'They failed,' Caroline said.
'Yes. Most of humanity is less competent than I am, but I can't do everything. Now, I need to concentrate.'
This gave Aubrey some hope. Dr Tremaine could still be stopped; he hadn't finished his work.
The magician snapped out a short spell and Aubrey felt the hated copper insects crawling over his face. Within seconds, they'd bound his mouth again. At the same time, he saw insects shuttling across Caroline's face. Despite her furious struggling, she, too, was silenced.
He strained against the wires, desperately hoping the insects had left some slack this time. The wire bit cruelly into his cheeks and lips, but he didn't give up until blood trickled from a cut on his upper lip.
In his desperation, he realised that this was a small victory. He worked his neck, one of the few tiny movements available to him. The cut opened. Blood smeared on his skin. Ignoring the pain, he continued, working away, straining a fraction of an inch this way, a fraction of an inch back.
Until he felt the wires slip, lubricated by his own blood.
Hope flared in him and he looked toward Dr Tremaine. The sorcerer was locked into his cycle of spells. His voice – vast and majestic – rolled around the chamber and the pillar of flame responded, roaring upward, swollen with power. Sparks crackled along chains and cables, turning the latticework into a shadowy fairyland. Pipes shook. Metal quivered with the force of the magic it channelled.
And the latticework was alive with sound – low whistling, a multitude of creakings and shiftings, a humming just on the edge of perception.
Aubrey shifted, flinched, then thrust a little with his chin. The bloody wires separated, freeing his mouth just enough for him to articulate a spell. A very short, very simple spell.
So I'll have to start small.
It appealed to his sense of irony. Against prodigious magic, he was forced to use a humble spell. But if it worked, it would be a step toward foiling the destruction of Trinovant. If he could find a spell to free his mouth properly, he could then cast a more substantial spell – one that could stop Dr Tremaine.
He recalled his flirtation with the violin at university. Two days of dogged practice had left his fingertips sore and tender, so his instructor had used a spell to harden them. After this, he was able to press on the strings with no problem at all, as if his fingertips were little blocks of wood. The effects didn't last long, just for a practice session, but that was all that was required. Naturally, Aubrey had been intrigued by the spell. At the time, he had sworn off magic – but he had played around with some of the elements, in a strictly theoretical manner.
This time, though, he needed something harder than wood – and it wasn't his fingertips he was hardening. It was his tongue.
He constructed a spell sequence, adjusting the hardness factor. He wanted the tip of his tongue to be as hard as steel. As hard as diamond!
In the clanking, hissing world of the pipeworks, Aubrey didn't think he could be heard, but he kept his voice low in any case, barely above a whisper. Five short terms then a clipped final signature and he was done.
Unsure if the spell had worked, he tapped his tongue against his teeth and was reassured by the solid 'clink' it made.
He went to work. The copper wire was no match for his diamond-hard tongue. He sawed the edge against them and, one by one, they parted. First on the left side, then the right, and soon his whole mouth was free. He cancelled the spell, stretched his mouth, and he was ready.
Now he could do some serious magic, but he was frozen by the sight that confronted him.
Even with a small audience, Dr Tremaine did not neglect the dramatic. As his spells grew, rising in volume and complexity, he thrust up a hand, summoning and harnessing the power of the cold flame. It quivered in response, and all the connectors vibrated with the power it was pumping out to the edges of the city.
Rokeby-Taylor had backed away until he was pressed against a huge, vertical pipe. His expression was one of avidity and excitement, a man seeing his heart's desire, but unwilling to believe it was so close. His hands trembled even though he held them together.
Aubrey had time for one spell. Even though he could work his mouth properly, he doubted that Dr Tremaine or Rokeby-Taylor would allow him the luxury of a long, uninterrupted casting, so something short and useful would have to do.
His mind was awhirl with the possibilities, but what could he do to combat Dr Tremaine's power, face to face?
Then he realised he didn't have to meet him head-on. Dr Tremaine had embarked on a careful series of interlaced spells. His admonition to Rokeby-Taylor not to interrupt him wasn't just an artist's petulance, it was vital.
If one component of the spell matrix was incomplete, the whole program could fall apart.
