'Yes, sir.'
'I thought so. Tell me, Fitzwilliam, you're in sixth form, finishing up here at Stonelea, fine school as it is.' He grinned at the headmaster, who smiled back awkwardly, then he turned his intensity back to Aubrey. 'What's next? What are you planning for your life? I'm interested.'
Aubrey folded his napkin and smoothed it in front of him. 'Army and university. I'm not sure in what order.'
Dr Tremaine pursed his lips. 'And then?'
Aubrey wondered at his interest. Dr Tremaine had questioned others at the table about their plans, but there was something insistent about this attention. 'I'm not sure,' he said, and he spread his hands. 'Travel? Stay in the army? More study? I've plenty of time to decide.'
Aubrey wasn't sure why he didn't reveal his true ambitions. He'd been impressed by Dr Tremaine. His immense energy, his spirit, and his profound knowledge of things magical set him apart from most of those who chose magic as their life. While most magicians were retiring, studious types, Mordecai Tremaine swaggered through the world of magic as if it he was a pirate captain on the deck of his prized flagship.
Is that why I don't want to tell him that magic won't be my entire life? Aubrey thought. Is it that I don't want to disappoint him?
He felt Dr Tremaine's compelling gaze as he tried to frame a suitable response.
The headmaster coughed, and Dr Tremaine seemed to remember he was there. 'Headmaster! You do fine work here!' He swept his arm around the table. 'Your students! I drink to them!'
He raised his wine, drained it and studied the empty glass. 'Fine vintage, headmaster.'
'Yes, well . . .' The headmaster grasped for a conversational straw. 'Tell us, Dr Tremaine, what are you working on at the moment?'
Dr Tremaine sat back in his seat and placed his arms on the rests. 'Many things, headmaster, many things. Foremost is my work heading up a top secret research establishment. Some fascinating magical work going on there. Can't say much, though.'
'Of course,' the headmaster said.
Aubrey couldn't help himself. 'Defence-related, is it?'
Dr Tremaine narrowed his eyes. 'Why do you say that, Fitzwilliam?'
'Well, doing work for the army or the navy would be the quickest way to earn top secret status, especially with the way things are going on the continent, hints of war and such.' He paused, then plunged ahead. 'There are rumours of Holmland aggression in the Goltan states, and even that they've used new magically enhanced weapons.'
Dr Tremaine was silent for a while, then he grinned and slapped the armrest. 'Damn me, Fitzwilliam, I like the way your mind works!' He turned to the head of the table. 'Headmaster, let me know if he wants to study magic at university. I'll put in a good word for him.'
Aubrey smiled, but he didn't fail to notice that Dr Tremaine hadn't answered his question.
Dr Tremaine pounded a fist on the table, pushed back his chair and stood. 'Staggeringly good meal, headmaster!'
The headmaster rose and looked worried. 'You'll stay and talk to some of the boys?'
Dr Tremaine shook his head and picked up his cane. 'I'd love to, but I have a young lady I promised to meet at the theatre. Hopeless actress, but you can't have everything.'
The headmaster looked nonplussed, but Dr Tremaine saw the direction of Aubrey's gaze. 'You like my cane, do you, Fitzwilliam?'
Aubrey had actually been wondering how he'd look with a cane like that. It was a dashing accessory. 'Yes, sir.'
'Well, I'd love to give it to you as a reward for your stimulating company, but,' he held it up in both hands, at chest height, 'this is special. Damned nuisance, but special.'
'It's handsome, sir.'
Dr Tremaine rubbed the pearl head with a thumb and stared at it. 'My sister gave it to me. Just before she died, she made me promise that it would never leave my side. Like a fool, I agreed.'
'Is it magical, sir?'
Dr Tremaine's face was thoughtful and he didn't take his gaze away from the pearl. 'No, not unless you mean the ordinary magic of memory.' He sighed. 'Every time I look at it, I remember her.' He shook himself. 'Enough of that.' He seized the headmaster's hand. 'Goodbye, headmaster. Best of luck with the gout!'
After Dr Tremaine left, driving an outrageous open automobile, Aubrey and George strolled back to their rooms. A spindly figure appeared around the corner of the gymnasium and tottered towards them.
