell us what happened.'

  George froze in the middle of buttering a roll. 'Tell you what happened?' he repeated.

  'I don't think so,' said Sir Darius. He wiped his lips with a napkin and glanced at Aubrey, then George. 'Hardly fair to expect a brother-in-arms to report on another. Loyalty, you know. Camaraderie, the spirit of the regiment, that sort of thing.'

  Neither Lady Fitzwilliam nor Duchess Maria looked happy at that. 'Ridiculous,' Lady Fitzwilliam said and attacked her soup again.

  'Splendid soup,' George said into the silence. 'Much better than anything we get at Stonelea. Potato and leek, isn't it?'

  'It's pumpkin, George,' murmured Aubrey.

  'Ah.'

  'School food is meant to be bad,' Sir Darius said, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. 'It means you'll be grateful for the comforts of home.'

  So the rest of the evening went. Nothing more was discussed of Aubrey's failure, nor of his future. Lady Fitzwilliam and Duchess Maria were polite as they asked after school affairs, George's musical studies and his family. Sir Darius regaled them with gossip from parliament. Aubrey noted how George looked shocked at some of this, and he chaffed him. George tried to explain that he wasn't accustomed to knowing so much about the great figures of the day, but they would have none of that.

  'Sweet, innocent George,' Lady Fitzwilliam said, smiling and touching him on the arm. 'May we always have plenty of sweet, innocent Georges.'

  Much to Aubrey's amusement, George blushed mightily and tried to hide it under his napkin.

  It was when an immense coconut, strawberry and cream pudding had been placed in front of them that Duchess Maria directed a fierce gaze at Sir Darius. 'Now. How are you going to win this election, Darius? You've been out of power for too long. Look how the Royalists are ruining the country!'

  Sir Darius looked pained. 'Mother, I don't want to discuss this at the moment.'

  Aubrey wanted him to. He wanted to know how his father was going to combat the Prime Minister's sublime scheduling of the election. The traditional King's Birthday procession, with the King and the PM in the great golden open carriage, would be winding its way from the Palace, over the Old Bridge and the other six great bridges and through the heart of the city. It was one of the few public roles that the King had insisted on maintaining and that the Crown Prince had been unable to distract him from by adding another exotic beast to the burgeoning royal menagerie. The parade was vastly popular, hundreds of thousands of people lining the route and cheering. What a start to the Royalists' campaign, as long as the King didn't do anything bizarre.

  What were the Progressives going to do?

  'I wasn't happy when you renounced your title,' Duchess Maria went on. 'But if you're going to keep up this ridiculous pastime of being in the Lower House, then at least you should be at the forefront again.'

  Aubrey leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word. Since Sir Darius had lost the position of Prime Minister and been expelled from the Royalist Party, he'd been doing his best to consolidate the Progressive Party, the new party he had founded. The difficulty was that the Progressives were a disparate lot, with many different needs, desires and motivations. Making sure that they were all pulling in the one direction was a gargantuan task.

  'We face a difficult election,' Sir Darius said.

  'If the Royalists win,' Duchess Maria said, 'you'll be condemned to the Opposition benches for years. I couldn't imagine anything worse.'

  'What about the war we're about to have with Holmland? Surely that would be worse,' Aubrey put in, before he realised it. Did I actually say that aloud? he thought and he chased a strawberry around his bowl.

  All faces turned to him. Duchess Maria looked shocked, as if a dog had spoken up. A smile hovered on Lady Fitzwilliam's mouth and she covered it with one hand.

  Sir Darius put an elbow on the table and rested his chin on a fist. 'War?'

  'It may not be inevitable, but it is more than likely. This is why we should be preparing.' Aubrey stared at the strawberry on his spoon for a moment then looked at his father. 'Isn't that what you said in your letter to The Argus?'

  'And faced a good deal of heat in the party room for it. Some of us aren't sure what we think about Holmland.'

  'Surely they can see what's happening on the continent?'

  'Some of them don't even see the trouble that rabble-rousers like the Army of New Albion and the Reformists are stirring up. I'm not saying that they don't have some genuine grievances about the state of the country, but their methods . . .' He made a face and picked up his spoon. 'Good strawberries?'

  'I won't know until I taste them,' Aubrey said.

  Duchess Maria made a noise of disgust. She dabbed at her mouth and rose from the table. 'If you'll excuse me.'

  After she had gone, Sir Darius shook his head. 'That woman can gently close a door louder than a thousand cannon.'

  'She's anxious, Darius,' Lady Fitzwilliam said. 'She's seen so much before.'

  'Upper House politics?' Sir Darius snorted. 'Any place where entry is based on your owning a title becomes party games for the rich and idle. The Lower House is where government happens, where decisions are made. The Upper House members just glance at the bills and approve them, those who are awake. I don't know how Father put up with the Upper House.' Sir Darius looked at his son. 'And what do you think, Aubrey? What's the best way to win this election?'

  This was a typical Sir Darius challenge. Aubrey knew that he expected a reasoned answer. Wit was acceptable, but it had to have a backbone of rigour. 'Well, sir,' he began, 'it's a short campaign, and I'm not sure the party is totally united.'