All Aubrey had to do was break up his spell-casting, but interrupting someone with such a focus, such an iron will, was not going to be easy, however much magic Aubrey had at his disposal.
So he turned the problem around. Not magic, antimagic.
The Rashid Stone, the mysterious Roman fragment, his work on Ancient Languages, had all helped to refine his understanding of the basic nature of magic – and how language shaped it. Added to this, Rokeby-Taylor's magic suppressors showed that magic could be damped, neutralised. All he had to do was work out a way of achieving it here.
His mind seized on the rods inside the magic suppressors. They vibrated. If they generated magic that was equal to and opposite any magic performed in the area, everything would be effectively cancelled out – much as the sound-deadening magic that Aubrey had some experience of, back at Stonelea School.
Aubrey grasped at this fundamental application of the Law of Opposites. The difficulty was setting up the spell so it had duration – and that it also adapted to cancel out any magic within its range.
Feverishly, he plotted out the elements, the variables and the constants. Striving for potency, he reached back and used Sumerian, hoping that the primeval language would have the simplicity needed for such a weighty spell.
It was intricate. Aubrey had doubts about its effectiveness, and the variable for dimensionality seemed to be intimately linked with the intensity constant. It meant he couldn't cast it very far away – it was an extremely proximate, localised spell. He realised it explained the restricted field generated by the suppressors, and how carefully they had to be situated.
He could affect Dr Tremaine, but not the fountain of animating flame.
It was enough – he hoped. If he could interrupt Dr Tremaine, it should stop his careful spell-casting.
When he had it mapped in his mind, he ran through it twice, then began.
Immediately, he faced a struggle.
What he was doing was fundamentally inconsistent. He was casting a magical spell to negate magic. Each syllable resisted him. He had to force his mouth to make the correct shapes and spit them off his tongue. His split lip flared with sharp, lancing pain at each movement. Sweat sprang from his forehead and his jaw ached with the effort of speaking each element. They were heavy, dragging his lips downward so that he had to compensate in his delivery. He felt as if he were being strangled.
His throat started to close as the final term loomed. He dropped his chin as much as he could, hoping that gravity would help the term fall from his mouth.
It did; finally all he had left was his signature. It, too, was weighty, as if infected by the other parts of the spell, but he forced it out. He was done.
Dr Tremaine continued chanting.
Aubrey slumped against his metal bonds, oblivious of their cutting into him. He had no triumph to keep away the avalanche of fatigue that swept over him. No strength was left in his limbs. His head felt too heavy for his neck. He was defeated.
Then Dr Tremaine stopped chanting and whirled, eyes blazing. 'Magic suppression! Magic suppression! Do you know what you've done, Fitzwilliam?' He raged over the increasing noise of the flame. 'You've ruined everything!' He stormed to Aubrey and thrust his f
ace close. He snarled, baring his teeth like a great beast. 'Wretched boy! You dare to interpose yourself in my plans?'
In a blur of motion, he slapped Aubrey across the face, once then again, backhanded. Aubrey's ears rang with the force of the blow.
Dr Tremaine glared at him, jaw clenched so tightly that the tendons stood out on his neck. He panted, sucking air in through his teeth. 'You've destroyed the spell.'
With difficulty, Aubrey lifted his head and smiled. 'If that means I've stopped you destroying Trinovant, that's good enough.'
Tremaine stared at him for a moment then threw back his head and laughed. 'That you may have, boy. But at the cost of your own life.' He studied Aubrey. 'In that case, you won't be needing this.'
With a fingernail, Dr Tremaine sheared through wire as if it were butter. He plucked Aubrey's watch from his pocket and held it up. The light from the cold fire made the Brayshire Ruby glitter like a red star.
Aubrey threw himself against his bonds, anger making him oblivious to the pain. He hissed, then locked eyes with his tormentor and their connection was re-established.
An instant lasted for an eternity, an instant where Aubrey knew Dr Tremaine. He knew his roaring confidence, his unbounded dreams, his utter selfishness. He also knew his sorrow and frustration at never being able to find his sister. A vision came to Aubrey of Sylvia, but it was ghostly, vague, a portrait seen by cloudy moonlight.
