Word of Honour

by Michael Pryor

  'You know, I might skip Luna entirely. I'm sure I could approach the proper newspapers directly with this. Then those Lunatics would have to sit up and take notice.'

  'George. Stop. Wait. Listen for a moment, please?'

  George blinked. 'Aubrey?'

  'It may not be the best idea to bruit these suspicions about right now. There's more investigating to be done, and even then I'm not sure about how useful it would be to publish such details.'

  George jabbed a finger at him. 'You're talking about silencing the voice of the people. Censorship. I'm shocked, I tell you. Shocked.'

  'George, it's not the voice of the people I'm talking about. I'm talking about your possibly writing a piece about events and people without foundation. There are such things as laws of libel.'

  'Ah, libel. Yes.'

  'And as well, there is the tricky area of things that are kept silent in the national interest.'

  'Lovely phrase, that. It can mean whatever you want it to mean. Especially if you're the one making the decisions.'

  'No doubt it has been used for ill in the past. But surely you can imagine a situation where it could be important to the lives of innocent people to keep some things out of the public gaze?'

  'Now, that's a slippery argument. No-one is going to argue against the lives of innocent people. But once a precedent has been set, then it's always easier to find other cases where secrecy is useful.'

  'You're right.' Aubrey scowled. 'Hmm. What about if I leave it to you? You need more information before you can put together anything meaningful. I need more information before I can see if there is anything useful or meaningful. Then you decide what you'll do with it. As long as you talk with me before you send anything anywhere.'

  'Dash it all, old man, of course I'd talk to you. And your father, too. I'm not a simpleton. These are delicate times, for all of us.'

  'That they are. And Caroline? She's back in college?'

  'Arrived before you did. Obviously caught an earlier train.'

  'She didn't have a midnight excursion to the hydraulic railway to contend with. Not that I saw, anyway.'

  'Mustn't underestimate Caroline Hepworth.'

  'Not under any circumstances.' Aubrey stood and brushed off his jacket. 'Now, if I hurry, I can do my pre-reading for my Parameters and Parallels lecture.' He groaned. 'Don't you hate it when professors try to come up with a snappy title for their subjects?'

  'Smacks of desperation. They may as well call it "Dry as Dust: an Introduction".'

  THE NEXT DAY, AUBREY WAS LIKE AN ARROW. DESPITE HIS misgivings, his Parameters and Parallels lecture was stimulating, full of knotty stuff. Professor Maxwell covered the blackboard with dense equations, using strange Eastern characters, intermingled with more modern operator symbols. Then he wove a freeform lattice of connectors and explanations until the whole array was a tangled basketwork of fiendish complexity. The professor – a rotund, balding fellow – stood back and smiled at his handiwork before asking, without any guile at all, whether the group had any questions.

  After that it was Introduction to Ancient Languages. Just as stimulating, but in a completely different way. Aubrey found he needed two notebooks – the first to jot down the course of the lecture, another to scribble down his thoughts about a universal language of magic, thoughts that were continually sparked by Professor Mansfield's points. At the end of the lecture, with some ambivalence, Aubrey realised the second notebook was much, much fuller than the first.

  As Aubrey wandered out of Professor Mansfield's lecture he felt as if his head was bursting. Language was the key to magic, it was a well-established principle. The more he learned about early languages, the closer he came to the basic building blocks of enchantment.

  It made his head buzz.

  A blow came from behind and nearly knocked him off his feet.

  'Sorry, old fellow,' the gowned undergraduate who had collided with him said, but he didn't wait to see if Aubrey had been hurt. He galloped off with a number of others, all heading along the cloisters in the same direction.

  Aubrey shook his head to clear it and realised that dozens of others – students and dons – were all on the move. Portly, gangly, old, young, it was as if the entire campus had become lemmings and were stampeding towards a particularly juicy cliff.

  Then Aubrey realised where they were going. His feet came to the same conclusion a few seconds early so that he was already moving when he confirmed that the Sheffield Lecture Theatre – one of the largest on campus – lay ahead.

