Word of Honour

by Michael Pryor

  The pearl had meant so much to Dr Tremaine, Aubrey wondered if it were a magical artefact. After probing it for some time, he provisionally decided it was what Dr Tremaine claimed – a souvenir in the true sense of the word: a remembrance, a concrete reminder of someone dear.

  He put it back in the safe and returned to his room, but didn't banish it from his mind.

  He was still brooding on it when Tilly, the maid, knocked at his door to say his father wanted to see him in the library.

  He stood in front of the cheval mirror, and brushed his jacket and his hair, doing his best to look presentable. As long as no-one noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the sallow skin and the slight trembling of his hands, he thought he could achieve a level of presentability. Provided the standards weren't high.

  He straightened his tie and he rubbed his eyes. He was tired again – naggingly, insistently tired. How could he go on like this?

  The answer that came to him was simple. It was also unwelcome, almost repellent, and he realised that it had been lurking at the back of his mind for some time but he had refused to listen.

  Do no more magic.

  Magic was the worst sort of strain. If he renounced it, his body and soul would be much easier to keep in equilibrium. It promised an enduring, perhaps permanent, solution.

  But he didn't want to do it.

  He had a talent for magic. That was part of his reluctance – the natural aversion to wasting an aptitude; but it was more than that. He enjoyed magic. He liked being special. It was exhilarating to engage with the very stuff of the universe itself, to face challenges that required the utmost from him.

  How could he give that up?

  Magic was who he was. It defined him.

  But even as this came to him, he resisted such a classification. He was Aubrey Fitzwilliam; he was more than a simple label!

  Early on in his pursuit of magic, he'd thought it was truly possible to know everything about it, to master it in all its glory. Then he'd come to the understanding that he couldn't know it all. It had been a depressing thought. Hard on the heels of this insight came his usual response: what to do about it. In the end, he drew a diagram of the various branches of magic – including a large area cate-gorised as 'Unknown/Yet to be established' – and circled the areas to which he wanted to dedicate himself. The challenging, the outlandish, the difficult, the mysterious held a heady allure; the well-established, the tried and true were less attractive. If he needed to know more about the Magic of Light or Thermal Magic he could consult someone.

  Contemplating this now, he came to the conclusion that if he gave up the practice of magic, there was much to be involved with. He could still research the field. The universities were full of people who did vital work, delineating, exploring and refining spells in an abstract sense, working on crucial areas of magical theory. He could do some serious investigation into the interaction between language and magic, for instance. A universal language of magic would be a staggering breakthrough, a thoroughly worthwhile goal.

  It seemed like an eminently sensible approach. Not dull in any way. Not at all.

  SIR DARIUS STOOD BEHIND THE LONG, GILT TABLE IN THE middle of the library. When Aubrey entered, he looked up from a large book. He closed it and Aubrey saw, with interest, that it was the Scholar Tan's Deliberations on War. It was his father's favourite, but he knew it by heart and only consulted it when wrestling with profound and knotty problems. His eye could roam over familiar words while his mind worked away.

  'Ah, Aubrey. Good to see you. You've recovered from the events at Clear Haven?'

  'I have, sir.' In a way. 'And you?'

  'Quite. Thank you.'

  Sir Darius contemplated the red leather cover of the book in front of him. 'Aubrey. You're seventeen now.'

  For a moment, Aubrey thought he heard the appalling klaxon again. He's stating the obvious, he thought. Something's very wrong. 'Eighteen in December,' he said, carefully.

  'Close the door, there's a good chap.'

  Closed door. It's even worse than I thought.

  By now Aubrey's imagination had conjured up a number of ghastly scenarios. A deadly disease. A scandal from the past. Blackmail. Financial mismanagement. 'What is it, sir? Is anything wrong?'

  'Sit, Aubrey. There's something I need to talk to you about.'

  He didn't answer the question, Aubrey thought as he perched on the edge of one of the heavy leather chairs. It's worse than worse.

  His father took a seat on the other side of the table. Suddenly, it felt awkwardly like an interview.

  Sir Darius was dressed in black. His tie was silver-grey. His shoes glowed with the sort of shine that only comes from truly dedicated – and well-paid – servants. He was every inch the modern Prime Minister.

