'I know. I'll be there.'
'I'm glad. But the end of the month means I have a great deal of work to do before then.'
'So I shouldn't keep you on the telephone?'
'Now, that was much more deft. You do learn quickly, Aubrey.'
'Well, I try hard. Sometimes it's the same thing.'
'I'll send someone for Caroline. She's in the garden, reading.'
A muffled moment and Mrs Hepworth was back. 'She won't be long. Now, while I have you here, Aubrey, I'm going to be direct with you.'
Aubrey's heart sank. 'Please do.'
'In Lutetia, something you did upset Caroline dreadfully. When she said she wanted to go away with your mother, I supported it. She needed some time to compose herself, but also to think about things.'
'I'm sorry.' It was all that Aubrey could manage.
'I think that's true, otherwise I wouldn't be talking with you. Caroline has told me something of what went on, and you have much to be sorry for.'
'Yes.' Aubrey was enjoying monosyllables. They had great attraction when lost for words.
'But also that all is not lost. I wanted to tell you that.'
'Not lost?'
'No. But here's Caroline.'
For once, Aubrey wanted to talk to her mother more than he wanted to talk to Caroline.
'Aubrey?'
'Yes.' Aubrey made a fist and hit himself on the forehead, once, reasonably firmly. If that response had been any lamer, it would have been taken out the back and shot.
'Good,' Caroline said. 'Now that we've established that you're you, what is it you want?'
'Can I ask a favour of you? Please?' Better. Polite, reasonable, neutral.
'What is it?'
'I need to do some more investigating of Count Brandt's people. Would you come with me, please?'
'When?'
'In an hour? I'll have a cab.'
'Well . . .'
'I'll take you to lunch. You name the place.'
'Marcel's. It will remind me of Lutetia.'
'Ah.'
'One hour. I'll be ready.'
She hung up. Aubrey stared at the handpiece, took some time to remember what it was, and then replaced it.
Caroline wanted to be reminded of Lutetia? What did she mean by that?
He groaned. The sooner he was immersed in international intrigue and espionage the better. It was much more straightforward than trying to understand people.
CAROLINE SAT OPPOSITE HIM IN THE CAB. SHE WORE A jacket and skirt over a white linen blouse. Her hat was blue velvet, rather striking. Aubrey found it hard to keep his gaze from her, but he realised – from her startled expression – that the alternative of flicking his eyes around the interior of the cab and out of the windows, never settling for long – made him look quite demented, as well as feel dizzy.
'Are you all right?' she asked.
He gave up and looked at her. She had one small crease, a perfectly vertical one, exactly halfway between her eyebrows. He realised she was frowning.
'Yes. Ripping. Couldn't be better.'
She frowned harder. The crease deepened. Aubrey was lost in wonder.
'Do I have something on my face?' she asked.
'No, no, nothing. Sorry.'
She sighed. 'Aubrey, we can't do anything if you're going to be a goose like this all the time.'
'Quite right.'
'You'll have to learn to manage yourself. More decorum.'
'Of course.'
'I thought it the sort of thing you could do. Most men can't.'
'Ah. An appeal to vanity.' He grinned. 'I'll see what I can do.'
Aubrey sat back. He'd never really considered the issue, how tiresome it must be for Caroline to be stared at. Her occasional brusqueness was perfectly natural when looked at in that light.
'Here's something practical for you to think about,' she said, 'since a modicum of practicality may be useful.'
Aubrey sat straighter. He adjusted his tie. He clasped one knee, composed his face and nodded. 'How's this? Practical enough?'
She rolled her eyes. 'The Eastside Suffragists. I've mentioned them to you before. We're on a membership drive.'
'Excellent idea. Can't have too many suffragists.'
'Then you're happy to sign up. The fees are reasonable.'
'Me?' With a thought that was quicker than instantaneous, he managed to save himself from utter disaster by going on. 'Just me, I mean? I'm sure I can convince George to join, and what about Father? That would be a coup for your organisation.'
Caroline looked thoughtful. 'George is already a member, but your father . . .'
'I'm sure he'd do it.' George is already a member? I must ask him about that.
'Despite the party? The Opposition?'
