For Aubrey, election night was a mixture of relief, tension and detachment. The Progressive Party had booked the ballroom of the Burton Hotel, which was directly opposite the Electoral Board offices in Porter Street. While members of parliament, candidates, staff and families milled about, a constant stream of people crossed the street to bring the latest news on the counting.
Early in the evening, Aubrey felt as if he needed some solitude after the whirlwind of the previous fourteen days. He stood by a pillar, screened by a potted palm, and watched his father and mother greet people as they arrived. He was still there when he saw Caroline and her mother enter. Caroline was wearing a grey dress that made Aubrey feel as if he'd been struck, hard, in the stomach. Her face glowed as she smiled at Sir Darius. Her hair was arranged in a way that Aubrey guessed would have required a good structural magician. She wore a fine gold chain around her neck and small diamond earrings.
She looked beautiful. Her mother was with her and wore something or other. Aubrey had no idea what.
He leaned against the pillar, making sure Caroline and Mrs Hepworth didn't see him. He watched as they entered the room and quickly found George, who reluctantly bade farewell to a group of young women he'd spent much of the evening entertaining.
Aubrey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Things were turning out well enough, he supposed. Caroline wasn't totally convinced that he was a dangerous lunatic, which was a good thing. The situation there was retrievable, given tenacity – of which he had an abundance.
The plot to propel Albion into war had been foiled. For now, he thought, and this cast a pall on his musings that was at odds with the optimism of the evening. The threat of war is going to be with us for some time, he thought, Dr Tremaine or no Dr Tremaine. He could see years of international tension while life tried to go on.
Then there was his 'condition'. He had steadied things, but it was temporary. It was as if he'd woven a cocoon around his united body and soul, but death was still waiting for him, a gaping maw that was calling, calling . . .
More research, more experimentation, that was his only answer. What he'd done so far had spurred his thinking about development of a modern language for magic and he had some inklings that his solution would be dependent on this, too. Along the way, he was bound to grapple with the fundamental question of the Nature of Magic as well. He needed time, more time! If only he could get hold of Professor Hepworth's notebook.
Which brings us back to Dr Tremaine, in more ways than one, he thought and he patted his fob pocket, where an irregular lump lay, a reminder of unfinished business.
He wondered how he could do all this while pursuing his goals. The events of the last few weeks had only confirmed his desire for a life in politics – on his own terms. It was the way to true achievement. But when? University first? The army first? Or what about Craddock's invitation to join the Magisterium? He was still swamped with choices.
He smiled. His escapades had shown him something: for better or worse, he was his own man. His abilities and his strengths had saved his father, while he had coped with weaknesses that were undeniably his own. The challenge of living in his father's shadow and up to his expectations had, perhaps, been a burden of his own making. It might be time to lay it down, especially with his father's recognition of his magical skill. Magic was a sphere Sir Darius had not conquered, but perhaps his son could. It could be a chance to step aside from measuring himself against the man he respected so much. So maybe magic was where his future lay. Perhaps he could carry the torch of rational magic that Baron Verulam had lit so long ago.
He grinned. But I do love a challenge, he thought and, for the moment, he left the future to take care of itself.
He looked at the smiling faces, the animated conversations in the ballroom. The Progressive Party was about to sweep the Royalists from power, no-one had any doubt about that. It was a time for change, for bettering society, for righting wrongs. Aubrey caught himself and smiled. He'd been the one making the speeches this time.
He looked around at the excited candidates, those who were about to be elected and become the law-makers of the land. As the evening drew out, Sir Darius and Lady Fitzwilliam circulated around the room, arm in arm, speaking to every candidate and every current member of parliament. Aubrey shook off his sombre mood and took on the role as Sir Darius's son without a tinge of resentment. He shook hands, congratulated workers, listened to stories. Eventually, he was able to sit at a table with Mrs Hepworth, Caroline and George.
'Nervous, Aubrey?' Caroline asked.
'Definitely,' he said. Mostly around you, he thought. 'Can't take this election for granted, you know.'
