Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

  Clattering down the stairs to the entrance of the embassy, George gave a low whistle. 'What was that about?'

  'Sir Percy was appointed by the previous PM.'

  'Ah. One of Rollo's old boys?'

  'Which makes him automatically suspicious of my father.'

  Caroline was waiting for them. She was still smouldering. 'Helpless?' she said as soon as she saw Aubrey and George. 'Helpless? That's the sort of attitude that's keeping women oppressed.'

  Aubrey nodded. 'We tried to tell him that you were just as guilty as we were, but he wouldn't listen.'

  'Up to your neck in criminality,' George added.

  Caroline nodded. 'Good. I'm glad you stood up for me.' Then she laughed. 'I was furious. The maids were so frightened they called for the sergeant-at-arms.'

  Aubrey would have liked to have seen that. 'Good for you.'

  A harried-looking functionary scuttled out from a nearby door. 'Your letters.' He thrust a string-tied bundle into Aubrey's hands.

  He groaned. 'More jobs to do, no doubt.'

  'Let's eat, then,' George said. 'Looks as if you'll need all your strength.'

  THE RESTAURANT WAS BUSY, TWO STREETS FROM THE RIVER and crowded with students and artists, half-hidden by swirls of pungent cigarette smoke. They found a table in a corner under an ornate gilt mirror. Once food had been ordered and served, Aubrey took the chance to cast a discreet muffling spell so the three friends could talk without being overheard.

  He was absurdly grateful when it worked flawlessly. It wasn't that he took his skill for granted, it was more that he was afraid of what he'd be if he had no magic. He liked being a talented magic worker. It set him apart, made him special, and he enjoyed that.

  Am I that shallow then? he wondered, but he reprimanded himself. Despondency was a trap and he aimed to avoid it.

  Nonetheless, his hands shook after casting the spell and he hid them under the table. I just need some rest, he told himself, that's all.

  Caroline crossed her arms. 'Now, I'd like to know why you're really in Lutetia.'

  For you. Aubrey's eyes went wide. For an instant, he thought he'd blurted his thoughts aloud. Hastily, he waved a hand in an effort at nonchalance. He nearly slapped a waiter, who sniffed at him but didn't stop. 'Ah. You could say that it's more than just a simple holiday.'

  'I gathered that. Nothing is simple where you're concerned.'

  'True,' George said as he tucked into a plate of mussels. He gazed forlornly at the empty bread basket. From a table nearby, a pretty red-haired girl noticed and threw George a roll. He caught it and grinned at her. 'I learned that long ago.'

  Aubrey knew he had a salad on the table in front of him, but he had no appetite. In fact, the smell of food made him queasy, and he did his best to avoid looking at it. He leaned back in his chair and started when he bumped into a vase full of ostrich feathers. 'I have many things to do here.'

  He decided to take her into his confidence. It wasn't entirely a ploy to become closer to her, he told himself. It was a practical step. She was very . . . useful.

  He outlined his father's task, Bertie's request, his grandmother's mission and, finally, his mother's wish to find Dr Romellier.

  Caroline patted her lips with a napkin. 'Why didn't you simply ask me for help?'

  'Because he never asks anyone for help,' George said. 'Goes against his nature. Independent beast is our Aubrey.'

  'And with so much to do,' Caroline said, 'why didn't you divide the tasks between you? You'd get more done more quickly that way.'

  Aubrey realised he'd never thought of it. 'George doesn't know any Gallian.'

  'Give me some credit, old man. I get by. And I'm not afraid of asking for help, especially from some of these cheery Lutetian girls.' He waved at a quartet at a nearby table and won laughter and smiles in return.

  Caroline continued. From the gleam in her eye, Aubrey decided that she was enjoying his discomfort. 'What if I told you that I'd recently heard about this mysterious Dr Romellier?'

  'Dr Romellier?' Aubrey said. 'You?'

  'He's been working with some of the researchers in the same department as I am. He never appears himself, simply sends letters and crates of specimens. I've seen them lying around.'

  'Does his correspondence have a return address?'

  'No idea. It's not really relevant to my work.'

  'But you could find out.'

  'Yes. I could. We're all very friendly in the department. Charming, polite people.'

