Word of Honour

by Michael Pryor

  Aubrey was about to hurl himself into the fray when the sour taste of magic came into his mouth. Spinning around, he saw the first stranger was on hands and knees in the muck, but he'd lifted his head and he'd begun to chant a spell.

  Aubrey could feel it taking shape. A simple binding spell, it was a derivative using Greek as its base. He knew he could counter it by snapping out an annulment with a limiter on the duration, effectively ending the spell as soon as it began – but he hesitated, remembering his vow not to do magic.

  The hesitation was enough. Someone hit him from behind and his dilemma was suddenly irrelevant.

  WHEN AUBREY REGAINED HIS SENSES, HE WAS IN A BRIGHTLY lit room that smelled of disinfectant. A bland-faced man was looking down at him.

  'Good. I'm MacNamara,' the bland-faced man said. 'Are you fit to get up?'

  Aubrey worked his jaw for a moment and glanced sourly at him. 'It depends.'

  'On what?'

  'On whether you're going to hit me again.'

  'I didn't hit you.'

  'No?'

  'Carstairs did.'

  MacNamara gestured to Aubrey's left. Aubrey shifted his attention, discovered exactly what 'woozy' meant along the way, and saw another bland-faced man leaning against the tiled wall. 'Hello,' Carstairs said. 'Sorry about the conk on the old noggin. Couldn't be avoided.'

  Aubrey sat up and saw that he was in a hospital bed. He rubbed the back of his head. 'Hate to contradict you, but you could have avoided it by not hitting me on the back of the head.'

  'Ah yes, but you were about to do some magic. Had to stop you.'

  'No I wasn't. And no you didn't. And what is going on here? Where are my friends?'

  'Craddock will tell you,' MacNamara said.

  Aubrey rubbed his forehead. The Magisterium. Well, at least he should be safe with them.

  CRADDOCK STUDIED THE NOTEBOOK ON THE DESK IN FRONT of him, then regarded Aubrey across the wooden expanse. 'Well, at least you're safe with us.'

  Craddock was a difficult man. Aubrey couldn't imagine having a friendly chat with him. Musings on the weather, one's health or the state of the national cricket team wouldn't come easily to him. 'If you call being assaulted then abducted "safe", then I suppose we are.'

  Craddock moved one of his pen stands a fraction of an inch. He picked up a silver fountain pen and balanced it, crossways, on his forefinger. 'Apologies for all that. Bit of a mix-up, really. You were recognised by my operatives and they showed commendable judgement in wanting to get you away. Not so commendable was the way they overreacted. Especially since you're a fellow member of the Magisterium.'

  Aubrey rubbed the lump on the back of his head, the tangible evidence of their overreaction. 'What's wrong with the Orient Theatre? And what were your operatives doing in the first place, flitting about in the dark like that?'

  'Two things. Firstly, we've had this Spinetti under surveillance for some time. Did I say something funny, Fitzwilliam?'

  'No, not funny. Not funny at all.'

  'Very well. Secondly, our monitoring section detected another substantial magical flare-up in that vicinity, early this evening. It was very brief, but strong enough for three separate monitors to hit the alarm.'

  Aubrey nodded at that particularly interesting piece of news. 'And when I appeared, it sent your people into a spin. Prime Minister's son and all.'

  Craddock's expression didn't change. 'It was potentially a tense situation.'

  'What aroused your suspicions about this Spinetti? Before tonight's magical surge, I mean?'

  'Small things. Enough to make us interested.'

  'It would have to be magical, otherwise it wouldn't be a Magisterium matter.'

  Craddock flipped the pen and caught it in the same hand. He placed it back in its holder. 'This is novel. I'm usually the one asking the questions.'

  Aubrey wondered how much to tell Craddock. Despite some misgivings, he'd come to respect the man, understanding that his integrity was absolute. Beholden to the country, not to any particular political master, his actions were often viewed with suspicion by politicians, but the independence of the Magisterium was guaranteed by the constitution.

  And isn't this what I agreed to do? he thought. Working for the Magisterium had seemed exciting. Now, he wasn't entirely sure.

  'I have an interest in Spinetti,' he said guardedly.