  He was quickly part of a throng. 'What is it?' he asked a frantic-looking don who was waddling as fast as his bulk would allow.

  'Haven't you heard? Ravi is going to give his first lecture!'

  Aubrey soon left the don behind, which was fortunate, because he just slipped into the lecture theatre before the doors were closed.

  The seats were all taken. Aubrey contented himself with standing at the back.

  Dwarfed by the massive lectern, Lanka Ravi was arranging his notes.

  Lanka Ravi was a small man, extremely neat in everything apart from his hair, which was black and shiny. It had been pushed back behind his ears but threatened to escape at any minute. If it did, Aubrey feared for those in the front row of seats.

  The excited chatter in the theatre ceased immediately Lanka Ravi looked up from his notes. Then he launched into his presentation.

  For an hour, the small man detailed several new spells, applications of the Law of Action at a Distance. These spells covered the blackboard and were clever, if not startlingly innovative. His voice was as his appearance: neat, precise. He had a distinct Tamil accent.

  Aubrey was starting to wonder what all the fuss was about when Lanka Ravi cleaned the board and returned to the lectern. He shrugged, gave a small smile and held up a finger.

  'We all know and appreciate Verulam's Law of Transformations,' he said and Aubrey was immediately alert. 'This law is a fundamental part of our understanding of spell-casting. 'Indulge me, if you will, while I write this law on the blackboard.'

  In a clear hand, Ravi wrote: 'The bigger the transformation, the more complex the spell.'

  No-one stirred in the lecture theatre. It was an anticipatory silence. The audience was learned enough to understand that such a simple opening was only a preliminary to more complex findings.

  'In Baron Verulam's time this was a revolution, such a bold and clear statement of something that had hitherto been half-understood and imperfectly applied. Since then, it has been proven again and again by rigorous experimentation.'

  Lanka Ravi looked up from his notes. He smiled, hesitantly. 'Baron Verulam's principle applies very specifically to the magic of transformations, of turning one thing into another. He, of course, proposed a second law, the Law of Transference. Much as for transformations, this law says that the further a magician proposes to move an object by magical means, the more complex the spell. This, too, has been shown to be the case, through repeated experiments.'

  Ravi paused and winced. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, coughed into it, and frowned before going on. 'Of course, Baron Verulam's revolutionary work on Transformations and Transference has pointed the way to more general understanding of how magic works. In the centuries since his groundbreaking work the community of magic has established the Principle of Complexity – the more powerful the spell, the more complex the spell construction – and the Principle of Cost – the more complex the spell construction, the more effort is required from the spell-caster.' He looked up and gave his small nervous smile again. 'But, of course, I am telling you things that you already know.'

  For a long moment, Ravi shuffled his papers. Remarkably, there was no impatient murmuring, no clearing of throats, no restless shifting of position. The audience had a shared understanding that this was an occasion of great importance; the anticipation, however, was mixed with curiosity. What was he going to say next?

  He looked up. He blinked, slowly, then began. 'Magic and
humanity,' he announced, and an almost silent wave of satisfaction rolled through the audience. This was what they were waiting for. 'The connection between the two has been much speculated upon. I now believe I can encapsulate the relationship in quantifiable terms.' He abandoned his notes. He took two steps to the blackboard and seized the chalk. 'Let x represent the measure of individual human consciousness . . .'

  Aubrey knew that magicians tended to either be theorists or pragmatists. The theorists had always wondered at the source of magical power. The pragmatists didn't care – if magic worked, it worked.

  But now, as Ravi's flying chalk and mesmerising voice pressed on, he could see the two camps coming closer together than ever. Ravi had derived quantifiable, measurable ways to determine the strength of magical fields – and thus the potential power of a spell. This had always been hit-and-miss in the past, with much effort put into the inclusion of careful limiting factors in spells. Ravi's work could point the way to a dramatic increase in the magnitude of spell effect. If it led the way to calculated manipulation of the force of spells, it could change the face of magic forever.