'You know he believes in votes for women. It's just that things are slow to move in this area. This might be the sort of thing that could give matters a kick on.'
'It's an excellent idea,' Caroline murmured.
'And here's another. If we can get Father's agreement – and I'm sure we shall – we might be able to seed this in the press via George's work with Luna. If he could write an article about it, perhaps interview Father, it would be an achievement for him, and a way of bringing the matter to public attention.'
'Aubrey, your plans sometimes have a touch of genius about them.'
'Well, I try.'
AFTER CROSSING THE RIVER, THE CABBY CIRCLED AROUND a little before finding St Olaf 's. It was a squat, blockish church in the Crozier district, right on the edge of Little Pickling. The church was in need of repair, its gutters were sagging, and the belltower had a decided lean. The detached hall at the rear was more modern, but no less shabby. A drone of massed voices came from it.
Inside, three separate groups had divided the hall into fiefdoms. Each one was made up of a dozen or so people sitting on wooden chairs, facing an instructor with a blackboard. The lessons seemed to comprise 'listen and repeat' – traveller's phrases, mostly. One group would stumble over 'Good morning' then the next would raise its collective voice with 'How much is it?' and, to combat this, the final group would be forced to bellow 'Which way is the railway station?' before the first group started again.
Watching this process, Aubrey didn't hear the approach from behind. A hand tapped him on the shoulder. 'Mr Fitzwilliam, Miss Hepworth. What are you here for?'
It was Brandt. Standing next to him was Rokeby-Taylor with a look of honest, and delighted, surprise on his face.
While trying to deal with this unexpected development, Aubrey's brain slipped into his prepared story. 'Count Brandt. Good to see you. I was wondering if you'd like to discuss the details of setting up a clinic in this area.'
'Mr Fitzwilliam,' Brandt said, 'what a fine idea! But excuse me, I must introduce my good friend, Mr Rokeby-Taylor. He is an important man, knows many powerful people. He has promised much support for our cause.'
'We've met, Kurt,' Rokeby-Taylor said, reaching out and shaking Aubrey's hand. He took Caroline's hand and held it for rather longer than Aubrey thought appropriate. ' Miss Hepworth. You look as if you've recovered from your nautical adventure.'
'I have, Mr Rokeby-Taylor,' Caroline said gravely. 'Thank you.'
Rokeby-Taylor put his hands on his hips. 'A clinic, eh, Aubrey? Should have thought of it myself.'
'No, Clive,' Brandt said, 'you are already doing more than enough. Your generous donations to our cause, your introductions to important people, taking our talented people into your company? How can we thank you?'
'No need, Kurt, no need. We all benefit. I needed good magical talent, your people were unable to get positions here.' He took out a pocket watch and barely glanced at it. 'Goodness. I'm afraid I must be off.' He touched his tie – a striped, navy blue and white number. 'Miss Hepworth, would you be free next Friday evening? I have tickets to a recital at the Regent's Hall. Palliser is playing.'
'I don't think so, Mr Rokeby-Taylor.'
'I see. The day after?'
<
br /> 'I'll have to look in my diary, but I don't think so.'
'Eh? Well, if you do find a gap in your schedule, I'd consider it an honour if you'd telephone me.'
Caroline frowned at the card he handed her, but she tucked it in her bag.
Aubrey was glad no-one had glanced in his direction during all this. He was sure that his face had turned as stony as an Aigyptian statue. It was all he could do to prevent himself from cheering when Caroline declined Rokeby-Taylor's offer.
'Insistent man,' Caroline said when Rokeby-Taylor had left the hall.
'Hmm?' Aubrey said. 'Sorry, I was miles away. Didn't notice a thing.'
Caroline glanced at him sharply, but Aubrey was alert. 'Tell us, Count Brandt, what are you up to here?'
'We are up to as much as we can,' Count Brandt said. 'In exile, we do our best.'
Brandt led Aubrey and Caroline out of the hall. Around the corner was another, smaller hall in a courtyard surrounded by tall buildings. It was full of people – thirty or forty – arranged in old pews. Aubrey recognised Bloch at a lectern, and Madame Albers, but the others were strangers. Bloch was allocating a list of tasks and Aubrey was thankful for his father's insistence on the importance of foreign languages.
