Then the name of Arturo Spinetti was announced and Aubrey nearly leaped to his feet.
A tall figure mounted the stairs to the stage two at a time. On him, the red robes didn't look foolish – they looked dashing. His shoulders were broad, his hair long and dark. He crossed the stage with balance and grace, like the most expert of fencers. When he took the scroll from the vice-chancellor he gripped the old man's hand and grinned, fiercely.
'It's him,' Aubrey hissed to George.
'Spinetti? I know. That's what the vice-chancellor said.'
'No. It's Dr Tremaine.'
George gave Aubrey an odd look. 'Are you all right, old man?'
Aubrey didn't get a chance to answer. A magnificently whiskered gent in the seat in front of them turned and glared.
Aubrey subsided.
Spinetti (Tremaine!) launched into a speech of acceptance. Within a few words, the whole mood of the audience had changed. Even those who'd fallen asleep were waking and paying attention. Gone was the pained forbearance. Instead, the members of the audience began to smile and nod.
The singer charmed them. With a mixture of self-deprecation and suave aggrandisement, he spoke of his delight in accepting his doctorate. He wasn't just grateful, he made every audience member feel as if he or she were being personally thanked by someone very special.
Except Aubrey. He sat, shocked, trying to work out how Tremaine had smuggled himself into the country from Holmland, why no-one recognised him, and exactly what he was up to this time.
The new doctor finished by inviting everyone to his performances in Trinovant, promising them the time of their lives.
The Prescott Theatre had heard applause many times, but most of it was polite – especially at tedious award-giving ceremonies. The applause that the singer received was different. It echoed enough to make the windows shake; he bowed, managing to be both flamboyant and humble at the same time.
Magic, Aubrey thought frantically. Tremaine must be using some sort of concealing magic.
'Let's go,' he murmured to George while those around were still clapping wildly. Aubrey slipped out of his seat and hurried up the aisle towards the exit.
'What is it?' George asked once they were outside.
The wind was cool in the evening and felt good on Aubrey's brow. 'Theatre door. This way.'
George shook his head, but trotted alongside as Aubrey hurried around the curving flank of the theatre. 'Mistaken identity, old man. Granted, Spinetti looks a bit like old Dr Tremaine, but do you really think he'd front up like this? A bit blatant, isn't it?'
Aubrey stopped, suddenly, and George had to jog back to join him. 'It is blatant. And that's just the sort of thing he'd do.'
'You're starting to sound strange.' George rubbed his chin. 'I tell you what. Let's wait out here and see this character up close as he's leaving. I'll guarantee that you'll come to your senses.'
Aubrey found that he'd clenched his fists and that it was an effort to unclench them. 'You think I'm mad? Is that it?'
'If there's anything I've learned from my time with you, it's that if you have a bizarre notion, it should be taken seriously.'
They didn't have long to wait. The organ began again, signalling the recessional. Soon, gowned and capped academics began to spill out of the theatre entrance. They were chattering, full of high spirits, as they made their way down the stairs, a gorgeous waterfall of colour and pomp.
Aubrey grabbed George's arm. 'There he is.'
'I see him.' George frowned. 'D'you really think he looks like Dr Tremaine?'
'Looks like? George, he is Dr Tremaine!'
'I don't think so. Dr Tremaine is taller, for a start. And his nose is longer. Different coloured eyes, too.'
'What are you talking about?' Aubrey grabbed George's arm, hard. 'It's him, I tell you!'
'Aubrey,' George said softly, 'people are looking at us. Lower your voice.'
Aubrey blinked. He saw the concern in his friend's face and he realised he'd been on the verge of creating a scene. 'George?'
'Easy now. What would Dr Tremaine be doing here? And don't you think someone would spot him if he was stupid enough to appear? He's one of the most notorious people in the world.'
Aubrey rubbed his forehead and searched the crowd for the Dr Tremaine lookalike, but he'd gone. He let go of George's arm. 'I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me.'
