Word of Honour

by Michael Pryor

  In the end, he sat back, crossed his arms on his chest, and settled for simply enjoying the beguiling scent of her perfume. He made a note to himself to research perfume, so he could speak with some knowledge about it instead of the total ignorance he currently had. He imagined himself greeting her with a 'Lovely scent. Madeleine, isn't it? I do enjoy the floral topnotes balanced with the myrrh-like warmth.'

  He settled back with a smile.

  The quartet brought its playing to a conclusion. Lights dimmed and the curtains hissed back. A small square table stood alone. At the four corners of the stage stood tripods, each surmounted by featureless, black metal boxes. Aubrey's eyes opened wide, his professional interest suddenly piqued.

  The boxes looked like magic suppressors.

  The Great Manfred strode onto the stage to the applause of the audience. His face was grave and he did not acknowledge the plaudits. His attention was on the table.

  He went and stood next to it, frowning, as if troubled. He tilted his head and, keeping the table firmly in his gaze, walked right around it. Then, with a flourish, he shook his right hand in the air above its surface. To his evident surprise, a small red ball appeared in his fingers.

  Aubrey blinked. It was a simple thing to do. Any young magician learned how to materialise small objects through applying the Law of Displacement. Moving a small ball from a pocket to a hand situated hardly any distance away? Routine.

  Except he'd felt no hint of magic at all.

  The Great Manfred stared at the red ball, then at the table. He bent and put his left hand under the table. With a quick, precise movement, he slammed his other hand onto its surface, crushing the ball beneath his palm.

  Or had he? Aubrey watched as the Great Manfred withdrew his left hand. It now had the ball in it, the ball that had apparently passed straight through the solid surface of the table.

  Applause, but muted, as if the audience wasn't quite sure what it was seeing.

  'Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,' the Great Manfred said, with a slight, Holmlandish bow. 'You are sceptical, which is quite correct. Magic, you are thinking. It's all done with magic.'

  No it's not, Aubrey thought. What on earth is going on here?

  The Great Manfred looked to the wings. 'Let me introduce a special guest. Professor Magnus Bromhead.'

  Aubrey stiffened. He'd never have expected to find the author of Magical Rigour: Experimental Procedures Delineated on the stage. It was as unexpected as bumping into an elephant in a bookshop.

  The applause was polite and puzzled this time rather than sceptical. It also seemed to puzzle the grey-haired, gown-wearing don who joined the sleight-of-hand artist. He shielded his eyes from the footlights.

  'Professor Bromhead,' the Great Manfred said. 'You are an expert on magic, are you not?'

  'I've held the Trismegistus chair of magic at the University of Greythorn for twenty years. That's why you hired me.'

  'Exactly. So you should be able to identify the devices on these tripods?'

  Professor Bromhead adjusted his glasses. He harrumphed, then moved closer to the nearest tripod. 'Magic suppressors. Where'd you get 'em?'

  The Great Manfred ignored the question. 'In the field generated by these devices, can any magic exist?'

  'None.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'One way to find out. Stand back.'

  The professor eyed the tripods, then moved to the very front of the stage, almost toppling into the orchestra pit. He spread his legs a little, settling his stance. Then he placed his hands together at chest height.

  It was a simple light spell and Aubrey nodded in approval at the crispness of the professor's enunciation. The spell was a well-practised one, to judge by the way it rolled off his tongue. Aubrey felt the smooth build-up of magic before the professor drew back his hands and a small ball of light hovered between them.

  Nervous applause tripped through the auditorium, but the professor looked up sharply. 'Watch,' he said.

  Slowly, he walked backward, keeping the ball of light hovering between his hands. One step, then two, and the professor moved into the area bounded by the tripods. Aubrey felt a surge of magic, and immediately, the ball of light winked out.

  Professor Bromhead dropped his hands. 'See? As soon as I stepped into this region of the stage, my magic failed, nullified by these devices. It's a sharply delineated area, determined by the placement of the boxes. Magic suppression works.'

  The Great Manfred nodded. 'So you would guarantee that I can use no magic while on this stage?'

