Word of Honour

by Michael Pryor

  'Not lacemaking?' he said, sharing another ghost wink with George. 'You must be philanthropists, then, making a large donation. I always admire Jack's ability to conjure up money.'

  Jack started to talk, but Brandt held up a hand. 'No, let me explain, Mr Figg. You've been good enough to help we exiled Holmlanders settle into your country. Now it is time for me to tell you all why I need to speak to Mr Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'

  More than a little intrigued, Aubrey took his place at the table with the others. Bloch and Albers looked nervous, Bloch rubbing his hands together constantly, while Albers seemed to find it difficult to meet the gaze of anyone else in the room.

  'We know of you,' Brandt began, 'Mr Fitzwilliam. Various of our members have noted your deeds, your part in several recent events.'

  'Members? Is this a club?'

  Bloch's and Albers's agitation increased, and Bloch mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. Brandt remained calm. 'Not a club, no. A loose association, a group of friends and like-minded Holmlanders who do not agree with the way the country is being run.'

  'Which country?' Caroline said. 'Albion or Holmland?'

  'Holmland, Miss Hepworth.' Brandt glanced at his colleagues. 'Please, you must understand, this is difficult.' He placed both hands, palms down, on the table in front of him. 'Some of us had to leave Holmland, unable to endure the situation. Some are still there, in positions of importance.'

  'You want to overthrow the Elektor,' Aubrey said flatly.

  Brandt shook his head. 'We want to restore Holmland, not destroy it. The Elektor is badly advised, easily led. We want to remove those who are steering our country toward war.'

  'The Chancellor and his government?' Aubrey said.

  'Just so. Once the Elektor sees how reasonable our position is, he will change his direction and all will be well.'

  Bloch cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was a growl. 'If he doesn't, then –'

  'Enough,' Brandt snapped. He shrugged at Aubrey. 'You must excuse us. The Chancellor's people have treated us very badly.'

  Aubrey frowned. 'I still don't see how I fit in.'

  'They have much to do here, Aubrey,' Jack Figg said. 'There's a sizeable Holmland community in Trinovant now. Displaced, dispossessed. Your family's work in setting up the Broad Street Clinic made me think you might be able to help.'

  'Jobs,' Madam Albers said. 'Houses. Somewhere to live, our people need.'

  'Of course,' Brandt said. 'This would be helpful. Vital. But it is with influence that I hope you can help most.'

  This was something Aubrey was used to. 'I'm afraid I can't do much there. Father is very concerned to keep things on the up and up. No indulgences, no personal favours.'

  'We understand. But if you could advise us on the proper channels, who to approach?'

  'I think so. If it could help.'

  'It would be greatly appreciated.'

  An understanding having been reached, the conversation took a turn to the mundane. After some chat about the weather and Caroline's mother's looming exhibition, both Bloch and Albers were growing noticeably anxious and made efforts to bring the niceties to an end. Farewells were made, but as the others filed out, Count Brandt signed for Aubrey to stay. 'You have some magic, I believe?' he said softly. Caroline looked back from the corridor, frowning, but Aubrey gestured for her to go on.

  'Why do you ask?'

  'We have some members of our group who are well qualified, magically, but they cannot obtain positions at your universities.' He scowled. 'And your companies sneer at our Holmland degrees.'

  'It's unfortunate,' Aubrey said.

  'I hoped you would understand. A waste of magical talent is a sad thing. Is there any way you can help?'

  Aubrey rubbed his chin. 'Let me see what I can do at Greythorn. There must be someone up there who'd be sympathetic.'

  'It's important,' Brandt said. 'For our cause as well as for them.'

  'I'll see what I can do.'

  Brandt smiled. Aubrey knew a politician's smile when he saw one and Brandt's came straight out of the textbook. 'Thank you, Mr Fitzwilliam. I hope we meet again soon.'

  A firm clasp of the hand and Brandt backed into the office, closing a door that wasn't so thick that Aubrey couldn't hear the voices immediately raised in disagreement behind it.

  LADY ROSE WAS WAITING FOR THEM AT MAIDSTONE.

  'Good,' she said as soon as they stepped through the front door. 'I need to speak to Caroline.'