She smiled and he hoped she hadn't read his mind. '"What lies ahead can be seen if one knows enough of what lay before." Scholar Tan.'
'Ah.' She'd developed a knack of making him feel inadequate. He had almost grown accustomed to it.
'Excellent salmon, Aubrey,' George said. 'Try some?'
'Not just now.'
Mrs Hepworth – Ophelia, Aubrey told himself – leaned over. 'Your father looks very handsome. The years sit easily on him.'
Aubrey looked at his father, then back at her. 'You know him well?'
'I knew him well indeed.' She gazed at Sir Darius with affection. Aubrey noted this and filed it away for future consideration. I knew he had a past, he thought, but it might be even more interesting than I'd thought.
The confidence in the room grew as the evening progressed and the news coming from across the road grew steadily better. By midnight, champagne was being opened and poured.
Aubrey smiled. A dance band was summoned and the evening became a party. He waved to a campaign official, asked a few questions and then sat back with a foolish smile on his face.
'Have we won?' George asked Aubrey, raising his voice over the music.
'Yes. Oh, nothing official, but the result is in no doubt. The Prime Minister is apparently meeting his Cabinet and advisers, deciding how to put a good face on the defeat.'
'Grand.'
A man rushed into the ballroom and stood on tip-toes and looked around. Spying Sir Darius, he hurried to his side. A quick conversation and Sir Darius nodded decisively. With one athletic bound, he leapt to the stage and spoke to the bandleader. The bandleader gathered the musicians and ended the tune with a flourish.
Sir Darius raised his arms. He was about to speak, when he looked down. Lady Fitzwilliam smiled up at him. He grinned back and motioned for her to join him on the stage. Amid applause, she did, but she used the stairs instead of duplicating her husband's leap.
When the acclamation died down, Sir Darius cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. 'Loyal colleagues, friends and supporters. The Prime Minister has conceded!'
Aubrey knocked his chair over as he leapt to his feet. His cheers joined those of everyone else in the room. Triumphantly, George shook a fist in the air. Caroline smiled. Mrs Hepworth applauded, tears in her eyes.
A man's voice rose above the acclamation. 'Three cheers for Sir Darius, our new Prime Minister!'
The cheering rose again, shaking the chandeliers and the windows. Sir Darius waved, then led Lady Fitzwilliam from the stage, shaking hands and suffering claps on the back as they went.
Sir Darius took Lady Fitzwilliam onto the dance floor and bowed to her. He looked to the bandleader and nodded. A tune struck up and the Fitzwilliams moved gracefully into a dance. He led deftly, and she followed his moves as if they'd rehearsed for years. Every eye in the room was on them, but the couple was oblivious.
'They dance well,' Caroline said.
'Yes,' Aubrey said. 'Do you dance?'
'Yes.'
'Let me guess . . . a friend of your father's taught you?'
'Of course. I dance very well, thanks to the Count of Lower Gallia.'
'So do I,' Mrs Hepworth said. She put her chin on her hand.
Aubrey opened his mouth, but at that moment Sir Darius and Lady Fitzwilliam came to their table. 'Ophelia
,' Sir Darius said, smiling, 'it's good to see you. It's been too long.'
She smiled. 'Yes.'
'Miss Hepworth, I'm glad you're here to help celebrate. Without your help . . .' Sir Darius left the obvious unstated. He coughed. 'It's time for us to leave.'
'Now?' Aubrey asked, dismayed.
'We'll let the people enjoy themselves,' Sir Darius said. 'They've earned some respite from my presence. Loyal as they are, I'm sure things will be more carefree once I leave.' He paused. 'Mrs Hepworth, Miss Hepworth – you'll join us for a small celebration at Maidstone?'
When his father made this unexpected offer,Aubrey had been tussling over the best way to say goodbye to Caroline so as to ensure seeing her again. He leapt to his feet. 'A capital idea. Just the thing. Rather noisy here, now, I mean, even though the band was a nice touch . . .'
'Aubrey,' Caroline said, 'you're babbling.'