  'I will. And better than that. I'll sit off in the wings and monitor for magic use each night of your show. If there's even a sniff, I'll feel it and raise a hue and cry.'

  'Professor, I thank you.'

  Aubrey applauded heartily as the professor left the stage. If Professor Bromhead was prepared to give his word on the truthfulness of the performance, it was good enough for him.

  After that, the Great Manfred proceeded to amaze.

  Aubrey was at first interested, then impressed and finally astounded. Rings linked and unlinked, ropes of colourful scarves came from nowhere, and endless numbers of eggs came from the Great Manfred's mouth.

  The performer's skills were stunning. Aubrey squinted, tilted his head from side to side, but eventually had to admit to himself that he had no idea how the Holmlander was doing it.

  AFTERWARDS, STANDING ON THE CROWDED PAVEMENT outside the theatre, Aubrey could barely keep still. 'Incredible,' he repeated. 'Simply incredible.'

  'He was very polished,' Caroline said. 'Not demonstrative, but certainly polished.'

  'Oh, he was good, but I was talking about the magic suppressors. They're extraordinary.'

  The notion had come to him unexpectedly. While he was trying to puzzle out the secrets of the Great Manfred's tricks, another part of his mind had apparently been gnawing away on something else.

  The magic suppressors. To perform as they did, they must grapple with the nature of magic itself. Magic and anti-magic. It was a frontier area of magical research, as far as Aubrey knew, but it was immensely important for the future of rational magical theory.

  Perhaps it could shed some light on death magic – and his condition.

  Seven

  MONDAY MORNING, GREYTHORN. AUBREY HAD BEEN to the university town many times, and had even been to the colleges, accompanying his father on one trip or another. But it was different, approaching as a student instead of a visitor.

  He checked his new pocket watch to make sure they weren't late. The Brayshire Ruby had been beautifully set into the gold cover of the watch; Anderson and Sutch had done a superb job, with the internal workings as well as the decorative case.

  'I'm sure I've forgotten something,' George muttered as the motor-cab rattled through the cobbled streets.

  'You're bound to have,' Aubrey said. 'You can send for whatever it is.'

  'Of course. Quite.' George settled back, but didn't look convinced. 'When are you planning to bump into Caroline?'

  'What?'

  'You know, old man, accidentally crossing paths with her, happening to be outside her lecture, something like that. Apostle's College isn't far away. Maybe your bicycle will have a flat tyre, right outside her room?'

  'I have no such plans,' Aubrey said stiffly, although he had been pleased when Caroline had opted to live in college rather than stay at home with her mother in the town. He looked out of the window to see two dons arguing on a street corner, one jabbing the other with a rolled-up newspaper.

  Ah, the spirited life of academic discourse, he thought.

  'No?' George continued. 'Why not? I thought you'd be right onto it, opportunity and all that.'

  'Caroline has her calling. She's at university to study. She doesn't want any distractions.'

  'I see. How's that feel then, to be a distraction?'

  'Potential distraction.' He sighed. 'I'm not going to put my foot in it again, George. Not after last time.'

  'Mm. Embarrass
ing.'

  'Embarrassment I can handle. But hurting other people, blindly? Even when I think I'm doing the right thing? Not any more.'

  George pursed his lips for a while. 'Commendable, that, not wanting to hurt people.'

  'I would have thought so.'

  'But if it means you just don't do anything, then it's a bit limiting, what?'

  'Perhaps. But better that than the alternative.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Oh, definitely. I consider myself an expert in every aspect of human relationships, now.'

  'Really?'

  'Of course not. I'm struggling to keep my head above water.'

  The motor-cab veered to one side. With a squeal of brakes, it lurched close to the kerb. 'We're here, gents,' the cabby announced. 'St Alban's College.'

  THE PORTER SHOWED THEM TO THE ROOMS THEY WERE going to share. Aubrey stood at the door and took grim satisfaction in the knowledge that the quality of the rooms was a way of reinforcing their status. First-year students were the lowest of the low, and thus were put in the dingiest rooms. It wasn't anything personal, it was simply five hundred years of tradition.

  Their quarters were two rooms, second floor of the northern wing, perfectly situated to catch every hint of icy wind when it rolled down from the hills, as it did with clockwork regularity in these parts.

