Blaze of Glory

by Michael Pryor

  Aubrey stiffened, then gave a faint smile. 'Father, a full report may take some time.'

  The window of the motorcar slid down. Aubrey's mother smiled at him with an air of amused tolerance. 'Aubrey. Sorry to arrive like this. I realise how embarrassing it must be to be rescued by your parents. I wanted to wait for you to get home by yourself, but Darius wouldn't hear of it.'

  Sir Darius brushed his moustache with his forefinger. 'I thought I might be able to be of assistance.' He signed to the driver. 'Stubbs, wait here.'

  Stubbs was an older man, grey-haired but with the impeccable posture that was a legacy of his time in the army. He'd had been a corporal serving under Sir Darius and had followed him once he left the military.

  Sir Darius strolled off. Aubrey and George fell in alongside him. 'A friend let us know what had happened,' Sir Darius said.

  'A friend?' Aubrey said. 'Let me see, which one of your old political allies would that be?'

  Sir Darius let that remark go by. 'Bertie isn't harmed, is he? My reports were a little vague on that score.'

  'Not a scratch,' George volunteered. 'Thanks to Aubrey.'

  'Ah,' Sir Darius said. He looked at Aubrey. 'I see.'

  Aubrey looked for any sign of approval on his father's face, but saw only careful consideration. He stifled a sigh of disappointment. After all, he thought, we have a major diplomatic incident on our hands. Even if I did save Bertie, it's the sort of mess Sir Darius Fitzwilliam would never have allowed to happen.

  Lady Fitzwilliam joined them. She took Aubrey's arm and then George's. 'Come, you fine gentlemen. I think there's a long story needing to be told. Do you think you can find a parlour in this great barn of a place? One that's a little private but near enough to food and drink?'

  'I'm sure we can,' George said, enjoying both having Lady Fitzwilliam on his arm and the prospect of food. Aubrey nodded, but didn't say a word. He allowed his mother to whisk them off.

  The day room they found was near the library. The chairs were upholstered in green velvet, and green velvet wallpaper covered the walls. A pair of framed lithographs hung over the mantelpiece of a fireplace that Aubrey thought was entirely too large for the tiny room.

  Aubrey reported. He did his best to keep it concise, in military fashion. While he spoke, he watched his parents closely.

  Sir Darius's face was grave when Aubrey had finished. 'I see,' he said. He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. His brow was furrowed.

  'You're both well?' Lady Fitzwilliam asked.

  'Just a sore shoulder,' Aubrey said.

  Sir Darius snorted. 'You need to seat the gun more firmly, nestled right into your shoulder. Didn't you tell him that, George?'

  'I did. He must have forgotten it in the heat of the moment.'

  'Yes.' Sir Darius studied his son. 'Quite a moment it was, too.'

  They were interrupted by Sir William looming in the doorway. 'Lady Fitzwilliam. Sir Darius. His Royal Highness would like to speak with you.'

  'And the boys?' Lady Fitzwilliam asked.

  Sir William frowned. Aubrey guessed Sir William would rather see him in a cage. 'I believe they may accompany us.'

  They were taken to a day room on the first floor. It had a glorious view out over the gardens, but Prince Albert wasn't looking out of the window. He was standing near the piano, speaking with the tall, gaunt Magisterium representative Aubrey had seen earlier when questioned by Captain Tallis.

  Sir Darius bowed and Lady Fitzwilliam curtsied – a mere bob, but she had observed the courtesy with a knowing smile. 'Your Royal Highness,' they said, almost in unison.

  The Crown Prince smiled. 'Rose. Darius. It is good to see you. Sit, sit, we have much to discuss.' He gestured at Aubrey and George. 'And you two. Don't stand around. This concerns you as much as anybody.'

  'Your highness,' George mumbled. Aubrey simply nodded and took a seat.

  The Prince gestured towards the gaunt man. 'You know Craddock, don't you, Darius? Rose?'

  Aubrey blinked. This is the legendary Craddock? Here?

  Sir Darius nodded at him. It was a tiny nod, a mere inclination of his head. 'I was Prime Minister when Craddock was appointed head of the Magisterium.'

  Craddock gave a wintry smile. 'An appointment you opposed.'

