Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

  'You're right,' Sir Darius said. 'Craddock's operatives found that the explosions on the dirigible were caused by a magical device. Something about temporary elasticity.'

  'The Law of Temporal Elasticity,' Aubrey said absently. He was already trying to imagine how such a law could be used. It would have to be a matter of constraining parameters of both time and distance . . .

  After studying his son for a moment, Sir Darius continued. 'Craddock's view is that the device had the hallmarks of Holmland magic.'

  Aubrey nodded. 'Clever. There are plenty of Gallians who still don't like us. Losing their airship over Albion would let them blame us for its loss. It would give them reason to abandon our alliance, which is just what Holmland wants.'

  'Quite. The Gallian airman said that the dirigible left from the St Martin airfield on the north of Lutetia after the usual checks and inspections. He was mortified to hear about the device.'

  'And while I'm in Gallia, you'd like me to see what I can find?'

  'Unofficially, of course.' Sir Darius tugged at an earlobe, frowning. 'Our overseas Magisterium operatives are investigating, but I fear that their minds are too literal, and their chiefs are too concerned with settling scores within the Special Services overseas branch. I need someone independent.'

  'I'd be happy to do it.' This was more to Aubrey's liking. His father was trusting him, explicitly, with a mission.

  'Don't be so hasty. I've only told you part of the issue.' Sir Darius rubbed his hands together. 'Despite our public pronouncements, Gallia is in some turmoil. The alliance with Albion is being questioned within the Giraud government, fears about Holmland aggression are growing, and – just to make matters worse – there is a movement afoot in the Gallian province of Marchmaine to secede and form its own nation.' He scowled. 'They could have chosen a better time for such a thing.'

  Aubrey pictured the map of the Continent. Marchmaine was directly across the channel from Albion. Rich and fertile, it stretched across the entire north of Gallia, sitting like a flat cap on top of the country. A fit hiker could land a boat on the shore of the channel and walk right across the gently rolling countryside until he reached the border of –

  'Holmland,' Aubrey said. 'You think it's encouraging this movement.'

  'Indeed. If Marchmaine becomes independent, it would have no alliance with Albion. And if one were particularly suspicious, one could imagine that the entire secessionist movement was a plot by Holmland to install pro-Holmland leaders in this new state, with the effect of providing Holmland with direct access to the channel.'

  'And an easy crossing point for invading Albion. If it comes to war.'

  'Quite.'

  Aubrey and his father shared a look that said they both knew war was inevitable, that they wished it weren't so, and that they didn't want to mention it out loud just in case this made it happen – even though they both knew such superstitions were childish.

  'Of course,' Sir Darius said, 'I don't have to tell you how stiff-necked the Gallians can get.'

  'Ah. So that means that you'd like me to find the dirigible saboteurs and uncover the Holmland plot to instigate a sovereign state in Marchmaine, all without letting the Gallian authorities know what I'm up to?'

  'More or less.'

  'Delighted.'

  His father held up a finger. 'One thing. Is George going with you?'

  'Yes.'

  'Good, good. I was going to insist that he go along. He seems to be useful for tempering some of your excesses. You can apprise him of the matters I've told you.'

  WHEN HE LEFT THE CONSERVATORY, AUBREY FOUND IT HARD to stop smiling. The confidence his father showed was gratifying. Of course, combining this mission with requests from his mother, his grandmother and the heir to the throne was going to be a challenge, but Aubrey saw challenges as most people saw stepping stones – a way to get somewhere.

  His smile fell from his face. He remembered his own, personal reason for journeying to Lutetia. His research into finding a solution for his unstable state had reached an impasse. He'd scoured libraries, corresponded with scholars (always in guarded, hypothetical terms) and conducted careful experiments testing new applications of magical laws, but nothing had yielded a complete remedy.

  It was unsatisfactory, especially since he had the impression that his condition was deteriorating. It wasn't simply the tiredness he'd felt since exerting himself to save Saltin. He had a vague malaise, a deep-seated feeling that something wasn't right.