  And if the content of Ravi's revelations wasn't exhilarating enough, the way he presented his findings threatened to have the same effect on Aubrey as a sledgehammer would on a gong.

  Ravi was using a symbolic language to fill the blackboard, describing the way that human consciousness interacted with the universe to create a potential magical field. But it was as if the standard symbols used for describing abstruse magical elements weren't good enough any more. Ravi had made up many of his own – and was using old symbols in completely different ways.

  Aubrey was frozen – the only part of him that could move were his eyes as they flashed across the unfolding wonders of Ravi's insights. He was absorbing almost without conscious thought, as if the revelations were simply passing through his skin. At the same time, though, his brain was racing in a hundred different directions, making connections, leaping ahead, thinking of alternatives, seizing on implications.

  He was spellbound without a hint of magic in the air.

  Some time later – it could have been ten minutes, it could have been ten years – Lanka Ravi stood back with a nubbin of chalk in his dusty fingers, gazed at the blackboard and said, 'I think I'll stop now.'

  It was as if a bomb had gone off. Everyone was on their feet. Half the lecture theatre was cheering and applauding, the other half shouting angrily. Professor Bromhead appeared and shepherded Lanka Ravi out of the lecture theatre while Aubrey sat, transfixed.

  Lanka Ravi's revelations had the immediate crystal clarity of truth. Aubrey was certain Ravi was right. His simple articulation of principles was perfect. It was as if Ravi had provided a lens, making things focused that had previously been blurred.

  Aubrey went to stand and flinched. He stretched, barely avoiding the flailing arms of an over-excited don. While he remembered, he scribbled a note to Craddock, assuring the head of the Magisterium that Lanka Ravi was a first-rate theoretician – perhaps unique.

  FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK, AUBREY FELT AS IF HIS BRAIN was being stretched in all directions. He revelled in it. This is what he wanted. More than that, it was what he needed. He gave his studies all his attention, for that was what they demanded.

  Notes came from Maggie's Crew, written in a large, bold hand and signed – simply – 'Maggie'. Day after day the surveillance was constant and unrevealing. Spinetti sang, ate at the best restaurants, went to clubs, was entertained in high society and in all ways did what was expected of a feted visiting baritone. Which was exactly what Aubrey expected. Tremaine was very, very good.

  He wasn't about to make amateurish slips – but his arrogance was sure to lead him to do something that would leave him exposed.

  He saw Caroline once, briefly; it was like opening a door into summer. She pumped him for details of goings-on in Trinovant. He gave her a précis of his meeting with Maggie and her Crew, the flood, and the plummeting train before she rushed to her commitments in the Science faculty.

  She left him breathless.

  On the Thursday evening, after a sound dinner, he was poring over Allday's Fundamentals of Resonance when he was diverted into checking some mathematics to do with rates of change. In his battered school calculus text, he stopped at a marginal note he'd written last year.

  Immediately, it took him back. Stonelea School, before his disastrous experiment. A more uncomplicated life, certainly. But somehow less rich, less challenging.

  Then he read his scrawled marginalia and remembered more.

  It was half in jest, half serious, an effort toward defining a law of human experience, rather than of magic. 'Have you ever found yourself seeing a grey horse, suddenly, unexpectedly, and then seeing grey horse after grey horse all that day?'

  Patterns. There must be something in the human ability to see patterns. Finding them when they're only hinted at. Seeing them when they're not there.

  Was Dr Tremaine there at all, or was Aubrey seeing something because he wanted to see it? He gnawed on this bone for some time, then he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. 'Well,' he said aloud, 'what if Dr Tremaine is working on this principle too?'

  He looked around to remind himself that he was alone, George having gone to an editorial meeting with the Luna crowd.

  Could Dr Tremaine be interfering with people's innate pattern-sensing ability? Had he concocted a spell that would stop people from noticing those details that added up to Mordecai Tremaine-ness?

  Why am I resistant? he thought – silently this time. And then he nearly fell off his chair when the answer hit him like a deftly applied mallet behind the ear.

