Blaze of Glory

by Michael Pryor

  'It was all we could do, after your efforts.' She leaned forward. 'And how are you?'

  'Oh, well enough. A little tired, but that's to be expected after running into such powerful magic. Difficult stuff, that. Still, I think we managed quite well.'

  'Mmm.' She looked at Aubrey. 'You're babbling.'

  'Babbling?'

  'I'd say you're trying to cover up something.'

  True, Aubrey thought, but I usually do a better job than this. 'I'm not sure what you mean.'

  She pursed her lips. 'I see it a great deal. It tends to come from men, usually when they feel as if they're being questioned on matters they really don't want to discuss. It's when they don't want to be rude to the questioner, but they wish they'd go away.'

  'Ah. I was doing all that?'

  'Yes. I don't think it comes naturally to you, though. You probably picked it up from the masters at your school.'

  Aubrey grinned. 'Mr Grimsby, mathematics teacher. He's a very good babbler. He goes all red in the face, then if anyone laughs, out comes the cane.'

  'Violence is the last resort of the inarticulate,' Caroline said, frowning. 'But all this isn't really telling me what I want to know.'

  'About me?'

  'No. Not exactly.'

  'Oh, you want to know about my father, the great and famous Sir Darius Fitzwilliam? Do you know how many times people have accosted me about him? It gets tiresome.'

  'No, I don't want to know about your father. I want to know about your mother.'

  'My mother?'

  Caroline's eyes were bright. 'She's a wonder. Her work with the birds of paradise is a landmark. She has shaped modern taxonomy more than any single person alive. Her expeditions have broken new ground in natural history.'

  'Well, yes, there is that . . .' Aubrey groped for a witty or earnest contribution, but failed. 'She's very busy,' he finished lamely.

  'Busy? Lady Fitzwilliam has had to work twice as hard – three times as hard – as others in her field. Other men. She's been passed over for grants from the Royal Society and the Explorers Association. All her fieldwork has had to be paid for out of her own pocket.'

  Aubrey sat back in his chair. 'You're a Suffragette.'

  'Of course. What intelligent, reasonable person wouldn't be? Why shouldn't women have the vote?'

  Aubrey had never really considered anything else. With his mother as an example, he was confident that if women could contribute to government, Albion would be a better place.

  He did, however, have trouble with the more outrageous actions by the Women's Social and Political Union. Marches, hunger strikes, interrupting political meetings, generally agitating, seemed a messy way to get one's point across. Inefficient, somehow.

  Of course, looking at Caroline, he quickly decided that if one belonged to a part of society that had been systematically excluded from power, the only courses of action may be inefficient ones.

  'Aubrey?'

  'Sorry,' he said. 'I was just thinking. Women voting? Of course. They should have had the vote a long time ago.'

  'Well.' Caroline looked mollified, but she still regarded him with narrowed eyes. 'What have you done about it?'

  'What have I done about getting women the vote?' He blinked. 'Me, personally?'

  'And there lies the problem. I'm sure there are many well-meaning, reasonable males out there like you, Aubrey, who have never considered what they could do to right an age-old wrong.'

  'I'm sure.' This conversation had taken a turn in a direction Aubrey hadn't anticipated. It was disconcerting to be cast adrift like this. He tried to strike out in a new direction. 'What have you done with the notebook?'

  'I have it safe in my room. Father gave magical strongboxes to both mother and me, for our valuables. It's well protected.'

  'I don't doubt it.'

  Caroline studied him for a moment. 'Your parents should be here any moment. Mother rang them last night, and again this morning.'

  'I doubt they'll come,' Aubrey said. 'They're most likely to send a driver to fetch us.'

  'Surely not.'

  'They're both busy people.' He paused. 'Is that the door?'

  Aubrey's pessimistic prediction was correct. Mrs Hepworth stood at the front door talking with Stubbs, the driver, and George.

  'Thank you, Mrs Hepworth,' Aubrey said when she turned at the sound of their footsteps.

  'Ophelia, please. I've managed to get George to use my name, and insist that you do too.'

  Aubrey could see that her eyes were red. She noticed his regard. 'It will pass,' she said. 'The sorrow, the grieving. The loss, though, that's another thing.'