  'I see. I take it that this interest goes beyond his singing? Which, by all accounts, is uncommonly good.'

  'I think he's Dr Tremaine.'

  Craddock didn't move for some time. He studied Aubrey with his dark, unblinking eyes. 'Well,' he said eventually. 'That is fascinating.'

  Aubrey let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. It was hard to surprise Craddock, but he thought that he'd at least managed to take him aback a little. 'I'd begun to doubt myself. No-one else can see it.'

  Craddock held up a finger. 'I'm not saying I accept this. I'm simply saying that it might explain some of the anomalies we've noted around him and the area of that theatre.'

  'Magical anomalies?'

  'To all intents and purposes, he is what he seems. His papers are all in order. He fulfils his obligations. He is adored by the public. But we have operatives on the boat train, especially when foreigners are coming in. When Spinetti arrived, one operative had the distinct impression – for a moment – that his appearance changed.'

  Aubrey felt relieved. He mightn't be the only one. 'But the operative wasn't certain?'

  'No. Whatever, it was enough to put him on our "To Be Watched" list. Several times since, we've detected magical ripples in his vicinity. Always behind closed doors, nothing overt. And then this substantial flare-up.'

  'When I look at him, I see Dr Tremaine.'

  Craddock grasped his chin and frowned. 'None of my operatives has reported anything so definite. Suspicions, only.'

  'One thing is for certain,' Aubrey said. 'If it is him, he's not here just for his singing.'

  'Of course.' Craddock made a quick note. 'Anything interesting to report from the university?'

  'No. Especially since I'm not sure what you're after.'

  'Have you encountered the foreigner, Lanka Ravi?'

  'Lanka Ravi? No-one has. He's been locked away with the bigwigs. Surely you don't suspect him of spying.'

  'No, I'm interested in the quality of his magic. If you can, I'd like your assessment of it.'

  'I'd like to, but there's no telling when he's going to give a public lecture.'

  'Now, how are you getting on with the refugee Holmlanders? Count Brandt and his friends?'

  Aubrey wasn't surprised by Craddock's knowledge. 'Harmless? Nefarious? Talkers? Plotters? Who knows?'

  'We need to know. Get close to them. Find out their links in Holmland. Report back.'

  WHEN CRADDOCK USHERED AUBREY TO A ROOM OVER-looking Grainger Square, he realised they were in Darnleigh House, the headquarters of the Magisterium. Waiting for him, with different levels of patience, were Caroline and George.

  George looked up from his cup of tea. 'Fine biscuits, Aubrey. We really should come here more often.'

  Caroline stood. 'Good. We can leave now. How's your head?'

  Aubrey touched the lump and winced. 'Feeling better and better.'

  'He has been of some use to us,' Craddock said. 'Thank you for waiting.'

  'We didn't have much choice, did we?' Caroline said.

  'I hope you weren't inconvenienced too much.'

  'We wasted our tickets,' George said. 'And an evening.'

  'Of course. May I offer you some tickets to another show, one that's sure to be rather safer?'

  'What is this?' George said. 'Is the Magisterium turning into an booking agency now?'

  'We have our eye on another performer. One of ours this time. He's generously given us some tickets.' Craddock produced tickets from the inner pocket of his long coat. 'Perhaps you've heard of him? The Great Manfred?'

  'The Great Manfred?' Aubrey would have reeled with s
urprise, but he was too tired. 'One of yours?'

  'We've seen him already,' George complained. 'Haven't you got something with dancing in it?'

  'He's very talented,' Craddock said. 'But his major role is counter-espionage. We're making sure he's seen with influential Albionites – newspapermen, politicians, decision-makers of all kinds.'

  Aubrey thought he was accustomed to the shifting sands that were the world of intrigue, but he felt positively dizzy at the way things were moving. Craddock had certainly expanded his brief, edging into counter-espionage. He was sure that Commander Tallis, the head of the Special Services, wouldn't be altogether happy about that.

  'You're using him as bait,' Caroline said. 'You want the Holmlanders to recruit him.'

  'His grandmother was Albionish,' Craddock said. 'He's happy to help.'