'Let's head off, shall we? You're looking pale.'
Aubrey nodded. His stomach felt hollow, as if he hadn't eaten for days. 'If you say so.'
Together they slipped away from the Prescott Theatre back to St Alban's College.
AUBREY HELD THE CUP OF TEA IN BOTH HANDS. 'I DON'T know what came over me. I'm sorry.'
'No need to apologise. Remarkably tame occurrence, that, compared to some of the hullabaloos we've been involved with.'
'Still, it's not the sort of thing for our first week at university. Not a good reputation enhancer.'
'Not exactly.' George munched on a biscuit. 'Protective colouration, old man, that's what's needed.'
'Protective colouration? You've been talking to Caroline, haven't you? Sounds all natural historyish to me.'
George finished his biscuit, grinned and dusted both hands together. 'Camouflage. What animals do to blend in with their surroundings so they won't get eaten.'
'I see. And how is this relevant to me? I can't see I'm in any immediate danger of being devoured.'
'No, but it might be useful to fit in, somewhat. Not arouse suspicions, if you know what I mean.'
'Ah, yes. My condition. Not drawing attention to it might be a good thing.'
'It's all well and good being the Prime Minister's son, but it might be useful to be a jolly keen member of the student population and all that entails.'
'I think I see what you're getting at. Clubs and societies?'
'Exactly. They've been touting for members. You haven't noticed?'
'I've had other things on my mind.'
'I'm surprised you haven't been press-ganged into something. They're deadly, those recruiters.'
'And what have you found yourself involved with, George?'
'I'm a Lunatic.'
'Don't be so hard on yourself.'
'Very droll. The student paper. Luna. I thought with my interest in journalism it could be an outlet.'
'And how did a first-year, inexperienced country boy like you manage to become a journalist on a respected publication like Luna?'
George waved a hand. 'Well, I mentioned that I had experience with printing presses. Especially problematic ones.'
Aubrey snorted. While wrestling with a recalcitrant printing press in the name of the Marchmaine Independence League could come under the heading of 'experience', Aubrey had filed it under 'tortures not to be repeated'. He thought he still had ink under his fingernails. 'Nothing like starting at the bottom, George. Anything else?'
'I gave the Birdwatching Society a miss. The Rationalist League sounded interesting, but a bit serious.'
'No "Lounging Around and Being Indolent Society", was there?'
George flapped his hand. 'No need for an organised club there. I can manage that on my own. I did, however, put my name down for the Cricket Club. Thought I'd put the gloves on again, a spot of wicket-keeping.'
Aubrey smiled. 'Now, that sounds like a good idea. They need players?'
'They're always looking for players, the chap behind the desk told me.'
'Splendid.' He frowned. 'Now, where did I pack my bat?'
'Oh. And there's a Musical Theatre Society. Quite active, they are, too.'
'No.'
'No?'
'No more musical theatre for me. I've had quite enough, for now. I might try picking up an instrument, though.'
'Leave the cornet to me. It requires a sensitive touch.'
'I was thinking about the violin.'
'Caroline wouldn't have mentioned she liked the violin, would she?'
'She may have talked about enjoying strin
g quartets, but at no time has she specifically nominated the violin by name.'
George didn't look at him. He tapped his teacup with a spoon, absently. 'And Spinetti?'
Aubrey took out his pocket watch and studied the Brayshire Ruby. It was comforting, a solid reminder of his heritage and of good Albionish craft. 'He is Dr Tremaine. I'm sure of it.'
'You are?'
'Most certainly.' Aubrey put his watch away. 'I know, it makes no sense, his being here. Regardless, it is him.'
'Even if no-one else can see it.'
'George, he used to be the Sorcerer Royal. He's capable of enchantments like no-one else.'
'But why? Pretending to be a singer doesn't seem like one of his plots to take over the world.'
Aubrey slumped. 'I don't know.'
'Shouldn't you tell Craddock, then? Isn't that the sort of thing he's got you watching out for?'