  George nudged Aubrey. 'Go on, old man, ask her.'

  Aubrey sighed, then leaned forward and fixed Caroline's gaze with his. 'Miss Caroline Hepworth, please grant me this boon: find Dr Romellier's return address and convey it to me. My gratitude will be immediate and long-lasting. In fact, I thank you for even considering my request, unworthy wretch that I am.'

  She smiled. Aubrey smiled back and felt like he'd won a substantial prize. 'Very prettily put,' she said. 'I'd love to.'

  'But?'

  Caroline tilted her head on one side. 'I am busy, you know. I can't just drop everything and go gadding about on errands.'

  'Of course, of course,' Aubrey said. It took an almighty effort, but he stilled his tongue and said nothing more. He had an inkling that Caroline actually wanted to help, and if he let her she'd find a way to do it.

  'But I suppose I could squeeze in some time,' she said and Aubrey thanked the stars. 'A little. Here and there. If I can.'

  Aubrey sat back in his chair. 'I would appreciate it greatly, you know. I'd love to scratch one task from my list.'

  'Well,' George said, 'I'm not one to be left out. What if I do some of that ancestor hunting for the Prince tomorrow? I can tramp around a few churches and take notes, if that's all it is. I might learn a thing or two, broaden the mind and all that.'

  'Judging from Bertie's notes,' Aubrey said, 'that should cover it.'

  'Well then.' George beamed. 'What about you?'

  'I still have plenty left to do.'

  'What about the message from the Magisterium?' Caroline asked.

  Aubrey had forgotten all about it. He'd hung his jacket on a coat stand next to the table. He fumbled inside it until he found the sealed message.

  The restaurant had, if anything, grown more crowded. No-one seemed to be paying them any attention. He held up the message gingerly. 'It must be important. This is an etheric message.' Caroline and George were puzzled. 'The Magisterium can send encrypted messages via a magic cylinder. It's highly technical, though – they only use it in extraordinary circumstances.'

  After he'd scanned the terse lines of text, he knew why Craddock had been so keen to get a message to him. He frowned and tested the integrity of his muffling spell. Satisfied, he passed the message to Caroline. 'Large-scale magic creates disturbances that magicians can detect. The Magisterium has operatives whose sole job is to monitor for these, so they can dispatch response squads. Whole rooms of them, in Darnleigh House, just waiting, sensing . . .' He rubbed his eyes and wished he were feeling more robust. 'Apparently, when the Heart of Gold was stolen, it was like a major earthquake. Several of the most sensitive operatives were hospitalised.' If I've timed this correctly, he thought, Caroline should have reached the last part of the message. 'Read it out,' he said. 'The last sentence.'

  '"Do everything to find and return the Heart of Gold."' She looked up. 'It's true then? Gallia will collapse without it?'

  'I don't know. Perhaps the Magisterium is simply concerned about the effect on Gallian morale, but I don't think so. I think they're afraid Gallia will crumble.'

  'And that would be very bad for Albion,' George said.

  'Very bad indeed.' Aubrey took a sip of his mineral water. It was flat and tasteless on his tongue. 'Well, I suppose that tomorrow is all laid out for me now.'

  THE NEXT MORNING, THURSDAY, AUBREY HAD A RAGING headache even before he opened his eyes. When he did, everything in his room was wavery, with multiple outlines, even though the dim light outside suggeste
d it was scarcely past dawn. He sat up in bed, but dizziness threatened to swamp him. He lay back, closed his eyes again and, exhausted, concentrated on breathing.

  It was clear that his condition was deteriorating, and faster than he'd expected. The fatigue, the aching joints, the loss of appetite, the dizziness all pointed to the fact that the true death was calling.

  He concentrated on steadying himself. He tried to construct a spell, but he couldn't sustain the effort required. His focus became ragged and he couldn't piece enough elements together.

  He clenched his teeth, even though that simple action hurt his jaw. He wasn't about to let things fall apart. If he couldn't save himself through magic, he'd have to do it through stubbornness.

  Aubrey lay there, eyes closed, his hands curled in fists, every muscle taut, simply refusing to let his soul drift away from his body. The golden cord that united the two was ragged, unravelling. He brought his magical attention to bear on it, finding the weak points and doing his best to knit them together. It was painstaking, meticulous work and he had the sense that it was wearing faster than he could mend it.