Lady Fitzwilliam leaned across the table and patted Caroline on the arm. 'We're used to it, my dear,' she said sympathetically.
Aubrey was so delighted at the coming together of things that he felt no irritation whatsoever.
Stubbs was waiting for them when they came out of the hotel. He tipped his cap and opened the door of the Oakleigh-Nash. 'Wonderful night, ma'ams, miss, sirs.'
'Indeed,' Sir Darius said. 'It's a wonderful country.'
DUCHESS MARIA MET THEM WHEN THEY ENTERED Maidstone. She stood in the entrance hall, at the bottom of the great stairs, eyes bright, hands clasped. 'Darius,' she said. 'Well done, Prime Minister.'
Sir Darius made a face. 'That's not official, Mother. I haven't been sworn in.'
'Rubbish. It's just a formality now!'
He bent and kissed her on the cheek. 'Take everyone to the drawing room, Aubrey,' he said. 'I have something special to help us celebrate.'
Aubrey held out his arm for his grandmother. She smiled at him and together they led the others to Lady Fitzwilliam's drawing room.
When Sir Darius rejoined them, he had a dusty bottle.
'Over a hundred years old, this port,' he said. 'I've kept it for a special occasion.'
Lady Fitzwilliam smiled. 'You didn't have time to go down to the cellar to fetch it. You must have brought it out earlier today.'
Sir Darius smoothed his moustache with a finger. 'I may have had it ready. Just in case.'
'You were confident,' Mrs Hepworth said.
'Of course,' Aubrey put in. 'We were always going to win.'
'Always?' Sir Darius said. He opened the bottle. After an instant, an aroma like dusty, sun-warmed leather filled the room. Sir Darius nodded happily and then poured the port into small crystal glasses.
Lady Fitzwilliam distributed the port and waited for her husband.
'To all of you,' he said, raising his glass. 'To Rose, for your fortitude and love. To Mother, for your high expectations and your understanding. To Aubrey, for your courage and intelligence. To George, for your loyalty and bravery. To Caroline, for your dauntlessness. To Ophelia, for your bravery and in recognition of your loss.'
Aubrey held his glass high. 'And to all of us, to the future!'
'To the future!'
Twenty-
Four
AUBREY HUMMED A LITTLE AS HE LOOKED OUT OVER the Hummocks training course. He shifted the straps of his pack so the weight sat more evenly, and he realised he was disappointed that the weather was mild. A breeze blew across the course and the subtle smells of summer turning into autumn came to him – leaves beginning to dry and crisp, the wan scents of the last of the summer roses, acorns ripening.
'Are you ready, Fitzwilliam?' bawled the same Warrant Officer who'd witnessed Aubrey's previous, unsuccessful attempt on the course.
Aubrey straightened. 'Sir!'
Twenty yards away, George was leaning against the fence. He tipped back his hat and mock-saluted. Aubrey grinned.
'Enjoying ourselves, are we?' the Warrant Officer barked. 'Get started, then!'
Aubrey trotted off, the pack settling with each step. He felt good, better than he'd felt at any time since the failed experiment.
He slogged up the first mound and down the other side. While his body worked, his mind was abuzz.
Caroline came first in his thoughts. Aubrey's mother had offered her a position as her assistant, working at the museum on weekends. There was even the prospect of both of them going on an expedition to the polar sea, spending three months looking for new seabird species on the remote, icy islands. He readily admitted – to himself – that he'd miss her.
He was starting to breathe heavily, but he felt none of the telltale signs that meant he was in danger of dissolution. In fact, he was enjoying the strain of his muscles and the gritty discomfort of the uniform. It reminded him of how alive he was. He wondered if his condition had given him an appreciation of small things like that. He had cause to be grateful for much, but it hadn't ever occurred to him before to be grateful for simply being alive.
Halfway through his second lap of the course, Aubrey was not so happy.
The minor discomforts had intensified into throbbing feet, aching shoulders and a feeling of burning exhaustion, to a state where lifting his head to see the course in front of him was a major undertaking.