'How did you know? Never mind. Craddock's another one whose motivations are opaque.' Aubrey scowled, then glanced at George. 'Are you saying that you believe me?'
George nodded. 'I'm not saying that you're never wrong, but I've learned that the unbelievable isn't what it's reputed to be.'
'I'm touched, George, and glad that you believe in me, because I was starting to doubt myself.' He stretched, then yawned. 'Tomorrow, let's go and see about doing some joining up.'
THE NEXT DAY, AUBREY TOOK GEORGE'S PROTECTIVE colouration suggestion to heart. He joined the Fencing Club, the Cricket Club and the Chess Club, as well as making enquiries about the university regiment.
He was careful not to go near the Musical Theatre Society. He knew that even if he vowed to remain a casual backstage helper, somehow he'd end up spending most of his hours there and finding himself as an understudy to someone with precarious health and uncertain commitment.
While all this was pleasant diversion – as was meeting the many and various members of the college – he quickly plunged into the serious matter of his studies. Remembering his vow not to engage in any practical magic, he'd loaded up with magical theory subjects. The denser, the better.
After his first lecture in Sub-fundamental Magic, Aubrey knew that this was the place for him. His head spun as he left the lecture theatre; he found he had to trail a hand along the stone walls of the cloisters to keep himself upright. Despite doing his preparatory reading, and despite feeling that he knew as much as anyone, he had been dazzled by the depth of reasoning, the open vistas that lay before him; he'd been impressed, too, by the remorseless, intense presentation of Professor Bromhead. The uncomfortable performer from the Great Manfred's stage show was gone. The professor was in his element – demanding, gruff, clinical in his unfolding of the mysteries of the origins of magic.
Aubrey thought this was exhilarating enough, but on the following day, the professor mentioned his protégé, Lanka Ravi.
Even in the short time Aubrey had been at the university, he had heard about the mysterious Lanka Ravi. The young genius was the prime element of any discussion around the Faculty of Magic – who was he, where was he, what was he up to?
A few things were agreed on. Some time ago, a parcel of documents had arrived unannounced on Professor Bromhead's desk. His curiosity was aroused by the stamps and the return address: it was from the Subcontinent, but he didn't recognise the name of the sender.
As the Trismegistus professor of magic at the foremost university in Albion, Professor Bromhead often received letters from the public. Mostly, these were from people with an amateur interest in magic. Obscure theories would be advanced, new laws outlined, plans suggested to overthrow established magical procedures. Almost always, these were the products of enthusiastic, but deluded, believers. Nothing ever came of them.
This time, Bromhead was ready to pen another polite letter of acknowledgement when he glanced at the topmost sheet.
Four hours later, he was still poring over the tiny, precise handwriting. Reluctantly, he'd become convinced that this Mr Lanka Ravi had outlined at least two revolutionary magical laws, along with a supporting theoretical framework.
Professor Bromhead had trouble believing that someone so distant from modern magical discourse had derived such brilliant stuff. It sparked a frantic correspondence. After the exchange of a dozen letters, he was convinced. Lanka Ravi was a magical prodigy.
It took Professor Bromhead a year to persuade Lanka Ravi and his family, but finally the gifted isolate boarded a steamer and made his way to Albion.
Since arriving, he had been cloistered with the top brains from the Department of Experimental and Theoretical Magic, but the undergraduate speculation was constantly centred on when Lanka Ravi would give a public lecture. Bunches of magic students would congregate out of thin air, surge to a lecture theatre where Lanka Ravi's appearance was rumoured, then dissipate, morosely, when the rumour proved to be unfounded.