  Yet Aubrey saw that his father was immensely uncomfortable.

  'Now, Aubrey. You're an only child.'

  Aubrey's face fell. 'Mother isn't expecting, is she?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'I'm not going to have a baby brother. Or sister. Am I?' Aubrey pressed both his hands together and studied them. 'Well, I suppose I can live with that, if that's all that's wrong. Thousands do, I know. Have baby siblings, that is. Which I wouldn't be. Having it, that is. Him. Or her. Not it.'

  Sir Darius waited until Aubrey had wound down. 'Are you finished?'

  'I just wanted to reassure you, sir, that I'm happy to be an older brother. I'm aware of the responsibilities and I look forward to them.'

  'I see.' A hint of a smile. 'A pity, then, that nothing of that kind is planned. And I should know, after all.'

  'Of course. Sir. Yes, you would. Naturally.'

  Sir Darius coughed and looked out of the window. Aubrey was grateful to follow his gaze and saw that Hobbs, the gardener, was turning the daffodils or declumping the rhododendron or some other mysterious, earthy pursuit.

  After he'd sufficiently gathered himself, Sir Darius started again. 'Aubrey, you are my only heir.'

  Aubrey nodded. It seemed safest not to talk.

  'You would have become Duke of Brayshire after me, had I not renounced my title.'

  Another nod.

  'While you won't have the title, I do have something to pass on to you. I believe now is the time.'

  'Now?' One word. Safe enough.

  'You are a young man. You are studying at university. You are beginning to chart the course of your own life.' Sir Darius measured his words. 'Aubrey, you are a fine individual, with many gifts. Your conduct on the Electra was exemplary.'

  Aubrey swallowed. 'Thank you, sir.'

  'It is difficult, being a parent. Especially a father.'

  'Sir.'

  'I feared my father, Aubrey. He believed, as did all men of his generation, in discipline as the way to raise children. There was nothing gentle about him. He was fair, but stern, distant and judgemental.'

  Aubrey was fascinated – and embarrassed. His father had never spoken to him this way. The old Duke of Brayshire was a dim memory to Aubrey, the grandfather who gave piggy-backs. The man must have softened in his old age. 'I . . .'

  'Don't say anything, Aubrey. I realise this must be awkward for you, and talking is your first reaction in all circumstances. Listen this time, there's a good chap.'

  Aubrey subsided.

  'I vowed I wouldn't raise my son as my father raised his.' Sir Darius found an interesting piece of lint on his lapel. 'I dare say that's a promise that's been made more than once in history, but it was the best I could do. I may have been harsh with you, Aubrey. Difficult. It was with the best of intentions.' Sir Darius stood. 'I want you to come with me.'

  'Where?'

  'To the Bank of Albion.'

  The landau was waiting at the front door. The weather being fine, Aubrey thought the open carriage a splendid choice, but his mind was racing. His father was being mysterious, but clumsily so. This was no clever joke or elaborate charade – there was something endearingly uncomfortable about the whole affair. It showe
d a side of his father that he'd rarely seen.

  The driver eased the matched greys out of the gates of Maidstone. With Sir Darius sitting in reflective silence and Aubrey unwilling to spoil the moment, the carriage clip-clopped along Highton Street towards the city. The black motorcar following closely was a sign of the increased diligence of the Special Services bodyguards.

  Approaching noon, the streets were busy. Sir Darius drummed his fingers impatiently on the rail until a policeman, passing on a bicycle, stopped. 'Care for some help, Prime Minister?'

  'Constable, you are a veritable lifesaver. If you would.'

  The policeman saluted, grinned, then proceeded to lead the carriage through intersection after intersection, with the connivance of his colleagues who were on point duty. Each of them saluted Sir Darius, who shouted his thanks as they trotted past.

  'Two birds, Aubrey. One stone,' Sir Darius said abruptly as they passed the Gallery of the Arts.

  Aubrey twisted this cryptic utterance around until he thought he had an answer. 'You're meeting someone at the bank?'

  'Indeed.' Sir Darius took out his pocket watch. 'Clive Rokeby-Taylor. That's why I don't want to be late.'

  'Meeting at the bank? Odd, isn't it?'