'I wonder what Addison wants?' Aubrey said.
Addison was by far the oldest porter at Stonelea School, being young when Aubrey's grandfather was at the school. It was rumoured he'd been in the place longer than many of the buildings.
Bandy-legged and bald as an egg, he hurried towards them. One outstretched hand held an envelope and he had a newspaper tucked under his arm. 'Master Fitzwilliam!' he called. 'Master Fitzwilliam! Letter for you!'
'On a Sunday?' George said. Aubrey shrugged and held out his hand.
It was obvious that the letter was important. The envelope was a heavy, cream paper and when Aubrey turned it over the blob of red sealing wax stood out. He scratched at it with a thumbnail and its greasy solidity spoke of someone with money, a sense of tradition and extremely good taste. Someone very familiar.
A very formal approach, Father, he thought, then he read the letter. When he had finished, he carefully folded it and placed it back in the envelope. He ran one finger along the length of the envelope, thinking. 'Thank you, Addison,' he said vaguely.
Addison tipped his cap. As he turned to go, he remembered what was under his arm. 'Your newspaper, Master Doyle.' He thrust it at George and hurried off.
Aubrey began walking towards the boarding house, thinking deeply. George fell into step beside him. As they walked past the cricket nets, he burst out, 'Dash it, Aubrey! Who's that letter from?'
Aubrey blinked. 'Sorry. I was miles away.' He stopped and rested against the fence. He looked down at the envelope he still held. 'It's from my father. It's his official stationery and seal. He wants me to do something for him.'
'Something official?'
'Yes.'
'And you're wondering why he didn't ask you last night.'
Aubrey glanced sharply at George. His friend's broad, friendly face frowned back at him. With his height, massive frame and sandy hair, George looked every inch a country bumpkin, but Aubrey knew his friend was no fool. People don't know how shrewd you are, do they? he thought.
'Am I that easy to read?' he laughed. He set off again, striding comfortably. He felt strong, eager and alive, ready to challenge the world.
'Well, it's obvious that's what you'd be thinking,' George persisted.
Aubrey stopped and turned. He thrust out his chest, drew in his chin and looked at George over imaginary spectacles. 'Obvious, Doyle?' he barked in his best imitation of the Advanced Magic master. 'Be so good as to share the obvious with us all!'
George laughed. 'One day, Mr Ellwood will catch you doing that, Aubrey, and you'll be suspended from his classes. Then you'll be sorry.'
'You cannot deny an artist his craft,' Aubrey said. 'When the impulse comes on me, the actor comes out.' He chuckled. 'But I'm still interested in why you think I was wondering about my father.'
'It's not difficult. When you look particularly thoughtful and sombre, it's usually your father you're thinking of.'
Aubrey let out a long sigh. 'You've known my family for too long.' He looked away. 'Perhaps he simply couldn't ask me face to face.'
'Of course he could. Whatever it is.'
'You know, this is the first time he's ever asked me to do something official like this. I've been impatient, but now it's come I'm feeling a little –'
'Anxious? Nervous? Petrified?'
Aubrey glanced sharply at George. 'Anxious will do, old man.'
He turned away and gazed over the oval. How do you live up to a man like Darius Fitzwilliam? he thought. It was hard enough for the men he commanded in the army. But for me, his only son?
He knew many people simply wouldn't try. Casti
ng such a bright light makes all others seem pale and insignificant. Better to turn away, not attempt the impossible. Achieving even some portion of his success would be a fine achievement. To others, though, having the bar set at such a dizzying height meant the challenge was greater.
Aubrey wasn't about to give up. His ambitions were very, very lofty.
'Well?' George said. 'Are you going to tell me what this mysterious task is?'
Aubrey considered for a moment. 'How's your aim?'
'My aim?'
'Shooting, George. A country boy like you should be a crack shot.'
'I do well enough.'
'Grand. You're doing nothing next weekend, I take it?'
'Aubrey, you know very well that I'm stuck at school every weekend during term time, home being so far away. What are you getting at?'