Of course, Aubrey was caught up in the fever. It was a giddy, thrilling time and the exotic nature of the unseen Tamil magician added to the heady atmosphere. For the rest of the week, he felt like a native scout in a canoe, swept along by rapids. By dint of furious paddling, he managed to keep from capsizing, but it was a near thing. College life, meals, socialising, meeting new and fascinating people, then lectures and tutorials and the silence of the far reaches of the library. He had his violin lessons, but gave up after a few days of furious practice, realising that expertise in some areas doesn't come overnight. He regretted it, as he enjoyed the music-making. He'd even had his fingertips temporarily hardened thanks to a neat spell cast by his violin instructor, to stop them becoming raw from pressing on the strings.
He saw George first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and at college gatherings, but since their academic leanings were so divergent, that was all.
He didn't see Caroline. They moved in different university circles. He promised himself he'd do something about this, when he had time.
The Department of Experimental and Theoretical Magic wasn't only the home of the mysterious Lanka Ravi. It was leading the way in all manner of modern magical research. Things Aubrey had only read about were being discussed and refined every day. But he soon learned that the department was made of people, the same as any other organisation. Fads, fashions, and favourites were rife. Some avenues of inquiry were seen as 'rewarding' and 'challenging', while others were yawned at, or even scorned as unworthy of serious exploration. Currently, the feverish area of speculation appeared to be the origins of magic, with many favouring the thesis that human consciousness was responsible for magic. The exact manner of this interaction was the subject of feverish discussions and exploration.
Controversy, too, was bread and butter for the department. It was a university, after all. One of the most divisive issues was military applications of magical theory. The majority of academics and students were firm patriots, and willing to countenance the notion that the army or the navy may benefit from their work. After all, their reasoning went, the alternative was worse.
However, a reasonable pacifist movement also had a presence, resisting any project that smacked of practical, war-mongering application. The result was that these people dealt with some of the most abstruse areas of magical theory – and that they walked the halls of the department building with distant, vague expressions, as if they were seeing things beyond the mundane here and now.
Only once did Aubrey hear his hero, Baron Verulam, mentioned. It was with tones of affectionate disdain, as one of the early progenitors of modern magic, but hopelessly – hopelessly – old-fashioned in these times.
Aubrey bridled at this, but bit his tongue. He needed a firmer footing before he engaged in arguments on this level.
The event, however, that caused Aubrey's studies to take a sudden sharp turn came when he was looking for George at the end of the hectic first week.
A letter arrived at their rooms from George's mother. Aubrey broke off from his studies – a little dazed, as he often was when disengaging from knotty magical theory – a
nd immediately grabbed his jacket. He scratched his head over George's handwritten lecture timetable and went looking for his friend.
Aubrey crept into the back of the History lecture theatre and tried to spy George's sandy hair. His efforts, however, were distracted by the lecturer.
She was petite, with light brown hair, and wore rimless spectacles. Her hands were covered with rings, which flashed as she constantly gestured to emphasise one point or another.
She was passionately describing the difference between Chaldean and the Nineveh variant of the Assyrian language. 'While they are both aspects of the Babylonian,' she said, 'never, ever get them confused.' She took off her glasses. 'I did once, when I was your age. It took me a long time to live down the embarrassment.'
For the rest of the lecture, Aubrey forgot all about George. He was lost in the unfolding story of early language development in the ancient world.
When the lecture finished, Aubrey hurried down the aisle. He spotted George lingering near the exit, talking to a serious-looking girl in a green dress, and decided he'd be there for some time.
'Excuse me?' he said to the lecturer.
She was still gathering her notes at the lectern. She glanced at him. Her eyes were dark brown and Aubrey thought she was about the same age as his parents – considerably younger than any of the other dons he'd encountered.
'If you've come late,' she said, 'I'm afraid you'll have to get the notes from one of the other students.' She smiled. 'I did make a fair bit of it up as I went along, you see.'
'Er.'
'Chaldean is so intriguing, don't you think?'
'Certainly. It's perfect for most spells that require a careful timing factor.'
She looked over the top of her spectacles. 'You're not reading History.'
'No. I'm Magic.'
'Of course you are.' She slipped her papers into a case. 'So what can I do for you?'
'Ancient languages. How can I do more?'
Word of Honour Page 9