  'Rokeby-Taylor and money were never far apart,' Sir Darius said dryly. 'Especially other people's money.'

  With the help of the friendly police constable, the landau drew up right outside the Bank of Albion, with the Special Services motorcar right behind. Aubrey had never been inside the Grand Dame of Woolcroft Street, but knew the imposing edifice by sight. Grimy from city smoke, the bank still managed to look both stately and intimidating. This was an institution that was serious about money, its architecture announced, and it took such a long, steady, safe view of investment that it regarded glaciers as reckless daredevils of speed.

  One of the bank's managers, grandees or high potentates marched out as Sir Darius alighted. He was stout, with a pointy beard, and a cutaway coat in a style that was forty years out of date, even though it looked as if it had been made that morning. 'Prime Minister. We have a special room ready for you.'

  'Sir Norman. I wasn't expecting the chief governor to meet us.'

  'It's the least we could do. I'm happy to see to your needs.'

  Sir Norman gestured and a pair of doormen appeared. One stood by the carriage, the other opened the heavy, brass portal of the Bank of Albion.

  The main chamber of the bank was vast. Aubrey stood and gaped at the towering main dome and the three flanking domes. Marble, brass and dark wood, then more marble, brass and dark wood and – to top it all off – some extra marble, brass and dark wood had been used to emphasise the solidity of the bank. This was a place to do business, but it had the solemnity of a cathedral.

  Pillars marked the entrance to the flanking domes – chambers for further mysterious banking business, Aubrey assumed. Loan disbursement. Fiscal calibrating. Inter-bank credit unfurling.

  Under the main dome, long counters kept back a horde of clerks and tellers. The chamber was filled with a multitude of murmurs – requests, explanations, agreements – and they hovered over the hundreds of people like insubstantial moths.

  Sir Norman broke the spell. 'This way, if you please.'

  Sir Darius took off his hat and gloves. A uniformed doorman – of the interior variety, therefore older and more senior – materialised to take them. Aubrey hurriedly thrust his hat on him and the doorman disappeared into one of the shadowed recesses that abounded in the grand building.

  'Mr Rokeby-Taylor?' Sir Darius asked.

  'He's in the boardroom. I'll take you to him,' Sir Norman said. 'The other governors were to use the boardroom this morning, but they've opted to convene elsewhere.'

  Clive Rokeby-Taylor had totally recovered from his brush with death. He was dressed in a dark green suit, with a jaunty sky-blue cravat. 'Darius!' he said, full of good cheer. 'Aubrey! Come in, come in. Have some tea – it's first rate!'

  Rokeby-Taylor busied himself pouring tea into the bone-china cups without a trace of self-consciousness, keeping up a stream of observations about the boardroom, the tea service and the biscuits.

  Eventually, he sat on the opposite side of the long boardroom table, sipped his tea and studied Sir Darius over the rim.

  'What is it, Clive?' Sir Darius said. 'Why have you asked me here?'

  Rokeby-Taylor glanced at Aubrey. 'Not wanting to be rude, but I think this is something between the two of us.'

  'Private matters?'

  'Financial matters.'

  'Aubrey can stay. I trust his discretion.'

  Rokeby-Taylor shrugged, then grinned. 'If you say so.'

  Aubrey tried to appear as trustworthy and discreet as possible, to live up to his father's confidence. He sat up straight, laced his fingers and placed his hands on the table in front of him. As much as possible, he tried to keep his curiosity from showing on his face. Aubrey's grasp of high finance was not entirely complete, but he knew that if he was serious about politics, it was something he had to remedy.

  No time like the present, he thought.

  Rokeby-Taylor adjusted his cravat. 'I understand that a substantial shipbuilding contract is in the offing.'

  'A bill is imminent, to be voted on in three weeks time,' Sir Darius said. 'A special allocation for six new battleships immediately, with six more to follow. This is no secret.'

  'And the bill is sure to pass the Lower House? And the Lords?'

  'I wouldn't have put it up if I hadn't thought it would be successful. The opposition is backing the bill. They see the situation on the Continent. I could say that there are votes in defence, but that would be cynical.'