Above all, Dr Tremaine's self dominated the experience – raw, wild, untouched by anyone apart from his sister. He was more a primeval force than a human being – a storm, an earthquake, a volcano. Aubrey shuddered and shied away from such unalloyed power.
At the same time, Aubrey was aware that Dr Tremaine had touched him. He lay exposed – his ambitions were naked, his confidence and insecurities on display, his skill and talents up for measure.
Then it ended, a heartbeat where they were blended and aware of another human being as few are.
Aubrey was dazed. Numbly, he stared at Tremaine, who looked back thoughtfully, tapping his chin. 'My, my, my,' he said, and the sheer banality of this utterance brought Aubrey back to his senses.
He managed to make his mouth work again. He wanted to demand the heirloom back, but he refused to give Tremaine the pleasure. 'You're a petty thief as well as a failed traitor, Tremaine.'
Dr Tremaine shrugged. 'You have something precious of mine, Fitzwilliam. It's only fair that I have something of yours.' A bass rumble from the column of cold fire made the magician glance over his shoulder. 'I always say that a true genius knows when to abandon a plan and when to try to resurrect one. Now is the time to abandon this one, I fear.'
Aubrey couldn't help himself. 'You didn't say that.'
Dr Tremaine frowned. 'What?'
'That's one of Scholar Tan's axioms. You stole it and just pretended you made it up.'
Aubrey had fought hand-to-hand with Dr Tremaine. He'd engaged in a magical struggle with Dr Tremaine. But judging from the almost embarrassed scowl, this time he'd managed to slip right under his guard and pierce his pride. Hastily he chalked it up as a point to himself and steeled himself for Dr Tremaine's reaction.
The rogue magician ignored it. Pretending he hadn't heard Aubrey, he went to make his exit.
Aubrey had an instant of satisfaction, then he did what he could. 'Stop him, Rokeby-Taylor!' he cried. 'Before he gets away!' 'Yes, stop me, Rokeby-Taylor,' Dr Tremaine said, having gathered his composure. He chuckled. 'Do something useful instead of standing there. Use the revolver in your pocket.'
Obediently, Rokeby-Taylor took out the revolver. He blinked at it, owlishly. 'I say, Tremaine, it's not for you. It's for protection.'
'Stop him, you idiot!' Aubrey shouted.
'How can I confer eternal life on you, Clive, if you shoot me?' Dr Tremaine said. He appeared to be enjoying this immensely, but Aubrey noted how he kept one eye on the shifting column of flame. 'Now listen. You stay here, guard these troublemakers, and I'll come back and get you in a few minutes.'
Rokeby-Taylor stared at Dr Tremaine, then he glanced at his revolver. He weighed it in his hand, then, slowly, he reached out and snapped off the safety catch. 'I've been called many things in my time,' he said, and he looked like someone who believed he was dreaming, 'and I put up with them because I knew what I wanted.'
'And you'll get it, Clive, you will,' Dr Tremaine said. 'Keep your back to the flame and all will be well.'
'I was a fool,' Rokeby-Taylor said, in the voice of someone discovering something for the first time. 'And it's all come to this.'
'You'll be able to laugh at all those who scorned you,' Dr Tremaine said. 'When they die, you will be alive. What better revenge can anyone have?'
Rokeby-Taylor considered this. 'I could show them that they were wrong.'
'Yes,' Aubrey said. 'Do that. Show us we were wrong. Show us you're not a traitor. Stop Tremaine and you'll be a hero.'
'A hero, a fool, and a disgrace.' He pocketed the revolver. 'No. On the whole, I'd rather have eternal life.'
Aubrey closed his eyes as hope ran away. Rokeby- Taylor had a chance at redemption, but had passed on it.
Dr Tremaine clapped his hands together. 'Excellent.
Now, remember that you're in charge until I get back.'
He strode to the latticework of conduits. Aubrey thought he was going to crash right into it, but just as he neared, the pipes, wires and chains drew back, making a Tremaine-sized hole that closed behind him.