George's home may have been far away, but Aubrey had spent much time at the small farm in the weary old hills near Green River. George was an only child, and Mr and Mrs Doyle were always happy to have Aubrey visit – and it gave Mr Doyle and Sir Darius a chance to reminisce in the guarded, elusive way that old soldiers often have. Aubrey remembered lingering in the warm kitchen, amid the hunger-inducing smells of baking bread and spice cake, hoping to hear stories of the old regimental victories, but the two men tended to talk of comrades and their circumstances, Sir Darius usually providing most of the details.
'Bertie is hosting a shooting weekend at his estate and my father has been invited. Unfortunately, he's been called away, can't be there. He's asked me to deputise for him.'
'Bertie?'
'The Crown Prince, George. The heir to the throne of Albion. The oldest son of the King. My cousin. You know the one.'
'Ah. Prince Albert.'
George had never grown used to Aubrey's closeness to the Royal Family. Prince Albert was only a few years older than Aubrey and they'd spent much time together when younger.
Aubrey felt sorry for Bertie. He would have made an excellent banker or a businessman but instead he was destined to be a king. Fortunately, he had a strong sense of duty. He never complained and, in time, Aubrey had come to the conclusion that Bertie's sense of duty – and his thoughtfulness – would mean he'd work hard to become the best king he could.
And that should be very fine indeed, he thought.
'Think, George,' Aubrey continued, 'a relaxing weekend in the country. Plenty of good food, fine accommodation, interesting company . . .'
George grinned. 'A pity you're perfectly dreadful at shooting.'
Aubrey shrugged. 'I've had all the lessons. I'm adequate.'
'Adequate? I suppose it depends on what you mean. If you mean that you haven't actually shot yourself by accident, then by all means describe yourself as adequate.' George laced his fingers together and placed them on his chest. 'I'll come, then. I might be able to spare you some embarrassment.'
'I'm honoured.'
Aubrey's father shot, of course. And played golf off scratch, was an expert bridge player, a champion horseman and sailed in international ocean races. Any pursuit that important men indulged in, Sir Darius Fitzwilliam was a leading light.
And here Sir Darius was asking Aubrey, for the first time, to deputise for him.
Aubrey decided that the official request meant that this was too important for an informal approach. This was the Leader of the Opposition needing someone to stand in for him. Aubrey felt a momentary glow at the trust this implied, but it faded when he realised that it was also a challenge, as was Sir Darius's wont.
Deputise. A simple word, but it was full of meaning. Aubrey knew he was able to chat to Bertie well enough, but 'deputise' meant more than that.
He tapped the letter in his pocket. Why didn't he give me a list of duties? he thought, but he knew the answer. It was like the dinner table challenge of the night before. The test was how Aubrey responded to such a broad brief as 'deputise'.
Aubrey ran through some possibilities. Observe. Be discreet. Keep up the Fitzwilliam name. Be diplomatic. Report back.
They set off again. In the distance, past the hockey field, the cadet corps were drilling. Fragments of shouted commands drifted to Aubrey, sounding like the yipping of excited dogs.
'It's a special weekend, George,' he said as they mounted the stairs to their room. 'The Crown Prince has asked some Holmland diplomats along.'
George raised his eyebrows. 'So soon after the sinking of the Osprey? Won't that be a little . . . well, awkward?'
'That's one of the things the Crown Prince is good at, smoothing over awkwardness. Much better than the King, at the moment, anyway. The Elektor of Holmland has publicly apologised for sinking our cruiser, the Holmland navy has expressed regret and called it a tragic error. Our government is apparently taking them at their word and trying to patch things up.'
Aubrey was sure that the King had had something to do with the invitation. It was probably another of his efforts to show all Albion what splendid fellows the Holmlanders were. As they had to be, ruled by the King's cousin. The Elektor of Holmland was one of his many kin on the continent and the King couldn't bear to see disharmony between the two countries. His efforts were genuine – as were the headaches they caused the Crown Prince and the government.
With the messy situation on the continent, especially the constant strife between the nations on the Goltan Peninsula, Aubrey was not about to disagree with attempts to keep the peace. Although he wondered what the wives and children of the lost sailors from the Osprey would say.
'Prince Albert enjoys hunting?' George threw open the door. The help had made the beds and rearranged the mess so it looked almost habitable again.
'Lord no, he can't stand it.' Aubrey stood at his desk, pushing his hair back out of his eyes.