  Ominously, he'd also lost his appetite. It had happened to him before. After the foolhardy experiment that had torn his soul loose from his body, he'd managed to reunite them – but not perfectly. The connection had deteriorated, and as it did, his bodily state grew worse. Tiredness and loss of appetite were warning signs, a reminder that his physical condition wasn't what it should be. In the past he'd been able to rest and steady himself, restoring his balance. Through spells and willpower he'd been able to keep the true death at bay – but it hovered, always there, waiting for him if his hold should slip.

  Aubrey had heard that the Faculty of Magic at the University of Lutetia had fallen on hard times. It was apparently a shadow of its glory days, when it had attracted magicians from Albion and all over the Continent. He had hopes, though, that he could find someone there who could offer help or insight into the state of half-life, half-death in which he was trapped. He wanted a remedy, something more permanent than what he'd been able to cobble together.

  AUBREY FOUND GEORGE ALONE IN THE FRONT DRAWING room. He was surrounded by peacock plumes nodding from a tall ochre vase and he was absorbed in reading the newspaper. Aubrey outlined the discussions he'd had, to George's growing amusement.

  'I can't see what's so funny,' Aubrey concluded. 'I was looking forward to a relaxing holiday and now it looks as if it's going to be filled up with traipsing all over Lutetia for other people.'

  'My thoughts exactly, old man. After this holiday, it seems you're going to need a holiday.'

  Three

  THE CAB STOPPED AND AUBREY PEERED UP AT WHAT would be their residence for their Lutetian holiday. George leaned over and stared. 'Looks as if we're not in Albion any more, old man.'

  It was one of a row of impressive five-storey apartment buildings just north of the Sequane River, not far from the centre of the city. The narrow street and equally tall row of buildings on the other side made Aubrey feel as if he was at the bottom of a canyon – albeit an architecturally splendid one. Their holiday residence was on a crossroad, so the western windows overlooked the intersection below.

  By the time Aubrey had alighted and joined George on the pavement, the driver had manhandled the trunks and boxes from the cab. It was done with some speed and not much care. Aubrey paid and offered a few Gallian pleasantries, but the driver didn't linger. He sprang back into his seat, urging his nag off with a curse and a flick of his whip.

  George scowled. 'Ah, visit lovely Gallia and see the friendly folk mistreat their animals.'

  George's large build disguised his soft-heartedness. Aubrey knew his friend loved animals and hated to see them being treated poorly. 'Let's see if we can't get some help with these things,' he suggested and used the bunch-of-grapes doorknocker.

  The door opened. A tall, grey-haired woman stared down at them as if she'd been walking on the beach and found something unpleasant. Aubrey thought that she had once been beautiful, but had now passed through that into something more intriguing.

  Aubrey doffed his hat and greeted her in his best Gallian. She nodded. 'Quite good, for an Albionite,' she said in perfect Albionish, 'but please use your own language. I like to practise.'

  Aubrey nodded, a little disappointed. 'I'm Aubrey Fitzwilliam. This is George Doyle. Rooms have been organised for us?'

  'Fitzwilliam. Doyle.' The grey-haired woman repeated the words slowly. Aubrey saw her studying them carefully: two young men, one slight and dark-eyed, one large, red-cheeked and sandy-haired. 'Yes. You have rooms.'

  '
Er, can you show us to them?' George asked. 'Although we could just stand here and admire the windows, if you point them out to us.'

  Aubrey elbowed his friend. 'We'd like to deposit our things, if we could.'

  'You'll need your keys.' She vanished, leaving them standing on the doorstep.

  Aubrey looked at George. 'I suppose no-one is going to steal our luggage.'

  'Not unless Lutetia is populated by roving gangs of weightlifters who've turned to a life of crime.' George sat on one of the trunks, took off his boater and fanned himself with it. 'Just to make sure, I'll wait here while you're getting the key.'

  'No need,' Aubrey said, nodding toward the door.

  The grey-haired woman had reappeared. 'I am Madame Calvert. This is my establishment. Here are your keys, and a letter for you, young Fitzwilliam.'

  She handed them to Aubrey, then disappeared into the depths of the building, leaving the ornate doors open.

  Aubrey opened the envelope, wondering who knew he'd be at this address. When he finished reading it, he chuckled and folded it away.