Those in the pews were well-dressed, if their clothes were a little out of fashion. Most were taking notes.
'We are exiles,' Brandt said. 'We take care of our own, and such requires organising. We meet, we discuss, we do what we can.'
'Do you discuss going back to Holmland?' Aubrey asked.
Brandt nodded. 'Of course. Delightful though your country is, we are not here by choice. We were in danger if we stayed and in danger if we go back now. Troublesome opponents of the Chancellor have a habit of disappearing.'
'But you must have plans.'
'Plans? He who does not plan lives half a life. We would love for the corrupt regime in our beloved Holmland to come crashing down. If we can help that happen, it is good. How to do it is the question.'
'You must be in communication with those still there,' Caroline said.
'Of course. Carefully.' Brandt shook his head. 'The Chancellor and his government cronies are popular. They build ships, they have parades, birthday parties for the Elektor. There is little support for our cause.'
'There is always an opposition to a government,' Aubrey said. 'What about them?'
'Tame rabbits. Powerless. Equally corrupt.'
Standing at the lectern in front of the small audience, Bloch broke off and waved. 'Brandt,' he called in Holmlandish. 'Leyden here says that his cousin in the navy has been approached by the Circle.' Then he saw Aubrey and scowled.
Brandt shook a finger at Bloch. 'Mr Fitzwilliam is a trusted friend. You can talk in front of him.'
But before Bloch could continue, Madame Albers laughed. 'The Circle. When are they going to do something to match their big talk?'
'Talk?' Brandt said. 'Talk? The Circle is our best hope of return. The offers they've made, the people . . .'
'Many promises, little action,' Madame Albers said. 'We need more than words.'
Bloch glanced at Aubrey for a moment. 'Words are powerful. Look at the Chancellor's new adviser. When he speaks, everyone in the government listens.'
'This Dr Tremaine?' Brandt said, and Aubrey was suddenly much more interested in what had seemed like an argument over petty rivalries. 'Do you really think he has that much influence?'
'He's a persuasive man,' Aubrey put in and they all stared. He shrugged. 'I've had some dealings with him.'
'Your insights may prove useful,' Brandt said, then he turned back to his compatriots and soon they were deep in discussion about the best ways to return to Holmland.
Aubrey only half-listened. The revelation that Dr Tremaine had expanded his influence from the Holmland espionage wing to the government itself was terrifying. Aubrey didn't want that man close to the highest decision-makers in any country – let alone warlike Holmland.
Aubrey looked up. He had the oddest sensation – as if reality had suddenly creaked at the seams, shifting uneasily before settling again.
'What was that?' he asked Caroline.
'What was what?'
'Nothing. Probably nothing.'
He couldn't shake it off. A curious double feeling took hold of him, one sensation overlaid on another, and he realised he was detecting magic – but he couldn't define it. It was fractured and indistinct.
The meeting broke up. People moved past, nodding to Brandt as they went. All of them glanced curiously at Aubrey and Caroline.
'Ach,' Bloch said. His voice echoed in the nearly empty hall. 'Someone has left a bag.'
'No.' Aubrey grabbed Brandt's shoulder. 'No!' he shouted, but it was too late.
The hall blew apart.
Eleven
AUBREY WAS ON HIS BACK, HIS HEAD RINGING. HIS cheek hurt. Blurrily, he realised that he was looking at the sky. Boiling upward like a geyser from hell was a whirling mass of black cloud. Lightning shot from it, jagged bolts that hurt the eye, lancing left, right, up and down with manic glee.
Weather magic, Aubrey thought as dozens of individual aches and pains jostled for his attention. What fool would mess about with weather magic?
Aubrey had, once, and he'd learned the hard way the First Law of Weather Magic: localised weather changes have effects that can't be predicted. This was why weather magic was discouraged. A simple spell to stop rain falling on a picnic could end up with a massive drought half a continent away. Aubrey had a suspicion that some inherent disorder was at work in most natural processes. When he had some time, he intended to investigate this.