  Two beds, two wardrobes and a washstand in the bedroom; two desks with empty bookshelves in the study. It was old, it was bare, and it was going to be their home.

  Aubrey skimmed his hat onto the bed. 'Wardrobes. They're spoiling us, George.'

  George ambled to the window. He struggled, but eventually threw it open; fresh air edged in, as if unsure of its welcome. 'We're in the lap of luxury. Just wait until we get those trunks up here. The importance of floor space is greatly exaggerated, you know.'

  Aubrey couldn't feel depressed, not here. University had beckoned for some time. Stonelea School had been as good as any in the country, but for the last two years he felt as if he'd been marking time, intellectually. His magical studies teachers had done as much for him as they could but he'd been chafing, wanting to learn more.

  George groaned and smacked himself on the forehead. 'Idiot.'

  'You've remembered what you forgot?'

  George wiped his hand over a doleful face. 'Father gave me a book. I left it behind.'

  Aubrey took this as further sign of his friend's distraction.

  'It was important?'

  'It was Lord Aldersham's memoirs. One of Father's favourites.'

  'The newspaper magnate? Your father enjoyed that?'

  'He did. And, more to the point, he knew I would.' George cursed his own forgetfulness again. He was so disconsolate Aubrey started to consider what he could do for him, but before he could think of anything, a knock came from the open door. 'Where do you want this case?' a voice asked.

  'In the study,' Aubrey said, 'anywhere.'

  He turned away from the window and stared at the man who was carrying one of George's suitcases. 'Commander Craddock.'

  'Good morning, Fitzwilliam, Doyle. On the desk?'

  Aubrey gestured, a little dazed. 'Thank you. We were on our way to get our things.'

  'You'll need a few trips. Looks as if you've brought enough to last off a determined siege.'

  'It was my grandmother. She insisted on helping me pack.'

  'Ah, the redoubtable Duchess Maria. She is well?'

  'You know perfectly well how she is,' George put in. 'That's your job, knowing about things and all.'

  'Mr Doyle, you go straight to the heart of the matter, as is your wont. Now, if you'd be so kind, could you go and fetch some more of those heavy things? I need a word with your friend here.'

  George raised an eyebrow. 'Aubrey?'

  'I'll be fine, George. Thanks.'

  George frowned, but went. Craddock waited for the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, then closed the door.

  'You're being mysterious,' Aubrey said.

  Craddock took off his black, broad-brimmed hat. Underneath, his hair was fine, and so blond as to be almost white. It was straight, thick and surprisingly luxurious.

  'Mysterious?' he said. 'It goes with the job, rather.' He paused and took an envelope from the pocket of his long black coat.

  Craddock, as head of the Magisterium, had responsibility for policing all magical affairs. It was a brief he interpreted broadly and Aubrey was convinced that he enjoyed the clandestine nature of his activities.

  'I can't imagine this is a social visit,' he said.

  'Quite right. I'll get to the nub of the matter.' He drew the curtains. Thin as they were, the room was plunged into half-light. 'I want to formalise your relationship with the Magisterium. I want you as an irregular operative.'

  Aubrey almost smiled. Entering the service of the Magisterium had been one of the possibilities he'd considered for this year. He'd wondered how to do it – without having to ask his father for assistance. He'd put it aside, deciding instead to concentrate on his studies, and now here the opportunity was presenting itself. 'I can't. I'm studying.'

  'That's one of the reasons I want you on board. You're at Greythorn, a legitimate student, studying magic. I need someone in that department and none of my operatives have been able to get in.'

  'They've tried?'

  'Tried, failed, been reassigned. I need you.'

  'Surely I don't have the training, the skills.'

  'The Magisterium takes all kinds, as long as they have magical ability. We can teach you the rest. As needed.'

  It was tempting. 'What does my father say about this?'

  'I haven't asked him. I'm asking you.'

  That was enough. Aubrey put out his hand. 'I'm happy to help.'

  'Good man. I'll be in touch, soon. Here.'

  He held out the envelope he'd been cradling. 'It's from the Rector of your college. I took it from your letterbox on the way up.'

