'That's not a "no", is it?'
'No.'
Lady Rose gazed at the ceiling. 'If you boys are just going to fence with each other, I'm leaving.' She gazed at the inspired disorder of the drawing room. 'I had one of those posters around here somewhere. The Rashid Stone posters. I wonder if Caroline would like it.'
Aubrey spied a rolled up tube of paper on a table nearby, wedged in between a collection of rock crystals. 'Is this it?'
He unrolled it and, for an instant, the whole world went away. The central aspect of the poster – a large photographic reproduction of the Rashid Stone itself – was all that he could see.
It was an excellent reproduction. So much so that he could make out the first three characters in the baffling script before it was overwritten with details of the exhibition. And, if his quick translation of the stone they found in the underground Roman shrine was correct, they read: Death. Soul. Protection.
He was insensible to the world around him for some minutes while he frantically thought through the implications of this. He must have made intelligible responses, for he had a dim notion that the conversation went on around him without any strange looks.
Aubrey stood and re-engaged with the world around him. 'I really must get some rest.'
Sir Darius rose. 'And I must get to the Houses of Parliament.'
He dashed to the sofa, kissed his wife on the cheek and dashed out again.
Lady Rose looked at the doorway. 'I knew it would be like this when I married him.' She stood. 'That's why I promised I wouldn't sit around at home, waiting. I'm off to the museum.'
And Aubrey was left alone.
WITH THE HELP OF A MAGNIFYING GLASS AND A STRONG electric desk lamp, he spent some hours peering at the mysterious fragment from the underground shrine. He made little headway, finally admitting he needed expert help.
He'd made some tentative notes, enough to excite him about the link between the fragment and the Rashid Stone. He was sure the possibility existed that one, or both, of them might hold some clue to curing his condition.
He was unwilling to hope too much, but the chance was there that the knowledge of the ancients might come to his aid. Protection of the soul was a fundamental aspect of working with death magic – something he had come to understand all too late. And death magic was a major concern for early magicians, so perhaps they had ways forgotten to modern magicians, methods to reunite his body and soul permanently.
He rubbed his eyes, sat back, snapped off the desk lamp. The weariness he'd been holding at bay descended on him like a thick, black fog. He stumbled to his fish tank and hid the tablet under the sand, right outside the octopus's cave.
Sleep beckoned. Left alone, the house quiet apart from the muffled noises of the servants going about their business, it should have been the perfect time for napping.
So, naturally, Aubrey lay on his bed, unable to sleep. Somewhere along the way, he'd apparently decided to substitute worrying for sleeping.
He was worried about George, and his family. Aubrey knew that George's father was a modern farmer in most ways, adopting the latest techniques in scientific farming.
He'd not been averse to investigating magical techniques, either; his apple orchard sported several bird scarers that used a clever derivation of the Law of Opposites.
But in one way in particular, William Doyle was an old-fashioned man: he was loath to accept help, especially financial help. Aubrey could imagine a financial situation getting steadily worse and worse, while Mr Doyle tried one thing then another, and then one day waking up to discover the farm was owned by someone else.
Aubrey could think of several ways to fix the debt. It would be fun, organising a complex nesting of identities, a trail of Person A paying Person B who owed money to Person C and somehow having the Doyle farm ending up safe and secure. He itched to do it.
But he wouldn't. He'd promised.
Even if the Doyles lose the farm? a voice whispered.
George was no financial wizard, Aubrey appreciated that. But perhaps his unequalled ability as a good listener and sounding board would be of some help to his father. Aubrey hoped so.
And Caroline. Aubrey worried about her and about the goals she was setting for herself. Even though the world was changing, it wasn't changing quickly enough for a girl (young woman?) of Caroline's abundant talents and ambition.
At the back of his mind, he'd always taken perverse pleasure in the hard row he'd set himself to hoe. To excel in multiple areas – magic, the military, academia and politics – was foolish, overreaching, impossible. But it suited him. Some people enjoyed a challenge. Aubrey was bored to death without one – and more than one, preferably.