  'Yes.' Sir Darius met Craddock's gaze with hard eyes. Aubrey had heard much in the tumultuous days following his father's resigning of the prime ministership. Something he'd never forgotten was that his father had suspicions about Craddock's part in his downfall. Apparently time had not lessened his concerns. 'Although how you know of the deliberations inside Cabinet baffles me.'

  Craddock made a slight, flipping motion with one hand. 'It was a long time ago.'

  Aubrey studied Craddock. He'd heard a hundred stories about the man. The mysterious head of the Magisterium, the man who had never had his photograph taken, who had no friends, no family, nothing to get in the way of his utter loyalty to the Crown. His ruthlessness was notorious, too. While the Magisterium was nominally an arm of the police, it acted as an independent body investigating magical misuse in the kingdom. Craddock, therefore, was an officer of the law, but rumours of the ways the Magisterium was willing to bend the law in pursuit of their aims were multitudinous.

  Mention of Craddock's name was often enough to make hardened criminals confess, something that the police had been known to use to good effect. The threat to take miscreants to the Magisterium headquarters in sprawling Darnleigh House often worked wonders.

  Prince Albert glanced at the man in black. 'Craddock isn't happy with what he's found here. The particular magic involved in the creation of the golem is something quite new.'

  Craddock took this as his cue. He lifted a long, thin hand. 'His Royal Highness is quite correct.' His voice sounded as if the edges had been smoothed away from it, leaving nothing distinctive at all. It was a voice of everyman and no man, utterly unmemorable. 'This was no ordinary golem. This creature did not register at all on the magical detection devices we'd planted in the woods surrounding the shooting ground.' For an instant, Aubrey thought he saw Craddock's eyes flick towards him. 'Perhaps they need adjusting.'

  'A stealthy creature,' Sir Darius said.

  'Indeed. The Magisterium is very interested in finding out more about it. And its maker.'

  'Of course,' Sir Darius said. He sat back in his chair, his expression neutral as he smoothed his moustache with his forefinger.

  'Go on, Craddock,' the Prince said.

  'There's little more to tell, your highness. The level of skill required to imbue a golem with marksmanship is extremely high. The planned self-destruction was also neat work.'

  'Darius,' the Prince said, 'this contretemps is frightfully inconvenient.'

  'Most contretemps are.'

  'The Holmland delegation were most indignant at the turn of events,' Prince Albert added.

  'Too indignant?'

  'Darius,' Lady Fitzwilliam said, 'are you implying that the Holmlanders are responsible for the attempt on Bertie's life?'

  'We're living in tangled times,' Sir Darius said. 'There are shifts and feints hiding behind blinds wrapped in mysteries. Are the Holmlanders responsible? I wouldn't discount the possibility.'

  'Just as long as you're not jumping to conclusions about Holmlanders,' Lady Fitzwilliam said. 'Fine people, excellent scientists.'

  The Prince looked amused. 'Rose, with our family connections, we surely can't be accused of bias against Holmland. Quite the contrary if you read some of the newspapers.'

  'Or listen to some of the gossip,' Sir Darius added.

  The Prince raised an eyebrow. 'Anything new around the traps, Darius?'

  Sir Darius raised an eyebrow. 'Apparently you're going to marry the Elektor's daughter, rule our two countries and declare war on the Tartars. Or else you're going to abdicate and run off with Lily Hartington, if she can get away from her commitments in the world of aviation.'

  The Prince seemed to consider this for a moment. '
The Elektor's daughter is how old?'

  'Forty-eight,' Lady Fitzwilliam said. 'She's an authority on freshwater molluscs. I correspond with her regularly.'

  'And this is what they're saying? Remarkable.'

  Aubrey was struck by how reserved Bertie was. Everything was considered, careful, conscious of his position. The times the Prince and he had spent playing games in the succession of palaces – hours of hide and seek, horses and tin soldiers, books and country rambles – seemed centuries ago. Bertie wasn't a playmate any more. He was the king in waiting.

  'Rumours,' Craddock said. 'Rumours, your highness. Vapour and fog.'

  Sir Darius sighed. 'You'll be able to mollify the Holmlanders, Bertie?'