  She turned away. Caroline put an arm around her shoulders.

  Aubrey and George left.

  In the motorcar, Stubbs informed them that Sir Darius had been summoned to a hastily arranged meeting at the nearby Grover Hotel. Lady Fitzwilliam had taken the opportunity to visit someone at the university. 'Something to do with birds,' was Stubbs's summation of the purpose of this visit.

  The outcome was that, once back at the hotel, Aubrey and George had the rooms to themselves.

  Aubrey threw himself on the chaise longue and draped an arm over his face. 'I want to sleep for a century or two.' He lay there for a moment. 'It was a near thing last night.'

  'We'd still be trapped in that workshop if not for you.'

  'Not just that. I barely hung on, just before dawn.' Aubrey put both hands on his face. His voice became muffled. 'I could feel myself going. It was as if I were turning to smoke and being blown away.'

  'Perhaps it's time to seek help, old man.'

  'No,' he said sharply. 'This is my struggle. I'll manage it.'

  'No-one will think the less of you.'

  'No? Not even when I explain what caused this sorry state? How my own stupidity and bravado caused this? Imagine the glee with which Father's enemies would leap on such a thing.' He dropped his hands and looked at George. 'I'm afraid I'm on my own.'

  'I'll stand by you.'

  'I know. I appreciate it.'

  Embarrassed, George turned away. 'Rest. You need it.'

  Seventeen

  THE NEXT DAY, THEY WENT BACK TO THE CITY. AUBREY felt tired, but his condition seemed steady. George sat with his omnipresent newspaper, alternating between chuckling and tsk-tsking. Aubrey's parents were quiet as the motorcar rolled smoothly down the highway, which suited Aubrey. However, he couldn't help wondering at their silence. His father spent most of the journey staring out of the window and frowning. His mother seemed impatient, her hands never remaining still, tapping on the door or on her bag. With every halt, she clicked her tongue and looked through the window for the source of the delay.

  Aubrey rubbed his face with both hands and yawned. Tired, but not dangerously so. His brief contact with Professor Hepworth's notebook had prompted thoughts in new directions, and he had a burning desire to look more deeply into amalgamation as a possible solution, or even some sort of spiritual barrier to prevent the true death from taking him.

  Then there was the mystery of the death of Professor Hepworth and the attempt on the life of Prince Albert. Aubrey was convinced there was a link between them, and the presence of the deadly guardian in the professor's workshop added another element to the mix. Who put it there? Was it the same person who had sent the golem after Prince Albert? Or another player in this complex game?

  On top of this was the extraordinary confrontation between the Holmlanders and the unheard of collaboration between the Magisterium and the Special Services.

  Shadowy figures were at work, indistinct and ominous. Aubrey wished for a bright light to throw on them, to make them all stand out where he could see them.

  With so many things to think through, so many challenges in front of him, time was a precious commodity.

  So he fell asleep.

  They arrived at Maidstone after midnight. Aubrey woke as they glided through the gates, stayed awake until he entered his bedroom, then fell into a dreamless slumbe
r.

  THE NEXT MORNING, AUBREY OPENED HIS EYES AND GROPED for his pocket watch on the cluttered bedside table. It was just after eleven o'clock.

  He bathed. Then, as he brushed his hair, he looked in the mirror. Not too bad, he thought as he studied his reflection.

  His skin was pale, but no paler than usual. His eyes weren't dull, for which he was grateful. They did have dark circles under them, but that was the only evidence of strain that he could see.

  On the way out of his room, he saw his jacket, thrown across an armchair. He took the pamphlet he'd snatched from the Society for Non-magical Fitness out of the pocket, smoothed it out and stared at the crude lettering that accused his father of being a traitor.

  He wondered how it fitted in. He felt as if he were adding another thread to a tapestry where the overall design was hidden from him.

  Aubrey hurried down the stairs just in time to run into his father. Sir Darius stood inside the front door, handing his hat and cane to Harris, the butler.

  Sir Darius studied Aubrey for a moment, concern struggling with his customary reserve. 'You've slept late.'