He had a difficult road ahead. But he had to admit, Caroline's aims seemed just as lofty – those she'd disclosed – but her sex was going to make them even more difficult to achieve. Aubrey worried that the realities of an unequal world would break her spirit. It was something he didn't want to see.
His father? Well, he was a fairly minor concern. Sir Darius was the subject of political plotting, backstabbing and general malfeasance, but he knew how to take care of himself. He'd managed for years – although the added strain of dealing with the shifting international situation was something that Aubrey wouldn't wish on anyone. If Albion went to war, Sir Darius would be responsible for the lives of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions.
His mother was fearsomely capable as well, but he did worry about her worrying about his father's worrying. His mother put great store on appearing unaffected by weighty matters of state, and by her husband's commitments. She had a rich life, she was prepared to tell anyone, one that was not dependent on her husband. This credo shocked many, to which Lady Rose declared she gave not a fig.
But lately, Aubrey had seen the hint of anxiety in her face. This tended to coincide with newspapers announcing further Holmland aggression on the Continent, or more fractiousness in the Goltans.
Both his parents were busy people and Aubrey was glad of this. Without their various distractions, he worried that they would notice his condition. He'd managed to keep it from them, but with his decision to use his magical powers, despite the dangers, they may notice his physical condition go up and down more than previously. He didn't welcome their intelligent regard turning in that direction.
Aubrey found worrying seductive. It was tempting to brood, sorting out 'Should have' and 'Why didn't I', teasing apart the strands of regret, fear and hopelessness. It was all-consuming.
Eventually, he shook his head and sat up. Worry was all well and good, but it wasn't achieving much – and going around and around over the same ground was so boring. If he wanted his worries to lessen, he should do something about them.
He glanced at the window, then stared. Evening had stolen in. The gaslamps in the street were already lit. A hansom cab trotted by; its lanterns were bright in the gathering shadows.
Somewhere, sometime, he'd slept, right through lunch. He'd worried before falling asleep, then dreamed worrisome dreams, then woken to more worrying, all without noticing the transitions.
'Well, that's enough of that, then,' he said aloud. He poured cold water into his basin and dipped a facecloth in. A vigorous face rub later, followed by an energetic application of his hair brushes, and he was almost a new person. That is, if he ignored the pinched look about his cheeks, and the redness around his eyelids, and the disturbing amount of hair his brushing had dislodged.
He stretched, squared his shoulders and decided it was hard to be gloomy when he had a plan in front of him.
After what he'd discovered from the mysterious inscription, he simply had to see the Rashid Stone before it was shipped to Holmland. Copies of its inscriptions were no good – he wanted to put his hands on the actual stone itself.
Which meant he was going to break into the Albion Museum.
Twenty
THE ALBION MUSEUM HAD OCCUPIED A NUMBER OF different buildings throughout its history. The current edific
e faced Fanthorpe Square and had been built in the reign of King Stephen, the current king's grandfather. It had miles of galleries, four substantial wings, and was a devil to heat in the winter.
Aubrey had always had an affection for its ugly hotch-potch of architectural styles. King Stephen's favourite architect had been Lionel Willoughby, who proudly proclaimed he'd never had an original idea in his life. His genius, he confided to everyone within earshot – and for those who missed it, he wrote a five-volume autobiography – lay in bringing together great styles from around the world. When he was successful it was a harmonious – if startling – whole. On an off day it resulted in buildings that made people cry out in horror if they came upon them unexpectedly.
The Albion Museum was one of Willoughby's triumphs. Vaguely classical, with more pediments and pillars than were strictly necessary, it looked serious, impressive and weighty, perfect for the pre-eminent museum in the country.
With an effort that left him doubled over and panting, Aubrey managed to scramble over the tall iron fence and lose himself in a clump of may bushes near the museum's eastern wing. The windows on this side were dark, but he knew that nightwatchmen patrolled the corridors. The museum held many invaluable treasures from antiquity, so the guarding wasn't perfunctory.
He'd come equipped. Not with George's trusty pry bar, though the prospect had tempted him, but with magical props.
He patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't lost anything while scaling the fence. Chalk, always useful. Beeswax. A bunch of assorted keys he'd collected over the years. Matches. A small bottle of bicycle oil with a sunflower seed in it. A silk scarf.
Now, to find a window. He had a cunning spell ready, one that could use a prepared key on a lock at a distance . . .
He heard footsteps and froze, not even daring to breathe. The footsteps were careful, deliberate, authoritative.
They stopped right in front of his hiding place.
'You'd best come out of there.'
Aubrey stood and stared. 'Mother?'
Lady Rose wore a white gaberdine coat over her dress.
She had no hat – her hair was pulled back in a bun. 'I thought you'd appear sooner or later, Aubrey.'
'I . . . but . . . it . . .'
'Don't stand there gawping like a goldfish. This way. I'll let you in.'
He pushed through the bushes, not even noticing when a branch thwacked him across the face.
Lady Rose took him around a corner. A door stood open. 'Here. I'll answer your questions once we're inside. There's no telling who's lurking about these days.'
Numbly, Aubrey shook his head and followed her inside. Lady Rose locked and tested the door, then studied him. 'Generally you're a mystery to me, Aubrey, as I imagine all children are to their parents. But sometimes you're as clear as a pane of glass.'
'I try to be honest with you.'
'I know that, and I know that there are ways to remain completely honest while keeping people in the dark. Don't protest, you'll only tie yourself in knots over that one.'
Aubrey gave up and simply nodded.
'Very good. This morning, your interest in the Rashid Stone was obvious. When you didn't pursue your father on stopping its shipment, I knew that you had plans.'
'Plans are a good thing.'
'Really, Aubrey, the sooner you go into politics the better. That was a perfect politician's statement: it appeared to have something to do with what I said, but it actually said nothing at all.'
Aubrey decided a full frontal assault was the only course left. 'I was thinking I'd steal the Rashid Stone.'
'Excellent. I was hoping you were going to say that.'
Aubrey couldn't have been more astonished if his mother had suddenly turned into Dr Tremaine. 'I beg your pardon?'
'A temporary appropriation, rather than stealing, I'd call it,' Lady Rose said. 'Much better than letting the Holmlanders take it away.' She frowned at him. 'I'm assuming you want to return it to its rightful owners?'
'Er . . . I was just going to have a look at it before it was shipped out.' He saw his mother's expression. 'Of course, I'm happy to revise my plans. You think we should stop the Holmlanders from having it?'
Lady Rose made a face. 'I feel sorry for Holmlanders. Some fine people there, excellent scientists, but their government seems to have more than the usual number of blockheads in it. I know that politics attracts a certain sort of person, but really – ' She broke off and looked seriously at Aubrey. 'That's really why I want you to go into politics, you know. Your father is a good man, but he's outnumbered by scoundrels and buffoons. It might even up the odds if you and Caroline get in.'
Aubrey jumped. 'What? What did you say?'
But Lady Rose had already disappeared through a doorway.
When Aubrey found her, she was in a darkened corridor. The only light came from a window that looked out on the gaslit street. She put a finger to her lips. 'There are bound to be people in offices and workshops.'
She led him along the corridor. On the left the wall was half glass, venetian blinds obscuring what lay behind. Lady Rose opened the sixth door on the right.
Aubrey hadn't been in his mother's workshop for months. It was unrecognisable. When he was there last, it was tropical birds. Dozens of brightly coloured specimens in glass cases, waiting to be classified. Now the whole place was full of boxes, stacked up to ceiling height in some places. It smelled of fish. 'Sea birds of the north,' Lady Rose said when she saw Aubrey's wrinkled nose. She lifted the top from the nearest box.
'Albatross?' Aubrey hazarded.
'Of course it's an albatross. Look at that beak.'
Aubrey peered closer. 'I'll take your word for it.'
'It is,' she said gently. 'But is it a waved albatross or a young short-tailed albatross? The captain of our ship had it mounted on a perch, quite proud of it he was, but insisted I take it when he saw our other specimens.' Lady Rose replaced the lid. 'Now, let's find this Rashid Stone.'