  'Everything all right, old man?' George asked. 'We have the right place, don't we?'

  'Yes.' Aubrey chuckled again. 'I think we're in for an interesting time, George. After all, according to my guidebook, Lutetia is the City of Art.'

  'City of Art? I heard it was the City of Love.'

  'I imagine you did hear that.' He held up the envelope. 'We have our first Lutetian invitation.'

  'Excellent! An exhibition? Opening night at the opera?'

  'Not exactly. Do you remember the Gallian airman we saved?'

  'Of course I remember. Not likely to forget that jaunt for a while.'

  'Well, Captain Saltin has asked us to visit him at the St Martin airfield. He wants to show us the Gallian dirigible fleet.'

  'Do we have to go straightaway?'

  'Not at all. It's an open invitation.'

  'Good. I'm sure we'll be able to fit in a visit. In a week or two. Or next month, if we can't manage that.'

  Aubrey grinned. 'Now, let's see about these trunks.'

  Inside, they found themselves at the foot of a marble staircase. A rich red carpet affixed with brass stair-rods led up to a landing with a stained-glass window as extravagant as the front doors. On their left was an open door, while a short corridor led to another door on the far side of the stairs.

  Aubrey was glad for George's muscles. Even so, it was a difficult task, hauling the trunks up the stairs. They paused on the first-floor landing to catch their breath, and then at each subsequent landing. When they reached the fourth floor, Aubrey sat on the stairs and panted. 'One more to go. I hope we have a wonderful view.'

  'I'd swap a view for a ground-floor room,' George said. He'd draped himself over the polished wooden balustrade. 'If I want a view, I can look in a book.'

  Aubrey stood, gingerly. He could feel his heart pounding from the exertion, but he thought it was under control. A dull headache lurked, but it was minor.

  On this floor, there were three rooms – two on the left, one on the right. Aubrey frowned, wondering about the other tenants in Madame Calvert's residence. If he were correct, the room on the right would be larger. It would face north, too, so it may be useful as an artist's studio. He was sure Madame Calvert would approve of artists.

  But Aubrey wasn't sure Madame Calvert would approve of the loud thumping noises coming from the apartment. Was the tenant a woodworker? Or perhaps a sculptor, hammering at a large piece of marble?

  Aubrey took a step back when the door to the apartment began to shake.

  The roof of his mouth started to itch, with rapidly rising intensity. Aubrey narrowed his eyes. Magic was afoot.

  A deep, wrenching groan came from behind the door, followed by hammering that shook dust from the ceiling.

  George stared. 'I hope we're not going to have noisy neighbours.'

  'It sounds as if someone's in trouble.' The door handle rattled, as if whoever was within was unfamiliar with the functioning of latches.

  'They need help.' George made for the door, but at that moment it was thrown open. George stopped, aghast, and gave a cry of horror.

  Aubrey wondered what George had seen, then he, too, reeled back at the sight of what emerged. Almost of their own accord, his hands rose to ward it off.

  It had once been a man. Late fifties, to judge from the sprinkling of grey in his wiry hair and beard. He was short and thickset, his rounded frame showing the signs of good living. He wore a fine dark-grey suit, but the dove-grey gloves on his hands were in tatters. Bloodied fingers protruded from the shreds. His face was lined and pale, but his eyes were completely vacant. No intelligence, no awareness at all lay behind them. He gazed directly ahead with an emptiness that was terrifying. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth.

  The appalling figure groaned, hoarsely. His hands dangled, as if they were too heavy to lift. He staggered, dragging his feet, until he faced Aubrey. Then he groaned again.

  Aubrey badly wanted to turn and run; his muscles trembled in readiness, but he steeled himself and put out a hand. 'Sir?' His heart hammered. 'What can we do for you?'

  'In Gallian, old man,' George said. 'He can't understand you.'

  Aubrey had grave doubts whether this was merely a language difficulty. He tried again in Gallian, but the man simply stood there, swaying.

  'He's not blinking,' George pointed out.

  Before Aubrey could respond, the groaning man lurched at them in a stiff-legged shamble. The groaning turned into a deep, chesty growl.