  'Sorry, sir,' Aubrey said stiffly. He tugged at the bottom of his jacket and straightened his tie.

  'You're missing half the day, this way,' Sir Darius said. He turned to the butler. 'Harris, I need a light lunch as soon as possible. Once you've told cook, please make sure the library is arranged for a meeting. Five people.'

  'Yes, Sir Darius.' Harris hurried off.

  'Sir?' Aubrey said.

  'Yes?'

  'I have something you should know about.'

  He gave the battered pamphlet to his father.

  Sir Darius held it at arm's length between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were infectious. '"Darius Fitzwilliam, Traitor to Albion." Where did you get this?'

  Aubrey hesitated, then responded with caution. He avoided recounting the sortie to Professor Hepworth's workshop and concentrated on the battle at the Society for Non-magical Fitness. Throughout, Sir Darius remained silent.

  When Aubrey finished, he pointed at the pamphlet. 'You've seen it before, haven't you?'

  Sir Darius's mouth was set in a grim line. He folded the pamphlet in half. 'I've seen others like it. My reputation is under attack.'

  Red, green and blue light was pouring through the stained glass panels around the front door. Sir Darius was outlined against it. Aubrey could see strength in his face and the way he stood. But could such strength stand against attacks like these?

  'That's happened before,' Aubrey said.

  'Yes. It should get easier to bear, but it never does. When these times come, I always find that some I thought were friends disappear.' He smoothed his moustache.

  'They're not true friends, then.'

  Sir Darius nodded and smiled crookedly. 'They're political friends. Remember the Scholar Tan? "Political friends are enemies in waiting."'

  'But who do you think wrote this pamphlet? And why?'

  'Come now, Aubrey. I'm sure you can think of possible suspects.'

  Aubrey had thought, ever since he picked up the pamphlet. 'The obvious answer is the Royalists. If they can sully your reputation, the Progressives' chance of winning the election will take a battering.'

  'Good, but who else?'

  'The Holmlanders. You're well known as being anti-Holmland. If they can disgrace you, it weakens Albion and makes us vulnerable to Holmland plans.'

  'It would be ironic if it were the Holmlanders, if their way of disgracing me is to say I'm their ally. No, I think this plan is too subtle for the Holmlanders. They'd try to libel me some other way.'

  'Who else?'

  'Who indeed? I have many enemies. I'm afraid I'll just have to keep my wits about me.'

  'Who's coming to the meeting?' Aubrey asked suddenly.

  Sir Darius seemed to weigh up his response. 'The Prime Minister rang, saying he wanted to see me. He's bringing Craddock, our esteemed head of the Magisterium, and some others.'

  'What could they want?'

  Sir Darius held out the pamphlet. 'I asked myself the same question. After seeing your pamphlet and hearing of your escapade last night, I think I know.'

  AUBREY TOOK LUNCH WITH HIS FATHER, THEN FOUND George reading his newspaper in the conservatory and together they went up to his room.

  It was no coincidence that Aubrey's room overlooked the front of the house. He'd chosen it for its direct view of the entrance and the great curved driveway. From any of the three arched windows, he could see who was coming and who was going.

  Maidstone was mostly fifty years old, extensively rebuilt at the peak of the boom times. All the rooms were enormous and Aubrey's bedroom was no exception. His bed was neatly tucked into one corner, which left room for an assortment of furniture that he'd chosen. It was, naturally, an eccentric collection. Four overstuffed armchairs, a trio of potted palms that nearly reached the ceiling, a long low table with a glass top, several shelves that looked as if they'd once been shop counters, a gun cabinet that he used for antique wands (curios from the dark ages of magic), a folding table that he'd never got around to unfolding, a red velvet settee, three or four scattered ottomans, vases with dried arrangements of leaves and feathers, a large set of brass scales for weighing horses, and several paintings on the walls, some ugly, some not, but all of Aubrey's ancestors. 'The Starers', Aubrey had called them ever since he was a small boy, when he'd been half-fascinated, half-afraid of their imperturbable expressions.