Aubrey felt like an unprepared challenger in the ring with a heavyweight champion. He was still reeling from the shock of his mother's appearance and support for his spot of burglary, when he walked into this most recent uppercut. 'You want to come?'
'I'm here. I know the layout of this place. I'm not incapable of clandestine activity.'
'No,' Aubrey said weakly. 'I mean, I imagine not. If you put your mind to it.'
'Hmm. Ask your father to tell you about the time I freed him and his squad from the Articari partisans, while still keeping my collection of jungle beetles safe.'
'I will.' At some moment when it might be useful to surprise him, Aubrey thought. Information was ammunition.
Lady Rose took a bullseye lantern from a shelf. Aubrey had a match ready.
'Shall we go?' The light caught his mother's eyes and Aubrey realised that she was serious about accompanying him. And she was excited.
Lady Rose had never embarrassed Aubrey, which he'd discovered was a rarity. It seemed as if the roles of most boys' mothers was to embarrass them often, in public, and with a total lack of understanding as to what was going on. Lady Rose had never been like that. Aubrey had always been proud of her calm, her self-assurance, her ready wit and élan.
But this was different.
'Do you have to come?' he said.
'Yes. Now, straighten your collar. You look quite disreputable.'
'Well, I am dressed in clothes that are meant to make it easy to break into a major national institution. Disreputable would seem to be part of the job description.'
'I see what you mean.' With a quick movement, she took off her white coat. The dress underneath was a dark emerald green. 'This should be less noticeable.'
Aubrey knew there was no sense arguing about it. Once his mother had made up her mind, she was as unstoppable as the tide. 'Which way?' he said, as if his mother came with him on nefarious activities every day of the week.
'It's crated up in one of the workshops. Best if we cut through Aigyptian antiquitie
s.'
Echoing footsteps announced the presence of the nightwatchmen well in advance, and they took their duties seriously enough for Aubrey and Lady Rose to scamper aside a number of times. However, the many large stone statues, stelae and sarcophagi provided useful hiding places.
An unmarked door next to a jackal-headed god opened onto a workshop. At first, Aubrey thought he'd taken a dramatically wrong turn and ended up in a cabinetmaker's shed. By the dim light that struggled through grimy windows, he could make out racks of timber and tools. The floor was covered with sawdust and shavings, and the smell of cut wood was clean and sweet. For a moment, Aubrey was reminded of William Doyle's workshop at George's farm, where the young Aubrey and George had admired Mr Doyle's careful woodwork, turning rough timber into delicate objects – spoons, bookends, buttons.
Suddenly, Lady Rose drew him into the shadows near the entrance. She blew out the lantern, then she brought her mouth close to his ear. 'The rear doors. They're open.'
Aubrey dropped to the floor. Carefully, he eased his head out from behind the coat rack that stood near the entrance.
Four or five figures – it was hard to tell in the indirect light – were clustered around a crate in the doorway, arguing in low but agitated voices that seemed to require much finger-pointing. The crate stood about five feet high and looked very weighty. Despite the burliness of these intruders, it seemed as if the crate had defeated them.
Aubrey pulled his head back. Someone else wanted the Rashid Stone.
Why can't anything be simple? he thought. All I wanted to do was break into the foremost museum in the land and have a good look at one of their treasures. Is that too much to ask?
He wished that he'd come prepared for hand-to-hand combat rather than simple burglary.
Matches. He had matches. He could work with that. In fact, it might turn out beautifully. Scare off these unwelcome guests, take the stone, then call the police and give them the description of these villains, who'd take the blame for the theft. It was a fine line, but Aubrey decided that they deserved a good interrogation, at the least. Even if they hadn't stolen the Rashid Stone, they intended to steal it. Later, once the stone had been reunited with the Sultan, Aubrey could let the authorities know the truth of the matter. Leaving his name out, of course. Perhaps some sort of moniker would be in order. The Liberator? The Guardian of Looted Antiquities?
Word of Honour Page 26