  Aubrey suddenly saw Craddock's work as a complicated dance – a dance in a smoke-filled room, where the dancers could only glimpse each other, and each of them could hear different music.

  While across the Continent, in Holmland, Craddock's equivalents were planning their plans, scheming their schemes and staying awake at night wondering what Craddock was doing.

  They left Darnleigh House in a cab. Caroline waited until the Magisterium headquarters had been left far behind before she spoke. 'Did you see who was just ahead of us in the queue for Spinetti's show?'

  'Lots of people there,' George said. 'Didn't see anyone important.'

  'Important, perhaps not. But interesting? Indeed.'

  'Who?' Aubrey asked.

  'Count Brandt and his friends. Our refugee Holmlanders.'

  Ten

  THE NEXT DAY, BACK AT MAIDSTONE, AUBREY WOKE feeling rested and whole. Political machinations, spying, counter-spying and plots were all manageable when life was non-magical, he decided. He lay in his bed a while, hands behind his head, listening to the early morning sound of the gardeners clipping the cypress hedge.

  It was good not to wake feeling as if he were on the edge of falling apart. The struggle to keep body and soul together often meant sleepless nights, which meant exhaustion, which meant matters only grew worse.

  Lying there in the dim light, he realised that over the last few months he'd been losing the battle. He'd tried to convince himself otherwise, full of desperate confidence. He'd been sure that finding an answer to his condition was just a matter of working harder at it.

  Stopping magic was the simplest solution. After a week of not casting any spells at all, he understood that he should have tried it earlier. He felt well, hearty, complete.

  An image came to him unbidden – a fish, refusing to swim, sinking slowly into the depths of the ocean – but he shook it off.

  He sprang out of bed, ready to meet the day.

  AUBREY FOUND GEORGE IN THE DINING ROOM WITH THE remains of his breakfast on the table in front of him. He was stirring a cup of tea, but his blank gaze was on the window.

  'What's wrong, George?' Aubrey asked.

  George blinked and then looked at his cup. 'I'll have to get another. This one's cold.'

  'Which means you've been stirring a cup of tea so long that it's gone cold. Something must be seriously wrong.'

  George frowned. He put down the teaspoon, picked it up again, then thought better of it and placed it on the saucer once more. 'It's Father.'

  Aubrey's good humour vanished. 'He's all right, isn't he?'

  'Not exactly. A letter arrived here this morning.'

  'Sunday?'

  'That's part of the problem. It went to college, but I've been gallivanting around with you and Caroline. Luckily, I'd mentioned a thing or two to the head porter about how things were going at home. He recognised the return address and organised a messenger to bring it here. Dashed decent of him.'

  'Is it your father's health? He hasn't taken a turn for the worse, has he?'

  'No, nothing like that. The ulcer's under control. It's something else.'

  'What?'

  George pushed the cup of tea aside with an expression of distaste. 'I can't tell you. Not just now. And don't pester me either.'

  The horde of questions that had leaped to Aubrey's lips had to be dragged back with some force. 'All right. But you must tell me later.'

  'Of course I will. If I can.'

  Aubrey didn't like the sound of that. 'Go home. Stubbs will drive you, then wait. If all is well, he'll bring you back to college by this evening.'

  'And if it isn't?'

  'Stay there. Telephone the Rector. Let me know.'

  George swept the tablecloth with his hand, without looking up. 'D'you think it's a good idea?'

  Sometimes, Aubrey knew, people wanted someone else to say what they were thinking. 'Of course. Get your things. The motorcar will be at the front door.'

  George rose, but stopped halfway, in a semi-crouch. 'And what are you up to today, old man?'

  'Oh, this and that.' A visit to our Holmland friends, for one. 'I might ask Caroline if she's free.'

  George looked doubtful. 'Perhaps I should stay.'

  'Don't be ridiculous. You have more important things to attend to.'

  George stepped away from the table. 'Thank you, Aubrey. I appreciate this.'

  'Family is important, George. We do what we can.'

  George noddedly sombrely. 'One other thing. Something I've been meaning to ask you.'

  'What is it?'

  'Is your condition affecting your magic? Couldn't help but notice, last night, when that Magisterium operative started a spell. I thought that you were about to do something, but nothing happened.'