  Aubrey was seated at a large table in the middle of the room. The table was on an oval rug the colour of the sea. On the table was an untidy arrangement of books, pencils, inkpots and newspapers. For a whim, he was wearing an elaborately brocaded smoking jacket, a riot of purple peacocks and Far Eastern bridges. It had belonged to his grandfather.

  'Sit down, George. You're making me dizzy, with your pacing like that.'

  George went to the window. 'I wonder what the Prime Minister wants,' he murmured. A greengrocer's cart rumbled past the front gate, but apart from that the street was quiet.

  'To discuss the events of last night?' Aubrey said without lifting his gaze from the newspaper he was reading. 'And the pamphlet, no doubt.'

  'Hmm. Can you remember exactly what was in it?'

  'Better than that. I copied it out before I gave it to Father.' He sifted through the paper on the table. 'Here.'

  George crossed the room. 'Appalling handwriting, Aubrey. You need to do something about that.' He wandered back to the window and divided his attention between the pamphlet and peering through the gauze drapes.

  'Rubbish,' he snorted. 'Rabble-rousers, the lot of them.'

  'Yes, George?'

  'Listen to this: "Sir Dandy Darius has betrayed us all! His speeches are nothing but a false front! His companies are working with the Holmland military might to crush the workers of Albion! He betrays us all! He grows fat on the blood and sweat of the ordinary working man!" What complete nonsense.'

  'It's actually like a hundred pamphlets out there on the street. Did you notice the way every sentence ends in an exclamation mark?'

  'But aren't you outraged?'

  Aubrey frowned. 'You haven't seen many of these pamphlets before, have you, George?'

  'I've seen plenty in the gutters with the other rubbish. Never read any.'

  'They're all this passionate, this strident.' He tapped his pencil on the table. 'Sometimes I think they're a sign of the times. It's astonishing, really, the way technology has advanced. We now possess the means for everyone to write, print and publish their thoughts, their creeds, their cries for justice, their rants.'

  'And just about every crackpot does.'

  'True. But genuine social reformers use this method, too. It's a way of getting their voices heard. Sometimes, it can start a small ripple that becomes a great wave.'

  'But this is poppycock! Your father hasn't colluded with Holmlanders at all!'

  'Of course not. But whoever wrote this pamphlet has perfectly caught the f
lavour of pamphlet writers, the anger, the fire. It sounds genuine. People will listen.'

  George frowned. 'You don't think it's real?'

  'No. It's part of a plot to disgrace my father.'

  'By whom?'

  'That's what I want to know. And to help me sort out the possible perpetrators, I'm doing some research.' He poked at the piles on the table. 'I'm not simply reading these journals and newspapers for entertainment. I want to see what forces are at work. Care to help?'

  George grimaced, but at that moment the grinding of gears and the crunch of tyres on gravel announced that a motorcar had arrived.

  Aubrey came to the window in time to see a short, squat man with a dull bowler hat emerge from the motorcar. 'The Prime Minister looks happy,' he observed.

  Sir Rollo Armitage was joking with the driver, who held open the motorcar door. His smile split his greying, muttonchop whiskers and made the pince-nez bounce on his nose.

  Aubrey knew that his father had little respect for Sir Rollo. After all, Sir Rollo had been Deputy Prime Minister but had not supported Sir Darius during his leadership crisis. When Sir Darius had lost the prime ministership and was expelled from the Royalist Party, it was Sir Rollo who had assumed the position of leader – and had thus become Prime Minister without facing an election.

  When Sir Darius founded the Progressive Party and rallied the huge range of disorganised groups together, it was Sir Rollo Armitage who became his greatest political foe.

  The second man who emerged from the motorcar was not smiling, even when Sir Rollo – apparently – repeated the joke.

  It was Craddock.

  He stood there next to the Prime Minister wearing his customary black suit and wide-brimmed black hat. Tall, spare, he stood with his hands behind his back, his gaze on the ash trees in the front garden. He stood remarkably still, as if he were balanced so perfectly that he could not be moved by earthly forces.

  Aubrey wondered how a man could become feared. Was it by committing fearful deeds? Or was it by ordering others to do fearful deeds? Reputation may be enough, he decided, and he knew he didn't want to put this theory to the test.