  Aubrey stared. 'How did you know she'd be here?'

  'She rang me, of course. Yesterday.'

  Then they were off, into Lady Rose's drawing room. The door shut firmly behind them.

  'I wonder what that's about?' George asked.

  'Probably about the specimens they brought back from the Arctic,' Aubrey asked. Or it's about me, he thought and he fervently hoped it was the former.

  Aubrey and George went to the library, where George was happy with a selection of newspapers. Aubrey flitted from one book to another, never settling on one for long, trying to distract the part of his mind that was wondering about what was going on between his mother and Caroline.

  It was nearly an hour later – when the stack of discarded books by Aubrey's armchair was threatening to topple and do serious damage to a nearby potted palm – that Caroline appeared.

  Aubrey sprang to his feet. 'Are you all right?'

  'All right? Why wouldn't I be?'

  'Of course. Naturally.' Aubrey tried to think of a tactful way of finding out what had gone on behind closed doors.

  George looked up from his newspaper. 'What were you and Lady Rose talking about, Caroline? Anything important?'

  Sometimes, Aubrey realised, a direct approach was best.

  'Not really, George,' she said. 'Just about the attempt on Lady Rose's life while we were on our expedition.'

  For an instant, Aubrey wondered if he'd swapped lives with someone in a play. 'I beg your pardon?'

  'Your mother. Lady Rose. Someone tried to shoot her. That's why our expedition was cut short.'

  Astonishment and incredulity combined to overwhelm Aubrey with a totally new sensation: astondulity. 'Why didn't she tell me?'

  'She didn't want to bother you, apparently.'

  An instant later, Aubrey was through the doorway, down the hall and knocking on the drawing room. 'Mother?'

  The door opened. Lady Rose stood there, composed, regal, sardonic. 'Aubrey. That took nearly ten seconds longer than I expected. Are you getting slow in your old age?'

  'Mother.'Aubrey struggled for words. 'Are you all right?'

  She stood back and ushered him into her domain, a room that sported a riotous collection of her findings over the years. 'Isn't it a bit late to be asking that? It happened a month ago.'

  'But you were shot at!'

  'It's not the first time I've been shot at and probably won't be the last. You can't go on expedition to some of the places I've been without being shot at. In fact, it's a sign of respect in many areas.'

  Aubrey sat heavily on a sofa. A large, ceremonial mask took up the space next to him. It looked as stunned as he felt. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

  'Your father and I thought it best not to worry you. Not with your setting yourself up at St Alban's.'

  Aubrey thought this over for a moment. 'So you thought you knew best, where I'm concerned.'

  'Now, Aubrey, I know where you're headed. Your shameless manipulation of Caroline was an altogether different matter.'

  'How?'

  'You're not her parent.'

  'So it's all right to manoeuvre someone around, as long as he or she is your offspring?'

  'I wouldn't put it as bluntly as that.'

  'I see. And my behaviour isn't simply because I come from a long line of arch-manipulators?'

  Lady Rose pursed her lips. 'You are your father's son, aren't you? Look where we've got to from where we started. When you stepped through the door, you were concerned and sympathetic over my brush with death, and no
w you're all nettled and feeling aggrieved.'

  Aubrey considered this. 'You're correct. Let's get back to your expedition. But I reserve the right to return to feeling aggrieved later.'

  'If you must.'

  'You were shot at.'

  'It missed.'

  'I gathered that. Where? Why? How?'

  'In St Ivan's, our last provisioning port before we headed north. I was supervising the loading of a bale of reindeer skins.'

  'It was definitely you he was after?'

  'Oh yes. He called my name. When I looked around, he fired.'

  'And then?'

  'Well, after Caroline and I disarmed him, he ran off. We chased him, of course, but he knew the woods better than we did and he escaped.'

  'Why did you cancel the expedition? That doesn't sound like you.'

  'If it were just me, I would have pressed on. But I had others to think about. One attempt, I could pass off as an error, or madness. Twice, however, is rather hard to ignore.'

  'You were shot at again?'