The flame he left behind continued to grow in bulk and height. It now licked the ceiling with hungry vigour. It began to branch, side jets flaring with their own greedy life. Aubrey knew that, now the flame was released from Tremaine's control, it would build on itself, a runaway column of raw power. The chamber would be consumed, swallowed in the boiling chaos of uncontrolled magic.
The flame bowed, shifting enough so he just make out Caroline and George. Both were struggling, but Aubrey knew how pointless it was. Still, he was proud that neither of them was giving up without a fight.
Rokeby-Taylor paced along the walkway, his back to the flames. He was a long way from the well-dressed man about town that Aubrey had met in his townhouse. He was unshaven, filthy and he mumbled as he marched. His shoulders were hunched and he kept his head down as if uncertain about this whole walking business. 'I'm not a bad man,' Rokeby-Taylor said suddenly, popping his head up. 'Just greedy.'
'I'm afraid I don't really care at the moment,' Aubrey said. 'I have to stop this flame from exploding. Look at the way it's building.'
'I can't. Tremaine said not to look at it.'
'And you believed him? He's been lying to you all along, you know. He has no intention of giving you eternal life. It's a trick.'
'No it's not. I'm crucial to his plans, he told me.'
Yes, thought Aubrey, but not in the way you think. 'Look, the flame's getting bigger. Move away, at least.'
'What?'
At the last moment, Rokeby-Taylor did glance over his shoulder at the flame, Aubrey's urgency overcoming his obedience. He was in time to see the column split and send a branch snaking in his direction. Rokeby-Taylor straightened, and for a moment it was as if the years had melted from him. His eyes sparkled as he threw himself to one side, rolling and coming to his feet with a grin. He looked toward Aubrey and touched his nose with a gesture that suggested that this was all a jolly lark.
Then the tentacle of flame snapped back and wrapped itself around him.
Rokeby-Taylor's eyes flew open wide and his hands clawed at the flame. His mouth gaped, but no scream came out. The process was too quick for that. He was frozen in place, trapped in the middle of terror. In an instant, he became transparent, like smoked glass. Then he was an outline, a sketch of a human being, an empty husk. A burst of light and he was gone, as if he had never been.
Aubrey cried out, but it was far, far too late. All the breath went from him as if he'd been punched hard in the stomach. He had no time to spare for pity, but he couldn't help
but be moved by the fate of a fellow human, no matter how misled, how corrupt, how avaricious.
The column of flame was broader, taller, more solid. The blue-white was shot through with deeper, shimmering folds of gold. It began to roar like a mighty wind; it battered at him with sheer, unfocused magical power.
He had to stop it.
His mind worked in double time, dividing each second into a hundred parts. He riffled through possibilities and solutions, testing and discarding, pressing for a solution.
He couldn't imagine dousing it like an ordinary fire. Could he smother it, choke it? How had Dr Tremaine summoned it? How had he controlled it? What was its fuel?
Fuel. He seized on this. A fire needed fuel, but this cold flame had reached a stage where it was growing beyond any supply of fuel. It was sending out infinitely more power than could possibly be supplied to it.
It was feeding on itself. The Law of Intensification played a part here, he was sure, but it had sent things spiralling out of control. Intentionally or otherwise, it didn't matter. The flame had achieved a stage where the magic it was generating was spawning further magic, which further fed the beast. It would grow on itself, getting bigger and more powerful, faster and faster.
Unless he could interrupt it. He had to control it, to absorb some of the magic it was breeding. If he could, this would stop the process, for good.
It was a hastily constructed theory, but it was the only one he had.
He had to adapt the magic suppressing spell. He couldn't cancel the magic of the column of flame – it was too fierce, too powerful for that. Instead he wanted a spell to absorb it.
The image was perfect and he seized on it. He pictured administering charcoal to a patient to absorb poison, sponging up the deadly stuff and making it harmless.
The metaphor helped, but he realised he had no time to work out a careful spell. He had to launch into it straightaway – and trust to his ability to ex-temporise.
He recalled his anti-magic spell and began, adjusting each element, starting with intensity, duration, direction and dimensionality, before moving on to the individual variables and constants that shaped such an involved spell. He hurried through it, adapting on the run. It was easier this time as he wasn't negating magic, he was simply mopping it up.
Word of Honour Page 32