George sat in the comfortable chair and unfolded the newspaper. 'I must have missed something. Prince Albert hates hunting but he's holding a gala shooting weekend and inviting a horde of Holmlanders to come along?'
'Duty, George. It's all about duty. Host the Holmlanders. Show them what a decent lot we are really. Emphasise the family ties, too, with Bertie playing the expansive host with one and all.'
Aubrey pulled a book from the crowded shelf over the desk.
'This wouldn't have anything to do with the war?'
Aubrey raised an eyebrow. 'What makes you think that?'
'Well, with the way your father has been making noises . . .' George paused, then he nodded. 'Ah.'
Aubrey turned back to his book. 'You see why Sir Darius Fitzwilliam was invited to this shooting weekend? And you see why he has to send someone in his place so it won't seem like he's snubbing the whole affair, thereby insulting not only the heir to the throne but the Holmland delegation, thus adding to the tension between our two countries?'
'I see why you have to go. And what the deuce are you reading?'
'Tremaine on Magic.'
'I see. A racy little story?'
'I wanted to check something. I had a thought about a novel method of applying two disparate magical laws in a way that may have a useful effect.'
'Something to make the Snainton Prize even more securely yours? I can't imagine anyone else matching you for Dux of the school.'
'No. This is more to do with our engagement next weekend. I was thinking about a way to improve my aim.'
George snorted. 'Practice being out of the question.'
'No time for that, George.' He pointed at Tremaine on Magic. 'The Law of Animation is reasonably well established – how to give lifeless objects some vigour through a variation on the Law of Contiguity.'
'Walking broomsticks fetching water, that sort of thing.'
'Exactly.' Aubrey nodded. 'It's not foolproof, but the variables are fairly well worked out. I was thinking of the shot used in the cartridges. If I could apply the Law of Animation and find some way to guide them, the shot could compensate for my inadequate aiming.'
'Ingenious.'
Aubrey seized Tremaine on Magic and flipped through the
pages. 'Here it is: "The Law of Propensity – the tendency of objects towards certain actions. For example, most objects have a tendency to fall when dropped from a height."' He snapped the book shut. 'I think I can work this law so that the shot almost has a desire to go in the right direction, towards the target.'
George frowned for a moment. 'If you can perfect this, there may be many people who'd be interested in such a process.'
'Of course. Our friends in the army would love ammunition that wouldn't miss.'
'Smart bullets. Clever shells. Intelligent bombs.'
'Hmm.' Aubrey narrowed his eyes. 'If I can do this discreetly, no-one need ever know.'
George picked up the newspaper. 'Very discreetly.' He tapped the front page. 'Some Holmlander archduke or other is making rather colourful suggestions about your father and the policies he stands for.'
'Again?'
'You're not worried?'
Aubrey took another book from the bookshelf and sat at the desk. 'It wouldn't do much good if I were. Father won't stop making speeches, nor would I want him to.'
'You think he's right?'
'In standing up to bullies? Certainly. In bringing us closer to war? I'm not sure, but I'm not sure of the alternative, either.'
'Tricky thing, international relations.' George shook the newspaper. 'Let's bypass them and concentrate on something important.'
'The Personal Advertisements?'
'Precisely.'
'George, I've never understood your fascination with the agony columns.'
'I'm simply curious. Insight into other lives, glimpses of how strangers live, colourful details. Interesting stuff.'
'That's right. "Mr G. Brown will no longer be responsible for any debts incurred by his father as he is now dead." Profound, that.'
'What about "C.J. Send £10 at once. D.W."? Anything could be going on there. Blackmail, embezzlement, secret plans.'
'It's more likely that D.W. needs money and thinks C.J. is a soft touch.'
'Where's your imagination, old man?'
Aubrey chuckled and returned to his reading.
'What are you going to wear, Aubrey?' George said suddenly.
'To the shooting weekend? No idea.' Aubrey didn't look up from An Inquiry into Enchantments of Motion. He'd found some interesting approaches to the problem of changing momentum by spells that worked on variables of mass and velocity. 'But I'm sure Grandmother will have sorted that out. She'll probably get a trunk or two of clothes organised.'
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