  Aubrey should have known. 'You don't miss much, do you?'

  'What's going on?'

  'I've given up magic. It seems like the only way to hold myself together.'

  'Good Lord.' George digested this for a moment. 'Rather drastic solution, that.'

  'A drastic solution for a drastic situation, my condition being the very definition of life and death.'

  'Makes sense, then,' George said and Aubrey was surprised at how relieved he was to have his friend's support. 'Perhaps I should stay after all.'

  'You're standing. Your legs know you should be off.'

  George looked down and blinked. 'I say.'

  'The motorcar is ready. Now go!'

  A TELEPHONE CALL TO JACK FIGG WAS SOMETHING AUBREY always approached with trepidation. It was one of the more convoluted arrangements Aubrey ever entered into. The number Jack had given him was for a telephone in a sheet music shop near where he was currently living. If the shopkeeper was the only one on the premises – as was usually the case – after taking the call he held a gong out of the window and rattled it noisily. The family next door to the music shop then sent one of their numerous children down the street to Jack's small house. Alerted, he'd scurry back up to the music shop and take the call, assuming the caller hadn't died of old age in the meantime.

  Aubrey thought it would have been quicker to send a message by carrier turtle.

  When Jack eventually reached the telephone, he was able to tell Aubrey that Count Brandt and his friends were at the hall behind St Olaf 's in Crozier, conducting one of their Albionish language schools for their countrymen.

  When Aubrey hung up the telephone, he stared it for some time, his chin on his fist. Then he looked out of the window. The study was one of three in Maidstone, and it was Aubrey's favourite not only because it contained a telephone, but because of the view. It looked out over a corner of the garden that was quite overgrown. An old pear tree, still alive but in its latter years, was in the middle of being swallowed up by a wisteria. The purple flowers hung in extravagant profusion, like astonishing mauve grapes. The smell drifted in through the window, which Aubrey had opened an inch or two.

  He then wrestled with himself for seconds before he decided that he really must contact Caroline and ask her to accompany him. His reading – and experience – on information-gathering expeditions was that two people were less conspicuous than one. Two could talk to eac
h other, naturally, whereas one tended to look as if he were skulking, no matter how harmless the intent.

  It was all perfectly logical.

  Aubrey was firm with himself. Just because Caroline and he had agreed, sensibly, that any deeper friendship was not wise, that didn't mean they couldn't see each other. As long as the understanding was clear that all was above board and sensible, no harm should come of it. Practicality was the key.

  He rehearsed a few humorous opening remarks, scratching the best of them on the blotter in front of him.

  Caroline's mother answered the telephone and all of Aubrey's preparations fell to pieces.

  He hadn't spoken to Mrs Hepworth since the disastrous affair in Lutetia. He'd always liked her and she seemed both amused and intrigued by him, possibly because – some time ago – she had known his father well. Exactly how well was a little unclear, for Sir Darius tended to present a significant silence if that matter ever arose, while Mrs Hepworth simply smiled and kept things to herself.

  'Ah, Aubrey, it's good to hear your voice again. Are you well?'

  Aubrey closed his eyes with relief. No grudges, it appeared. 'Mrs Hepworth. Yes. Very well.'

  'Aubrey, my dear, it's an ongoing battle, isn't it?'

  Aubrey had scant belief in psychic powers, but at that moment he was ready to be convinced. 'Well, it has been difficult, but I wouldn't call it a battle, not exactly.'

  Mrs Hepworth chuckled. She was one of the few women Aubrey knew who could chuckle stylishly. 'You're thinking of something else, aren't you? I shan't embarrass you by guessing what it is, either.' She chuckled again, but Aubrey thought he could detect affection rather than scorn. 'What I was referring to was the battle to get you to call me Ophelia.'

  'Rather than Mrs Hepworth. Sorry.' Aubrey flailed around for a conversational prop and grabbed the first that came to hand. 'How's the painting?'

  'Nicely done, Aubrey. Not a totally smooth conversational segue, but not far away from it at all. The painting? As I'm sure you're aware, I have an exhibition at the end of the month, at Greythorn.'