  'True, true. Much to my chagrin.'

  Aubrey chose his words carefully. 'And the situation with Holmland makes things awkward, wouldn't you say?'

  Sir Darius sat back. 'Holmland is arming itself and growing stronger every day. I don't trust it, even though its Elektor is our King's cousin. I see ambition overriding any family loyalty. Strength, not words, is what the Holmlanders understand.'

  'Darius,' Lady Fitzwilliam said, 'you're making speeches again.'

  He grinned and suddenly looked years younger. 'I need the practice.'

  Later, as Aubrey and George walked back to school, George said, 'Your father knows how to inspire people. If he led, I'd follow him.'

  Aubrey didn't say anything for some time. Eventually, as they neared the school gates, he turned to George. 'His men always said that,' he said softly. 'Even the ones he later led to their deaths.'

  Five

  THE NEXT DAY WAS SUNDAY. AUBREY FELT THAT GOING to chapel might be good for his soul, or for his conscience, or both. He roused George, who would have preferred to sleep in.

  After the service, Aubrey shook hands with the minister on the stairs in front of the chapel. The minister fell into the short, round category of clergymen. Aubrey liked him because he was a practical, down-to-earth sort, whose sermons were short but had lingering effects. Aubrey often found himself thinking about them days after they were given.

 
; 'Thanks, Reverend,' he said. 'You put it all very clearly. To the church, magic is neither good nor evil – it's the user who turns it to good or evil ends. So it's a matter of free will again, correct?'

  The minister chuckled. 'Free will. That's what it's all about, young Fitzwilliam. The church has come a long way since the dark ages.'

  The sun was warm and golden. Aubrey stood with his cap in hand enjoying the moment as the masters and the other boys swarmed down the stairs and out into the day that stretched before them. The scent of the roses and lavender planted around the chapel came strongly to him and mingled with the smell of cut grass on the playing fields. One of the groundsmen was slowly working his way around the oval, marking the boundary with lime. High in the blue sky, an ornithopter flapped its way across the heavens, taking important people from one important place to another.

  Aubrey enjoyed Stonelea and its challenges, but the world was out there and, with his usual impatience, he wanted to tackle it. Finish this year – but then which of his ambitions was he to tackle first?

  'A beautiful day,' George said.

  Aubrey wrestled briefly with his impishness and lost. Making sure George was watching, he glanced at the cloudless blue sky. 'Thank you,' he said and strolled off, leaving George gaping.

  Aubrey had difficulty keeping the smile from his face as he ambled along the path towards the boarding house.

  George caught up. 'You're not fiddling with weather magic again, are you? Remember what happened last time?'

  Aubrey relented. He grinned. 'No-one's called you Gullible George for a while, have they?'

  George thrust his hands in his pockets, after a quick glance to see if any masters were watching. 'Dash it, Aubrey. There's no need for that sort of thing. I was simply concerned for you.'

  'Sorry, George. I don't know what got into me.' Aubrey paused. 'Going to this morning's lecture?'

  George looked longingly at the cricket oval. Half a dozen fourth-formers were doing some catching practice. 'I have to. The headmaster put me on the list for luncheon with our guest.'

  'You? With all of sixth form to choose from?'

  'Yes.' George put his hands in his pockets. 'Who's our guest lecturer this time?'

  'It's Dr Mordecai Tremaine. I'm looking forward to it.'

  'The Sorcerer Royal? Of course you are, magic and all that.'

  'Naturally. I hope I'll get the chance to ask Dr Tremaine a few questions.'

  CLOUGH HALL WAS ALMOST FULL WHEN AUBREY AND George arrived. The Sorcerer Royal's notoriety had attracted a larger attendance than usual.

  Ever since Aubrey had begun seriously studying magic, he'd admired Dr Tremaine. His copy of the definitive reference work – Tremaine on Magic – was battered and dog-eared through repeated readings.

  Dr Tremaine had risen from obscure beginnings to become a public figure after being appointed to the post of Sorcerer Royal by the King. His shadowy past had given rise to many stories. He often featured in the popular newspapers, which were attracted by his feats. What was known was that he'd fought in duels, both magical and physical, over matters of honour. His output of poetry was small, but highly praised. He was a champion fencer and rider. His singing voice was legendary, and he was constantly sought for roles on the stage, all of which he declined. It was rumoured he'd fought in foreign wars, always on the side of the insurgents, and that he swam four miles across the Sardanis Strait to rendezvous with one of his many lovers.

  Aubrey had also heard that Dr Tremaine had once been offered the throne of Baltravia but did not accept, much to the disappointment of all Baltravians, saying that the climate disagreed with him.

  Clough Hall was one of the showpieces of Stonelea School and was naturally where Dr Tremaine's address was to be held. With a soaring fan-vaulted ceiling, arches, pillars and stained-glass windows, it was undeniably impressive. Its great failing was that its acoustics were dreadful.

  In his early days at the school, Aubrey had sat on the hard wooden seats and struggled to hear headmasters and other speakers. For anyone beyond the first row of seats, speakers' voices became woolly, muffled and – further back – lost in muddy echoes.