  A cry came from the stairs. 'What is this?' Madame Calvert put a hand to her mouth. 'Monsieur Jordan, what are you doing?'

  A shout wrenched Aubrey's attention back to see Monsieur Jordan lunge clumsily at George, who fended him off with a straight-armed push to the chest.

  The groaning man's feet went out from under him. He fell back and hit his head on the tiled floor with a crack.

  Aubrey hurried and crouched by his side. 'He's still breathing. Madame Calvert, can you fetch medical help? And the police?'

  Madame Calvert didn't argue. She rushed off.

  George knelt, his face anxious. 'Never had that happen before. A good push to the chest usually gives time to work out what to do next. He just toppled like a tree.'

  'He had poor balance. And coordination.' Aubrey wondered what the symptoms for rabies were. Didn't they include groaning and twitching? 'Don't let him bite you.'

  George shuddered. 'Last thing I'd want, old man.'

  Aubrey looked over his shoulder through the open door. 'Let's take him into his apartment.'

  Aubrey took Monsieur Jordan's feet while George hefted the other end. They shuffled into the apartment and lay the still-unconscious Gallian on a blue velvet chaise longue.

  Aubrey straightened and took in the apartment. Monsieur Jordan was an artist, without doubt. A large north-facing window – curtainless – took up one wall, while carpet had been rolled back. The wooden floor was a riot of colourful streaks and splashes. One end of the room was a combined kitchen and sleeping area. The other was an arrangement of shelves, easels, two mismatched tables and a small dais. After assuring himself that Monsieur Jordan was comfortable and still breathing, Aubrey wandered over to the dais and the single chair on it. Behind the chair, the wall was draped with white cloth in quite deliberate folds.

  Aubrey studied the length of the room. It didn't take much imagination to see Monsieur Jordan at an easel, studying his –

  'Model,' Aubrey breathed and sat on the chair that he was sure had been used by an artist's model. But not recently. Monsieur Jordan was dressed in a good suit and tie, unsuitable wear for painting. And yet Aubrey had the impression that someone had been here recently, someone other than Monsieur Jordan. Above the warm, green bite of turpentine, he smelled an acrid chemical odour that was familiar. He concentrated, holding out his hands, palms down, and focusing his magical awareness.

  His eyes opened wide. What have we
here? he thought. The room had been the site of intense magic. Whatever the spell had been, it was powerful, but the user had been careless in delineating the variables of range and effect. He could sense traces of magical residue everywhere, like the splatters caused by dropping a rock in a pool of mud.

  'Aubrey, stop that humming. I think he's waking up.'

  George's summons brought Aubrey back to the chaise longue. The eyes that opened, however, didn't reassure him. Blank pits, absent of emotion, they were the eyes of the void. Aubrey looked into them and felt as if he was balanced on the brink of a precipice. The abyss beckoned.

  Shaken, he turned away. His hands trembled and he clasped them together. 'Quickly,' he said, 'tie him up.'

  'Aubrey? What's wrong with him?' George was pale, uncertain.

  'I have no idea, but he's no better. We must restrain him.'

  As if to underline Aubrey's words, Monsieur Jordan jerked and tried to sit up in the clumsiest way possible. He ended up folding in the middle like the covers of a book being slammed together. He flopped backward, bared his teeth, then began groaning while he struggled again. George pushed his shoulders down.

  'Here.' Aubrey lunged for a large canvas drop cloth that had been flung on the floor. He picked it up with both arms. 'Wrap him up in this.'

  They were helped by the inept flailings of Monsieur Jordan. Any half-coordinated child would have been able to escape as Aubrey and George fumbled and cursed their way to spreading the canvas, then winding it around the groaning, drooling artist.

  By the time they were done, both Aubrey and George were panting. George rubbed at the side of his jaw where the back of Monsieur Jordan's head had caught him. 'I wish he'd stop that groaning,' he said.

  The artist was on the floor, wrapped from neck to knee in the paint-daubed canvas, looking like a particularly colourful cocoon.

  'Monsieur Jordan?'

  Aubrey looked up to see a distressed Madame Calvert. Behind her were a police officer and a rotund man dressed in a blue suit. From the bag he was carrying, Aubrey was sure he was a doctor.