  'Quite, quite.' Rokeby-Taylor studied the ceiling for a moment. 'I don't suppose it's any secret that Rokeby-Taylor Shipbuilding is keen to get this contract.'

  'The contract will be awarded by the Navy Board, after they examine all tenders. I'm sure your firm will be seriously considered.'

  'And I'm sure that the Navy Board would listen to the Prime Minister.'

  Aubrey had come to know his father's silences well. This was one of those where he was controlling his temper with some effort. Eventually, he touched his moustache. 'What are you suggesting, Clive?'

  Rokeby-Taylor met Sir Darius's gaze and held it. 'It's been a long time, Darius. I wanted to see if you'd changed.'

  'And have I?'

  'Not in this respect, it seems.' Rokeby-Taylor picked up his cup and raised it to his lips.

  'I'm glad,' Sir Darius said. 'If that's all, Clive, I think I should offer you some advice.'

  Rokeby-Taylor set his cup down in the saucer with a clatter. 'No, actually, that's not all. I have a business proposition for you.'

  'I see. Like the one you put to me a few moments ago?'

  Rokeby-Taylor snorted. 'That was nothing. It never happened. And if it did it was just a joke.'

  'A joke,' Sir Darius said, and Aubrey wanted to warn Rokeby-Taylor. When his father repeated someone's words like that, the ice was getting extremely thin underfoot.

  But Aubrey was being discreet and trustworthy, and doing his best to appear invisible.

  'A joke,' Rokeby-Taylor echoed, oblivious to the tension. 'Far more important is the chance for you to make a substantial fortune.'

  'I already have a substantial fortune.'

  'And so do I. But who can stop at one, eh?'

  'Your proposal?'

  'You become a major shareholder of Rokeby-Taylor Shipbuilding. We could use an injection of funds – a bit of a cash-flow problem at the moment, especially after that problem with the Electra – and you'd double your investment in six months. In the current climate. Say that you'll meet Ingles, my new financial manager. He's a wizard with things like this.'

  Sir Darius stood. 'No.'

  'Think carefully, Darius. This is risk-free. And it's patriotic. You'd be helping a project that will defend the nation.'

  'Thank you for the tea, even though it wasn't yours.' Sir Da
rius smiled a chilly smile. 'But that always was your way, Clive, very free with things that didn't belong to you.'

  'Wait. Before you go, I want to show you something.'

  'Another opportunity?'

  'Of course. No-one will ever say that Clive Rokeby- Taylor missed an opportunity. Follow me.'

  He bounded out of the room. Sir Darius frowned. 'Well, Aubrey?'

  'Sorry, sir, but he seems like a scoundrel.'

  'No doubt about that. But is he a good-hearted scoundrel, or a black-hearted scoundrel?'

  'I always thought that people generally fall somewhere in between.'

  'And that is something that a politician – and especially a Prime Minister – should never forget. Shall we see what he's up to now?'

  Aubrey couldn't help it. He found Rokeby-Taylor appealing, with his enthusiasms and his energy. He couldn't see how the man managed in the world of business, but his achievements were evidence that he succeeded, despite his erratic behaviour.

  They found him in the main banking chamber. He stood right in the middle, under the cupola, while those more intent on their financial matters hurried past to the teller of their choice. 'Darius! Over here!' he called, unmindful of heads turning his way.

  'Look up there,' he said when Sir Darius and Aubrey had joined him. 'This must appeal to you.'

  He pointed. Evenly spaced around the base of the dome were a number of black boxes. They were slightly tilted, so they looked down on the great space below. Featureless, they looked to be about the size and dimensions of a small trunk.

  'If I'm supposed to be impressed,' Sir Darius said,' then I'm afraid you've failed.'

  Rokeby-Taylor shook his head in mock disappointment. 'I'm sorry about that. I thought you would have been more interested in the greatest advance in magical security in the last hundred years.'

  'A grand claim. What are they?'

  'Magic suppressors.'

  Sir Darius looked up sharply, but Aubrey couldn't help himself. 'Magic suppressors? That small?'

  'Ah, I seem to have genuine interest,' Rokeby-Taylor said. 'From both of you.'

  'I've heard something about them,' Sir Darius said. 'Experimental, aren't they?'