  A smile quirked the Prince's lips. 'Well, this batch, anyway. Speaking their language goes a long way.'

  Prince Albert stood and everyone got to their feet. 'We wanted to speak to you, Darius and Rose, to let you know that Aubrey was heroic today.'

  'Of course,' Lady Fitzwilliam said. She smiled at her son. Sir Darius seemed to consider the matter.

  'And that we appreciate his actions. Of course, we can't let the public know about this. Otherwise, some sort of medal would be in order.'

  Craddock shook his head. 'Can't let news of this get out. The Crown Prince being shot at? Unthinkable.'

  'Once, perhaps,' Sir Darius said. 'Times have changed.'

  With that, they exchanged pleasantries and made to leave. Before they could go, the Prince coughed. 'Doyle. A moment.'

  Aubrey raised an eyebrow, but was chivvied outside by his mother.

  'What's that about?' he asked as the door closed.

  'None of your business,' his mother said. 'You can ask George later. If he's willing to tell you, you'll learn about it then.'

  Five minutes later, the door opened. George, looking dazed, was led out by Sir William.

  Sir William frowned. 'Best to get back to the city, I'd say.' He shook his head. 'What a fiasco.'

  The Oakleigh-Nash was waiting for them, all chrome and silver. Stubbs was polishing the sparkling headlights with a rag that disappeared when he saw them.

  Aubrey was bursting with impatience, but he waited until they'd all settled in the motorcar and it had pulled away from the house before asking. 'Well, George? What did Bertie say?'

  George blinked. 'Bertie? The Prince?'

  'Of course! What did he want with you?'

  George reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out an envelope. It bore the Prince's personal seal. George held it as if it were made of solid gold. 'He said I'd done a good job this afternoon, helping you. He said he appreciated it and would send a letter to my parents saying as much. This is a copy.'

  Aubrey sat back on the long leather seat. 'Good for you.'

  Lady Fitzwilliam leaned over and patted George on the arm. 'Well done, George.' She looked at her son. 'And well done to you, too, Aubrey. Saving the Crown Prince? Quite a feat.' She turned and nodded at her husband. 'Wouldn't you say, Darius?'

  Sir Darius considered this. 'Well done, Aubrey,' he finally said. 'In difficult circumstances.'

  'Thank you, sir. I did what I could.'

  'My letter made it plain that you were representing me,' Sir Darius said. 'You did what you had to do.'

  'The letter. Yes.' Aubrey felt his actions had earned him enough to ask something that had been niggling at him. 'If you don't mind, Father, why didn't you ask me in person rather than writing?'

  Sir Darius started. 'Why, the matter came up after you'd left Maidstone. Otherwise I would have, naturally.'

  Aubrey felt foolish. Where his father was concerned, he often found slights where none were intended. He wondered if he were overly sensitive about these matters and decided that in all likelihood he was – but only because it was important to him.

  Aubrey had always thought that George had an exquisite, if erratic, gift for timing. On this occasion, he rose to the challenge beautifully. 'Is anyone reading this?' his friend asked, picking up a newspaper from the seat and unfolding it. 'Look, Aubrey, Dr Tremaine's passing is on the front page.'

  Aubrey glanced at the large headlines. 'Well, he was the Sorcerer Royal.'

  'Tributes, too, from all sorts of people. Even the PM.'

  Sir Darius made a noise at that. It was meant to be ignored, and Aubrey did so. 'He was a great man.'

  George folded the paper back. From the way he settled with an expression of great satisfaction, Aubrey knew he'd found his agony columns.

  After some time, the drone of rubber tyres on macadam was hypnotic. Aubrey found it hard not to fall asleep in the fading light. His mother had already succumbed and his father was staring out of the window.

  George grunted, and Aubrey glanced at him. 'Find something amusing, George?'

  His friend held up the newspaper and pointed at an advertisement in a page full of tiny type. 'I feel sorry for the compositor who'll get roasted for this. It's just gibberish.'

  'Some day you'll realise that there are more important things in the world than the agony columns.' Aubrey looked more closely. 'Well.'

  'Someone must have fallen asleep while they were laying out the type. And while they were editing, too. Quite a cock-up.'

  'George, do you know what we have here?'