Nearly there, he told himself, repeating the phrase for the thousandth time. He didn't believe himself, but it had become a chorus, a chant, something to cling to. Nearly there.
Aubrey couldn't hear anything apart from the shuffle of his feet. All that mattered was the small stretch of beaten earth that was the trail he was following. His whole world had narrowed; the only important thing was putting one foot in front of the other.
It was an ordeal, but Aubrey told himself it was only a physical struggle. He could cope. He could succeed. After all he'd been through, he could tolerate mere bodily discomfort. It was torture, but it was tolerable torture.
Aubrey remembered the way he had dragged his soulself against the pull of death. It had been an impossible task, resisting his end like that, but he'd done it by doing it little by little, stubbornly refusing to give in. It was a lesson he'd learned: sometimes the best way to slay a giant was to nibble it to death.
He could do it again.
By this stage, his movements were mechanical. He continued to plod forward, his rifle held extended, the straps of his pack cutting into his shoulders.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle. He gritted his teeth, refusing to surrender.
The path beneath his feet angled upwards. He felt crushed beneath the weight of the pack, but pushed on, lost in the effort.
Downwards, almost slipping, digging in, balancing the weight, pressing on.
Up again, knees bent, leaning forward, elbows spread, ankles aching.
Doing it little by little. Refusing to give in.
A THOUSAND YEARS LATER.
'Aubrey! You can stop now!'
'George?'
'Here, let me help you.'
The weight was lifted from his back and Aubrey almost fell over. He loosened his grip on the rifle and used it to support himself. He looked up. 'I did it?' he croaked.
Atkins, the Warrant Officer, scowled. 'Yes.'
He marched off.
George gripped the pack and thrust a water bottle at Aubrey. He drank, took off his helmet then poured the rest of the water over his head. 'Another trial, George,' he said. 'Another test.'
'Yes. But you did it.'
Aubrey grinned. 'Was there ever any doubt?'
About the
Author
Michael Pryor has published more than twenty fantasy books and over forty short stories, from literary fiction to science fiction to slapstick humour. Michael has been shortlisted six times for the Aurealis Awards, has been nominated for a Ditmar Award and longlisted for the Gold Inky award, and three of his books have been Children's Book Council of Australia Notable Books. Michael is also the co-creator (with Paul Collins) of the highly successful Quentaris Chronicles. He is currently writing Time of Trial: The Fourth
Volume of The Laws of Magic, as well as the final book in the Chronicles of Krangor series.
For more information about Michael and his books, please visit www.michaelpryor.com.au
Read on for a sneak preview of Aubrey and George's adventures in
Heart of Gold
THE SECOND VOLUME OF
The Laws of Magic
AUBREY FITZWILLIAM KNEW THAT CRISIS WAS another word for opportunity. He simply wished that he saw more of the latter and less of the former.
AUBREY GRIMACED, TIGHTENED THE LAST VALVE ASSEMBLY and closed the ornithopter's cowling. He stretched, wincing, just as his friend George Doyle spoke up. 'Aubrey?'
'Hm?'
'What's bright orange and floats through clouds?'
'Riddling, George? Really, you need to find something more worthwhile to do.'
'It's not a riddle, old man. It's what I'm looking at right now.'
While Aubrey had worked on the ornithopter, George had spent much of the evening lounging on a bench, propped on one elbow and reading the newspaper. Now, he was peering out of the window of the workshop at the night sky. Aubrey wiped his greasy hands on a rag and strolled to see what had caught his friend's attention. 'Where?'
A pearly-grey blanket of cloud hung over Finley Moor Airfield and stretched to the south, where it reflected the many lights of Trinovant, the heart of the Albion Empire. Thunder growled nearby.
'There. That glow.' George pointed to the north-east, past the control tower – dark at this time of night – and the dirigible mooring masts. Four long grey cigar-shapes bobbed at rest. They were the pride of the Albion airship fleet, the 800-foot-long Imperial class, the most advanced lighter-than-air craft in the world.
Blaze of Glory Page 32