  Every breath in and every breath out became a victory. Aubrey fastened onto these small triumphs and made every one a milestone. One breath after another, then the next and the next. Breathing is life, he repeated to himself. Breathing is life.

  When George burst through the door, Aubrey started. Daylight was flooding in around the edges of the curtains. 'I was asleep,' he said with some surprise.

  'Good thing. Just what you need.' George was fairly bouncing with excitement. 'What I need is one of Madame Calvert's excellent breakfasts.'

  George threw back the curtains and sunlight flooded the room.

  Aubrey swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gazed at his striped pyjama legs. He was alive.

  'What's so funny, old man?'

  'Nothing, really. I was just thinking about how useful pig-headedness can sometimes be.'

  WHILE GEORGE WAS WORKING THROUGH A THIRD PASTRY, Aubrey sniffed.

  George wiped his mouth with a napkin. 'Getting a cold, old man?'

  'No. I just realised that I can't smell anything.' Aubrey reached out and took a teaspoon of jam. He rolled the sticky stuff around in his mouth, then made a face. With an effort, he swallowed it. 'Nor taste anything.'

  'Ah.' George looked at his repast. 'I wouldn't like that. Another sign of your problem?'

  'I think so.'

  George muttered a few consolatory words, but the rest of the breakfast was subdued. Aubrey toyed with his butter knife, depressed, and struggled with a glass of water. Inaction chafed at him and he became impatient to be off.

  Eventually, Aubrey and George stood on the street outside Madame Calvert's residence. The sky was pale blue, but white, tattered clouds regularly drifted across, cutting off the sunlight. Aubrey found the effect disconcerting, as the streetscape was intermittently shadowed, then bright, then shadowed again. It chilled him, even though the morning was warm.

  He paused. The gutter on the opposite side of the street had backed up. Putrid water, choked with rubbish, was belching from the drain while two workmen scratched their heads. Aubrey frowned.

  George held up a pencil and tapped his notebook. 'I've mapped out my day according to the Prince's notes and the closest metro stations. Madame Calvert recommended a café where I should be able to get a good lunch. I've written down some useful phrases.'

  Aubrey was impressed. 'Such as?'

  'Oh, things like "I beg your pardon" and "Sorry" and "Forgive me, I'm from Albion".'

  'I can see that sort of thing coming in handy.'

  'And you? Are you feeling chipper enough?'

  'I'm aiming to do something about that,' Aubrey admitted. 'I want to find von Stralick and see what he knows about this Heart of Gold business, but before that I'm going to get to this Faculty of Magic, if it exists.' He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. 'I hope to find something useful there.'

  George frowned. 'I worry about you, old man.'

  'I appreciate that, George, but let's hope I can give you less cause for worry, soon.' Give all of us less cause for worry. 'Oh, and keep your eyes peeled for a man.'

  'A man? Any man in particular?'

  'I have the impression that someone is watching us. Tall, slender, unmemorable face.'

  'Sounds easy enough to spot.' He studied Aubrey. 'D'you think it's serious?'

  'Be careful, George, that's what I'm saying. Stay alert.'

  'At all times. I'll be a veritable paragon of alertness.'

  AUBREY COULDN'T HELP BUT NOTICE THE MOOD THAT HAD fallen on the university. As the ragged clouds scudded across the heavens, he saw knots of angry students arguing, with much flinging of hands in the air and stalking off in high dudgeon.

  He wondered if news of the theft of the Heart of Gold had filtered out. Or was there simply a collective reaction to the loss, a national response on a level below the conscious? From the troubled faces of the students and academics, something was at work.

  Aubrey was crossing the specimen garden at the rear of the Botany building when he was flagged down. 'Fitzwilliam! Fitzwilliam!'

  He shook off his thoughts to see Duval hurrying toward him. The theatre director wore a houndstooth jacket and a beret. 'Hello, Duval. How's the production progressing?'

  Duval threw his hands in the air. 'That is what I want to talk to you about. You missed a rehearsal last night. We went on without you, but it's difficult without the male lead.'