  'Rubbish, I would have said. But look at that one next to it. "Lost: one wooden leg." How'd you think that happened?'

  'George, your gibberish advertisement is a cipher.'

  'A cipher? Really?'

  'You told me that people in these advertisements often used shorthand or subterfuge to hide their true intentions.'

  'As in this one: "Meet me at St Giles' at noon. Bring your hat." St Giles' could mean St Alban's or St Catherine's.'

  'Or it mightn't even be a church. It could stand for a bridge or a theatre.'

  George tapped the paper. 'Noon could mean two o'clock.'

  'The correspondents would simply have agreed that whatever time appeared in the advertisement would be two hours behind the real meeting time. Or three hours, or ten.'

  'A hat could mean an agreed sum of money.'

  'Or anyone of a thousand other things. "Bring your dog"?' Aubrey hummed a little. 'As long as the writer and the reader have agreed beforehand, the correspondence is completely opaque to the outside world.'

  'And this gibberish?'

  'It's the difference between a code and a cipher,' Aubrey said. 'A code is a secret communication where a word or phrase is replaced with a word, or a symbol or a number. A cipher is much more elegant and more flexible. A cipher replaces letters rather than words.'

  'Hmm. Someone must have an important secret they want kept private.'

  'Or simply something embarrassing. It seems like a commonsense approach to me.'

  George stared at the string of letters. 'Very clever.'

  'Mildly clever,' Aubrey disagreed. He sat back and crossed his arms on his chest. 'All ciphers can be broken, with enough time and effort.'

  'You could solve this?'

  Aubrey closed his eyes. 'I've done some work with ciphers in the past. It's diverting.'

  'I see. This looks like a tricky one, doesn't it?' George tore out the cryptic advertisement and dangled it in front of Aubrey.

  Aubrey opened one eye. 'Are you trying to challenge me, George?'

  'What do you think?'

  He took it. 'Let me consider it. It will be a pleasant change from thinking about the events of today.'

  And the mysterious master of the golem, Aubrey thought as George went back to the paper. He gazed out of the window at the countryside speeding by. While evening was falling, and all good things were beginning to drowse, somewhere out there was a powerful, elusive adversary.

  He turned away from the window and began to consider George's cipher.

  Ten

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK AT STONELEA SCHOOL WAS THE last before the mid-year break. As was their usual arrangement, George was going to stay with the Fitzwilliams for the first part of the mid-year hol
idays, but Aubrey saw little of him in that hectic final week of term. George was busy with cornet practice for the mid-year concert, and study, for once, had also kept his head down.

  Aubrey was again in the thick of everything, trying to devote his energies to a thousand different commitments. He found himself rehearsing lines for his part as the defence barrister in the school play while trying to memorise formulae for his Advanced Magic exam at the same time as he was practising his googly in the nets with the First XI. On top of this, his batting had dropped off and he had to spend some hours refining his late cut.

  Aubrey had always been at the top of his class. It wasn't simply because of native intelligence, but because he approached his studies in a rigorously organised way, almost as if study was a military campaign. He mapped out his work, broke subjects down into sections and segments, organised his attack on each one, took notes that were concise but included everything important.

  Cricket was different. While he had natural wiry strength and quickness, he knew he wasn't the world's most gifted athlete. So he watched and studied sports, choosing things that would yield to his intellectual approach. In cricket, that was leg spin. The art appealed to him as a combination of guile and misdirection. The complex variety of deliveries was perfect for the way he approached the world in general.

  Acting was something he found relaxing. With his good memory, he had no trouble remembering lines and he wasn't at all afraid of the limelight. In fact, walking out on stage allowed him to be someone else for a time – someone who wasn't Sir Darius Fitzwilliam's son.

  The teachers and the boys at the school saw Aubrey involved in all these things and wondered how he managed to keep up such a high standard. What they didn't see was the extra burden of struggling to stay alive.

  During that last week of term, Aubrey felt the strain. He forced himself to rest, to spend time attending to the needs of his body. Where once he would simply have driven himself to achieve, going without sleep if required, he now imposed a regime of relaxation periods to ensure his physical integrity. With care, he spent evenings researching arcane texts for possible approaches to a permanent solution to his plight.