  One of Aubrey's current duties was to adjust the recently installed equipment that was meant to solve this problem. The headmaster had chosen an expensive, newly developed magical amplification system instead of non-magical mechanical devices, as a sign of Stonelea's being at the forefront of all things. Aubrey approved of this, but when the system proved to be temperamental, he was given the task of the necessary periodic adjustment.

  Aubrey thought the theory of the system was good. Using spells that applied a reciprocal function of the Law of Attenuation, the company manufactured a number of brass horns that were magically linked. One horn was to be positioned on the lectern to capture the speaker's voice, the other horns were to be arranged around the hall and the speaker's voice would emerge clear and undistorted, to be heard by those assembled.

  But applying the Law of Attenuation was notoriously fiddly, and inverting it made things even more of a headache. The positioning of the outlet horns was important, and they tended to lose their connection with the capture horn with changes in temperature, fluctuations in light, numbers of people present, or even phases of the moon. Aubrey was given a manual with a range of maintenance spells and his role was to attend to the system and make sure all was well. Some of the spell elements used derivations of the Inorian language and Aubrey enjoyed the challenge.

  He'd been doubly careful before the Sorcerer Royal's lecture. It wouldn't do to have the foremost magician in the land let down by magical apparatus.

  Aubrey sat with George and the rest of the sixth form at the rear of the Assembly Hall. He could see the brass horns, situated on brackets high on the walls. Of course, the privilege of the sixth form in their last year at the school – to sit at the back of the hall and doze through the unintelligible announcements – had been ruined by the installation of the system. Aubrey had been offered bribes to make the horns fall out of synchronisation but, despite the temptation, he'd refused.

  Dr Tremaine stood at the lectern. He was a large man, with a build more like that of a wrestler than an academic. He wore his wavy hair to his shoulders, and parted in the middle. His eyes were very, very dark and Aubrey thought he looked liked a gypsy; he was sure Tremaine would have ladies swooning whenever he appeared. He wore a long frock coat and he carried a cane with a large baroque pearl as a knob, though Aubrey could see no reason for it, since Dr Tremaine didn't appear to limp at all.

  The lecture, which Dr Tremaine gave without using notes, was about his life in magic. Throughout, he used his deep, musical voice to charm the assembly and he paced across the stage with the energy of a tiger. He used anecdotes which were humorous and thrilling and he emphasised the challenge of dedicating oneself to the world of magic.

  Aubrey was struck by how Dr Tremaine ended his lecture. He stood, hands grasping the sides of the lectern, leaning slightly forward, sweeping his dark gaze across the boys, teeth bared in a fierce grin. 'We are standing on the brink of a great age,' he said after a long pause. 'Nations are striving against nations to redefine our globe. Our understanding of the fundamental nature of magic is being torn down and built up again. Science and technology are changing the way we live our lives. In front of me I see young men, lucky young men. You are embarking on a voyage that will take you into times that our grandparents could not imagine. Young as you are, you will see more of it than I, and I envy you for it.' He bowed. 'Thank you for your attention.'

  LUNCHEON WAS NOT IN THE DINING HALL WITH THE REST of the school. For special meals, the school opened the old Refectory.

  The stone walls of the Refectory had small windows, high up, which meant that artificial light had to be used even in the middle of the day. Proudly, the headmaster showed Dr Tremaine the magical lighting orbs that floated over the long table. 'More than three hundred years,' the headmaster said from his position at the head of the table, 'th
ose orbs have been shedding light uninterrupted.'

  'Remarkable,' Dr Tremaine announced after gazing around the chamber. He was seated in a high-backed chair at the headmaster's right, and had propped his pearl-headed cane by his side. Aubrey was on the headmaster's left, directly opposite Dr Tremaine, with George next to him. George sat glumly, running a thumbnail over the tablecloth.

  A dozen boys from the sixth form had been invited to the dinner. Most were from the Advanced Magic class, with a few others – like George – for variety. Aubrey's prime position was thanks to his excellence in magical studies.

  As the meal went on, the headmaster became increasingly nervous, watching Dr Tremaine dispatch vast amounts of the school's best wine. As far as Aubrey could judge, the Sorcerer Royal was not affected at all, apart from the gleam in his dark eyes becoming brighter.

  Dr Tremaine dominated conversation around him, telling story after story. But Aubrey noticed how he made sure to include everyone at the table, calling for responses and opinions from those at the far end of the table as well as nearby, pointing at boys with his cane and refusing to allow them to sit unengaged in the middle of the animated discussion he was conducting. He even managed to engage George by accurately guessing that George would rather be elsewhere and admitting that he enjoyed the outdoors more than being cloistered on such a fine day.

  After a particularly fine steamed pudding and custard, Dr Tremaine pushed his plate aside, put an elbow onto the table and dropped his chin into his hand. Hair fell over one eye as he jabbed at Aubrey with his cane. 'Fitzwilliam, you're Sir Darius's son, aren't you? And don't sigh or roll your eyes.'