  'No, no, not shot at. But the incident was undeniably hostile. That evening. We were still berthed, but fully provisioned by that time. I took my customary stroll on deck after supper. A figure came out of the shadows – burly, stinking of fish – and brandished a large knife.'

  'Caroline was there?'

  'Appeared, disarmed him and I rendered him unconscious.'

  'I could have warned him that he'd have been better off with a rifle, 'Aubrey mused,' rather than risking coming to close quarters with you two. You handed him over to local authorities?'

  'In St Ivan's? There are no local authorities in St Ivan's.' Lady Rose actually looked discomforted for a moment. 'It meant we had to take matters into our own hands, as it were. We tied him to a chair and asked him questions. The captain helped, but had to go away after a while.'

  'Weak stomach?'

  'Nothing so crude as that, Aubrey, thank you. He went to find some of the more prominent citizens of St Ivan's. Or less disreputable citizens, anyway. They confirmed the identity of our assailant as a renowned local layabout and ne'er-do-well. Which is quite an accomplishment in St Ivan's, it being a sort of haven for layabouts and ne'er-do-wells. They tended to believe his story about not knowing the man who paid him. They pointed out that several strangers from the south had been in St Ivan's in the weeks prior to our arrival, leaving just before our steamer pulled in.'

  'Interesting. How far south, I wonder?'

  'I did ask, Aubrey. Really, sometimes you seem to think no-one else is capable of clear thinking.'

  'Sorry, Mother.'

  'To most St Ivanians, "south" is a rather nebulous term, meaning pretty much the whole world – seeing as there isn't much that's north of St Ivan's. One of the prominent citizens – the one with two peg legs – ventured that he recognised the accent of the strangers.'

  'Distinctive, was it?'

  'Holmlandish usually is.'

  Aubrey sat back, laced his hands on his chest and gazed at the ceiling. 'And how angry was Father when you told him that Holmland has tried to assassinate you?'

  'Extremely. He went still, and when he spoke, his voice was very, very soft.'

  'Ah. That angry.'

  'He immediately called in Commander Tallis. I had to repeat the whole story.'

  'Tallis's reaction?'

  Lady Rose smiled, a little. 'He was upset. He kept using words like "underhand" and "unsporting".'

  'Yes, he would.' Aubrey was puzzled. An extraordinary plot, and it showed how far Holmland's espionage services reached. The death of the Prime Minister's wife in the polar regions would be a shock, but not totally unexpected, frontier wildernesses being what they were. The taint of suspicion would hardly fall on Holmland. The result would be a distraught, perhaps unmanned, Prime Minister, as the couple were famed for their closeness.

  A distraught Prime Minister of Albion? Aubrey thought. One whose decision-making may be compromised? What an excellent opportunity to declare war.

  He grew angrier and angrier as he considered the implications. Firstly, he could see what Tallis was outraged about. This sort of action was different from the past. Clandestine action against non-participants? Where would it end?

  He also realised that this may well have very personal implications.

  'Yes, Aubrey,' his mother said, and he realised she'd been watching his face closely. 'It seems as if we live in very different times now.'

  Nine

  JUST BEFORE THEY LEFT, AUBREY'S FATHER HAD ARRIVED home and, after sharing a significant look with Stubbs, their driver, insisted that they take the Oakleigh-Nash to the theatre. Stubbs had been part of Sir Darius's army company, a drill sergeant whose particular skills in both armed and unarmed combat had proved useful in civilian life.

  As they edged through the traffic, Aubrey sat his hat on his lap and turned to Caroline. 'Why didn't you tell me about my mother?'

  She smiled. A little challengingly, he thought. 'Why, Aubrey, what a direct question! For a change, you simply asked instead of going round and round in circles.'

  'Well, it's important.'

  'She asked me not to, that's why.'

  'And you happened to mention it back at Maidstone because she was ready to tell me, and she knew that if you dropped it into conversation I'd burst in on her and demand to know what went on?'

  'Yes, something like that.'

  He crossed his arms on his chest. 'I hate being predictable.'

  'Never mind. I'm sure you'll make up for it by doing something frightfully capricious any minute now.'