The pocket thunderstorm flattened overhead, as if it had run against an invisible ceiling. It swirled angrily, then gradually dissipated.
He lay there a moment and felt the heart-scurry of panic. His soul. Had it been jolted free again?
Then, a greater fear swamped this one. Where was Caroline?
He climbed to his feet, hurting all over, and faced utter devastation. The hall had been shredded by the thunderstorm. The walls had been flattened, apart from a few splintered uprights. Broken timber was strewn about, as if a giant had been playing pick-up-sticks. The brickwork nearby was studded with shards of wood that had struck hard enough to embed themselves.
Caroline stumbled from behind a pile of debris and Aubrey began breathing again. That instant, when she reappeared, defined what she meant to him. His condition, his hurts, his existence were secondary. His greatest concern was her wellbeing.
His chest ached, but he limped toward her. She sagged to her knees and he nearly cried aloud. She saw him approaching, gathered herself and stood. 'I'm all right.' She frowned. 'My hat's gone.'
Aubrey put a hand on her shoulder and inspected her. He sent a prayer heavenwards when he saw that she was untouched. 'You were lucky.'
His heart began to slow and he took a series of long, slow breaths to steady himself. He took a moment and used his magical senses to inspect his condition.
His body and soul were still united. His recent lack of magical exertion had apparently made his state more robust and he was well pleased.
So intense had been his focus on Caroline and his own condition that it took Aubrey some time to hear the groans. 'Over there.' Caroline pointed.
It was Count Brandt. He'd been thrown ten yards by the sudden thunderstorm and had slammed against a brick wall. He was sitting, splay-legged, amid shards of glass from the empty window above him. Aubrey hurried to his side only to discover that the Holmlander was unconscious.
'He's breathing,' Caroline said. 'Only a few small cuts. There's not much else we can do.'
Carefully, as shouts and cries for help rose from the streets nearby, they picked their way through the remnants of the hall. The floor was intact, if buckled in a few areas. The thunderstorm had obviously appeared and expanded both horizontally and vertically. Aubrey noticed part of his mind cataloguing details, knowing that immediate first impressions from a trained observ
er could be crucial in any investigation. His magical experience would be useful in documenting what had been, without doubt, a magical attack. Craddock would want to know everything.
'Here, Aubrey!' Caroline was crouched next to the stump of what must have been one of the main uprights of the hall. It was a massive piece of timber, but it had been snapped off as if it were a straw.
Aubrey hurried across the uneven and protesting floor to see that Caroline had found Bloch. She was crouching, cradling his head, but the unnatural angle of his limbs indicated that the Holmlander had been subject to much of the force of the storm.
'The bag,' he said, when he saw Aubrey's face. 'I should not –'
He broke off and his body jerked with a horrible spasm. He started to cough, but hissed with pain and bit it back.
'Rest,' Aubrey said. 'Help will be here soon.'
'I should not have opened it.' Bloch fought for breath after each word.
'It wouldn't have mattered,' Aubrey said, and even as he said it, he realised it was the truth. 'The weather magic was in the bag, but it was compressed.' That was why I felt more than one layer of magic. 'It would have expanded some time. Soon.'
Aubrey bit his lip. It was messy magic. Spell compression was useful, sometimes, to let a spell unfold at a bidden time. It could let a non-magician set a spell in place, where a magician was unavailable. But compression was touchy. Templeton's First Law of Compression had been hammered out over fifty years ago, in the laboratories of experimental magic in Greythorn. Professor Victor Templeton had established, after much trial and error, that the force required to keep a spell in compression is proportional to the force of the spell itself. Mighty spells required much power to keep them compressed.
While rebuilding the experimental magic laboratories at Greythorn, Professor Templeton had engraved his Second Law of Compression over the doorway: an inadequately compressed spell, when it works free, will be multiplied in effect by the power of the spell used to compress it. Or, in student shorthand, bad compression leads to horribly bad outcomes.
To which Aubrey was tempted to add Fitzwilliam's Corollary to the Laws of Compression: Compression isn't worth it.
Bloch mumbled, then quivered. 'My arm isn't working,' he said, in a conversational tone. 'My nose itches.'
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