  A bumping noise came from outside. Craddock opened the door to find a red-faced George battling with a huge steamer trunk. 'And here's your friend, just in time to hear about the invitation.'

  George leaned on the trunk. 'Invitation?' he panted. 'That's quick. No-one knows we're here.'

  Aubrey flapped the card. 'We've been invited to a ceremony, tomorrow. The awarding of degrees.'

  'Ah,' Craddock said. 'The Rector likes it when the son of the Prime Minister is part of his college. Expect more of these invitations.'

  Aubrey groaned and George chuckled. 'Don't laugh, George,' Aubrey said. 'Your name's on this invitation, too, you know.'

  George's groan was even louder than Aubrey's.

  THE NEXT DAY WAS A WHIRL OF FACES, NAMES, PLACES AND timetables. Aubrey didn't see George until the late afternoon, a bare few hours before the ceremony was to begin.

  They hurriedly dressed in their evening dress, full white tie and then their undergraduate gowns. 'Astounding stuff,' George said as he struggled with his braces. 'The Dean of History himself interviewed me, asked what sort of history I was interested in.'

  'A fair question, the past being as huge as it is. It helps to narrow it down,' Aubrey said. 'Have you seen my collar studs?'

  'Over there, in that box by the door. You're right, it was a fair question, on reflection, but at the time it rather took me by surprise. You see, I'm in favour of history in general, if you like. The concept of it.'

  'You're saying history is a good thing. Your shoes need a shine.'

  'So do yours. Cleaning kit is in that case, I think.'

  'Ah, excellent.'

  'Now, I didn't think I'd be getting off on the right foot if I told the Dean of History that history was a good thing. It's the sort of stuff he knows, I'd say. So I said I was interested in Classical history.'

  'Why?'

  'My line of reasoning is this. The further ago the period is, the less we know about it.'

  'True. Mostly.'

  'And the less we know about it, the more I can make up. I didn't put it exactly
in those terms, you understand.'

  'I'm glad.'

  'So it looks like I'm studying Roman history, which I'm not altogether displeased with.'

  'The Romans? They had some fine magicians in their day.' Aubrey straightened. 'There. You look acceptable.'

  'And so do you. Let's go.'

  The University of Greythorn and the town of Greythorn had a relationship that Aubrey thought of in biological terms. Either the university had spread through the town like weeds through a fertile field or the town had enveloped the university like a strangler fig on a jungle palm. Regardless, it was a symbiotic relationship – each depended on the other, even though they were loath to admit it.

  The heart of the university was the Prescott Theatre. It was here that the great university ceremonies were held, as well as concerts and recitals. Aubrey had always admired its stately elegance – its many-pillared façade, the hexagonal dome – and he was ready to admit that Sir Robinson Hookes was at the top of his form when he built it for Lord Prescott.

  The ceremony was the sort of thing that a seven-hundred-year-old institution can get very polished at. The procession, with the most senior academics from each of the colleges, made Aubrey think he'd slipped back in time. Gowns, robes, ermine, gold and silver chains, the professors, wardens, rectors, principals, masters and other big brain boxes paraded their full spectrum of colours. Aubrey amused himself by deciding which animal each of their caps looked like. He saw quite a number of moles, a few mangy cats and one outstanding badger, while organ music made the hall shake.

  Soon after the raft of post-graduate degrees, he glanced at George and almost laughed aloud – which would have ruined the solemnity of the occasion. George had the glazed, stony-eyed look that he adopted when enduring ceremonial boredom. He could keep it up for hours – like an eastern mystic on a bed of nails.

  When the vice-chancellor announced that the honorary degrees were about to be awarded, Aubrey nudged George, who started. 'I wasn't asleep,' he said loudly and received a few haughty looks from people nearby.

  Politicians headed the list, receiving doctorates for their useful generosity to higher learning. An ex-ambassador received a doctorate of economics for working for ten years in the Antipodes. Aubrey thought that was rather rich. The ex-ambassador should have been grateful for the privilege. An archbishop picked up a doctorate of divinity, which he seemed very pleased with, almost a tick of approval.