  'I should hope so.' Aubrey turned his hat over in his hands. 'I would like to have seen the expression on the face of that would-be assassin when you took to him.'

  She shrugged. 'I felt sorry for him, eventually. Not very bright at all. Brutish, easily led, cruel. What sort of life is that?'

  'I'm going to write a review of the show,' George announced.

  Aubrey and Caroline both stared at him.

  'Apropos of nothing at all?' Aubrey said.

  'Actually, I've been waiting to get a word in edgewise. It's dashed difficult when you two get up and running.'

  'For Luna?' Caroline asked.

  'That's the idea. While I'm happy to help out with the printing press, I think actually writing something could be a useful step towards real journalism.'

  'Did you write one for the Great Manfred's show?'

  'I scratched out something, but Cedric Westerfold fancies himself as a critic, ran up a review and shot it in.'

  'Westerfold?' Aubrey asked.

  'You know. Short, loud, nose like an anteater.'

  'Ah. Tries to sport a monocle but it keeps falling out?'

  'That's the one. I have him in mind as my journalistic nemesis. It's handy to have one of those, I understand, trading barbs in the press, striving to outdo each other in the witticism department.'

  Aubrey had trouble imagining it. 'I look forward to reading all about it.'

  Caroline opened a window. 'Traffic's not moving at all. The street's choked.'

  'Time to walk, then,' Aubrey said.

  Stubbs turned around, frowning. 'I'm not sure that's a good idea, sir.'

  'It's not that far, Stubbs. We can manage.'

  'It's not that, sir –'

  Aubrey had already leaped out of the car. He squeezed around a delivery truck and raced around to Caroline's door.

  'We'll catch a cab home,' Aubrey said to the unhappy-looking Stubbs, then he joined Caroline and George on the pavement.

  Pedestrians swirled and surged. Hawkers, pedlars and barrow boys added to the confusion by touting their wares, blocking the flow and diverting people onto the street, which was, fortunately, still choked with traffic that was barely inching along. The entire city seemed to be converging on the Orient Theatre.

  'They're all wanting to see Spinetti,' George said over the chatter around them. 'He's popular, if nothing else.'

  They joined a long queue that was snak
ing its way along the pavement towards the box office. It moved along well, and soon they reached the laneway that ran alongside the theatre. Aubrey glanced in that direction, trying to maintain an awareness of his surroundings. The lane was dark, a single electric light at the far end the only illumination. Someone stood in the shadows, near a jumble of crates that had been left against the wall of the theatre. He was tall, and wearing a shapeless cap. Aubrey couldn't make out his features, but tensed when the man lifted a hand.

  'Mr Fitzwilliam?' he called. 'You're intending to see Mr Spinetti, the singer?'

  'Without wanting to be rude, what business is it of yours?'

  'If you'll just come this way.' He hesitated. 'It's important.'

  Aubrey's feet seemed to be assured by the calm confidence of the stranger; he took a step into the lane before he realised what he was doing. He stopped and shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

  George appeared at his side. 'What is it?'

  Then Aubrey heard Caroline's voice. 'Aubrey? George?'

  'In here.'

  On the opposite side of the lane from the theatre, a metal door banged open. Two more dark-clad figures emerged. Both of them had the shapeless caps.

  The first stranger held up a hand and his two colleagues froze.

  It was a suspended moment where nothing was happening. Aubrey knew that the pause wouldn't last, that events would move forward at any instant – for better or for worse.

  Caroline came around the corner, saw the tableau – Aubrey, George, confronted by three strangers in a darkened alley – and took matters into her own hands.

  Events moved forward again, toward the 'worse' end of the scale.

  Before Aubrey could stop her, she slipped past him and kicked at the knee of the first stranger. He jumped backward, but by then Caroline had closed on him. Her open hand whipped upward, catching the stranger flush under the chin.

  Aubrey heard his teeth snap together. His head bounced off the brick wall and he crumpled to the cobblestones.

  A scream went up from behind them as someone in the theatre crowd decided that reality was much more confronting than make-believe.

  George roared and waded in, meeting the advance of the other two strangers. He knocked one over and grappled with the other. Caroline grasped her skirts and leaped over to help.