  Aubrey set off, guiltily. Duval fell in beside him. 'I'm sorry, Duval, but I've been busy.'

  'Of course, of course. You have recovered from your near-drowning?'

  'Mostly.'

  'Excellent.' Duval pursed his lips for a moment. 'You have business at the university?'

  'I'm looking for the Faculty of Magic.'

  'So you are not meeting Miss Hepworth?'

  Aubrey glanced at Duval. 'Not right now.'

  The Gallian looked relieved. 'A fine young woman. Independent. Attractive.'

  Aubrey looked sidelong at Duval. 'Yes.'

  'The Faculty of Magic?' Duval said, veering wildly across the conversation. 'Surely you are joking. There has been no Faculty of Magic at the university for many years.'

  'I heard there may be remnants of its presence, a few things to look at.'

  'What is left of the old Magic Building is being used for storage.'

  'You know where it is?'

  'Of course. We keep some backdrops and props there. Old Maurice takes good care of them. 'Duval brightened. 'He is someone you should talk to, if you're interested in the old faculty. He's the caretaker, and has been there forever.'

  'I'd like that very much.'

  'Come, then. I will find him and introduce you.'

  As they rounded the Botany Building and strode along the shady walk that divided the Chemistry laboratories from the Geology Department, Aubrey had the disquieting impression that he was being followed. He did his best to glance over his shoulder and to use the reflection in windows to look behind him, but he saw nothing suspicious. I'm jumping at shadows, he thought. Perhaps I'm not suited to this intelligence work after all. He hoped Craddock had other operatives in Lutetia. Aubrey didn't want to be the only one trying to find the missing Heart of Gold.

  They reached the western edge of the campus. The Library was a long, forbidding four-storey building with a peaked slate roof and many windows. Aubrey thought it may have once been a monastery. The Medicine Building next to it was taller, but just as dour. Aubrey had never seen a more rectangular building. It was as if the architects had been mortally afraid of curves.

  Duval took Aubrey through an arched walkway that divided the two buildings. 'This leads to the street,' he said, 'but just before we get there . . .Ah, here.'

  Behind the Library, hidden from the rest of the university, was an ancient, round tower. The walls were heavy, dark stone, quite different from the dirty sandstone of the Library. When Aub
rey looked closely he could see signs of the hand-wielded tools that had carved the stone blocks. The uppermost part of the tower projected defiantly above both the Library and the Medicine Building, a copper-roofed turret that reminded Aubrey of an ancient warrior wearily surveying a battlefield.

  Duval didn't hesitate. He pushed open the door and marched into the dark interior.

  Inside, Aubrey's magical senses were assaulted by the centuries of built-up magical residue. He turned in a full circle, and it was like rolling the frequency adjuster on a radio as he felt shadowy ghost fragments of spells that had become embedded in the very walls. His nose wrinkled at the ancient chemical smells from experiments ages ago.

  The circular space was ten yards or so across. Seven doors opened onto it, while a spiral staircase stood in the middle. It led to an iron walkway that marked the first floor. Above that was another iron walkway for the second floor. Beyond that, all detail was lost in the shadows.

  The nearest door opened. A creaky, Gallian voice sawed through the air. 'Who is it?'

  Duval held up a hand and replied in the same language. 'Maurice, it is I, Duval. I have brought a friend.'

  Maurice had once been tall, but age had bent him so that his head was actually lower than his shoulders. His lank grey hair fringed a bald dome. He wore narrow trousers and an ancient, black frock coat. He peered at Aubrey. 'You want to store something here?'

  'No,' Aubrey replied in Gallian. 'I want to learn about the Faculty of Magic.'

  Maurice's eyebrows shot up. Duval shrugged. 'He's from Albion.'

  Maurice bobbed his head. 'Albion. That's where the magicians went when the faculty started to crumble,' he said in passable Albionish. 'A long time ago.'

  'Are there none left?'

  'Just Bernard.'

  Duval snorted. 'Bernard? He's no magician. He's a hopeless drunkard. The university lets him stay because he was once apprenticed to the great Professor Lorraine.'

  'Does he still work here?' Aubrey asked Maurice.

  'He tinkers with magic still. He is old. He doesn't want to die.'