  They'd been connected. In the moment of magical struggle over the kidnapped and ensorcelled Sir Darius, Aubrey and Dr Tremaine had been linked. Aubrey had thought it a momentary thing, a by-product of their magical grappling that had passed.

  But what if it lingered?

  Connections. Aubrey put his head in his hands. It was all to do with connections. His body and soul. Himself and Dr Tremaine. Even the more ordinary magic that bound Aubrey to his parents, to George, and – though she might deny it – to Caroline.

  No-one was a totally free agent, untouched by others, but now Aubrey understood that he had a magical connection with Dr Tremaine. Exactly how deep and what it meant, though, he couldn't tell.

  Not yet.

  IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AUBREY'S EYES SNAPPED open. A furtive sound had woken him.

  He waited, but nothing further happened. He tugged on the cord of his reading lamp. On the other side of the room, George moaned and rolled over. 'Not more study,' he mumbled. 'Can't it wait until morning?'

  Aubrey ignored him. He sat up and then saw the envelope that had been slipped under the door. Even in the dim light, he recognised Maggie's handwriting.

  The message was terse, quite unlike the detailed, itemised account of the hour-by-hour movements of Spinetti.

  Come as soon as you can, it said, but it didn't say where to find her.

  Fourteen

  LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON, AUBREY, GEORGE AND Caroline eventually tracked down Jack Figg in Densmore, working at the Society for Moral Uplift. Jack hadn't heard where Maggie had been staying after the flood in her underground headquarters, but promised he'd find out and let them know as soon as he did.

  After leaving the Society for Moral Uplift, they walked for some time, looking for a cab. When a motorcar came toward them, Aubrey was blinded by the headlights. He didn't realise it had slowed until a voice cut through the engine noise. 'Get in. And put the pistol away.'

  Aubrey squinted. 'Commander Tallis? What pistol?'

  'It's gone,' Caroline said. 'I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realise it was you.'

  Pistol? Where was she hiding a pistol? 'Look, Tallis, I'm getting a little tired of being abducted by law enforcement agencies.'

  'Quite right,' George said. 'What ever happened to the good old days, when abductions were done by thugs and cutthroats
? Doing them out of a job, you are.'

  'Get in,' Commander Tallis repeated and his tone of voice indicated that playful banter would be a capital offence if he had anything to do with it.

  COMMANDER TALLIS TOOK THEM STRAIGHT TO LATTIMER Hall, the headquarters of the Special Services.

  Aubrey and George were kept in a waiting room while Tallis spoke to Caroline alone. Aubrey fumed, but he assumed it was because of Caroline's irregular status with the Special Services. She hadn't been asked to do much, to his knowledge, but he had no doubt that Tallis had his eye on Caroline as a full-fledged Special Services operative.

  After some time, Aubrey decided he may as well keep his watch in his hand. It would save him taking it out of his pocket every five minutes to check.

  Idly, he polished the Brayshire Ruby. Then he turned the watch from side to side and saw how the heart of fire deep inside the jewel shifted, winking at him.

  He flipped open the back plate of the watch and sat for a time, appreciating the work of Anderson and Sutch. The watch's workings were a thing of beauty. The mainspring that drove the whole, complex mechanism set the balance wheel oscillating back and forward diligently, both parts perfectly fitting together. With no more than a daily winding, the watch would keep ticking for years, finely crafted, finely tuned machinery.

  He peered closer and saw the jewelled bearings – two or three dozen tiny sapphires and rubies that kept the wheels turning in their ceaseless round.

  Aubrey was lost in admiration. In his hand he held the pinnacle of a craft, something so unobtrusively complete that few people even thought about it – however much they relied upon its accuracy.

  Caroline appeared after exactly half an hour. 'He was interested in my studies,' she said after Aubrey had asked what Tallis wanted. 'And he wants to speak to you,' she added absently.

  Aubrey made a face. Commander Tallis had never liked him. He was sure he was in for a grilling.

  Tallis's office was much longer than it was wide. It had no windows, no wall decoration and the desk was bare except for a large black telephone. Tallis sat behind it and glowered at him.