Moment of Truth

by Michael Pryor

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Lady Maria was lobbing surprises at him like grenades.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked. Your intelligence people, the ones you’re thick as thieves with, they intercept my letters. Intercept, copy out, then send them on so I’m not aware of their interference. That’s what the Holmlanders have been doing for years, too, and a dozen other agencies as well.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  ‘Aubrey, I gave up worrying years ago. A pointless expenditure of energy.’

  ‘But people are reading your letters!’

  ‘It won’t do them any good at all. Anything my friends tell me is couched in terms so allusive and roundabout that I’m the only one who can understand them.’

  ‘The security agencies are very clever.’

  ‘They may be clever, but they haven’t lived eighty-four years of my life. That’s what they’d need to unravel the hints and implications in my correspondence.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that you knew Dr Delroy.’

  ‘For many years. A fine mind. The Gallian government would be lost if it weren’t for his economic guidance. Poor man.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He is most unhappy, Aubrey. Family can do that, you know.’

  Personal matters weren’t the sort of thing one should be curious about, Aubrey knew, but it was difficult to ignore such a tantalising hint. Besides, he might be able to help George if he knew...

  Don’t, he warned himself. He could see a slippery slope just ahead. Ask about this matter, then he’d need to know a bit more and soon he’d be a prying, unhappy gossip, keen to know about the private lives of others, but never satisfied.

  ‘Thank you, Grandmother,’ he said with an effort. He stood. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘Don’t you want my advice after all?’

  ‘Advice? Of course.’

  ‘Here.’ She gestured to him to bend over. When he did, she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Do the right thing.’

  He left his grandmother, feeling strangely pleased but still confused. Her final words were cryptic, but Aubrey was accustomed to such things. Cryptic comments, enigmatic observations and puzzling responses were commonplace in Maidstone.

  She’d given him more food for thought, but he already had a surfeit of that and could feel mental indigestion coming on.

  He wandered along the gallery, toward his room. His hands were thrust into his pockets and his brow was thoroughly wrinkled as he pondered his future.

  Magical scholarship was mightily attractive. He loved the thrill of discovery and implementation in this field, using his innate talent and building on it through rigorous investigation. He could make a name for himself, and it would be special. No Fitzwilliam had ever shown much magical talent until he came along, so if he could succeed, it would be unique. He could see a life of magical theory, perhaps a chair at one of the universities, or even the position of Sorcerer Royal.

  Magic would always be part of his life. He couldn’t deny it, but he understood now that the lure of something else was more insistent. Politics. He wanted to go into politics – but could he succeed in magic and politics? To make the matter knottier, he had the possibility of pursuing a magical career via Craddock’s people, the Magic Department of the Security Intelligence Directorate.

  He stopped in front of a portrait of his grandfather. His grandfather, the soldier, in full uniform, the defender of his country.

  It may not be a choice between two options. A third presented itself, bursting out of the pack and racing to the lead.

  He turned on his heel to find George mounting the stairs, with the happy smile that came from having completed a sufficient meal. He looked up just as Aubrey seized his arm. ‘George! I know what one person can do!’

  ‘I’m glad. Can another one do it too?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s something that can make a difference, especially when lots of people do it at the same time.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense, old man. What is it?’

  ‘We can join up.’

  Six

  ‘I know I’ve asked this question before, in other circumstances,’ George said as they jumped off the bus the following day, ‘but do you really think this is a good idea?’

  They skirted a newsagent that was besieged by customers. Posters announcing the declaration of war were plastered all over the small wooden booth, and Aubrey had to struggle through to buy a paper. He read about his father’s speech in Parliament and the overwhelming support it received – one hundred million pounds was immediately voted toward the war effort. Huge crowds had gathered at the Palace in the early morning, cheering whenever the King and Prince Albert appeared at the balcony.

  In all this optimism, Aubrey was relieved to see that Quentin Hollows, the British Ambassador in Fisherberg, had been handed his passport by the Holmland authorities and was safely on his way home. Aubrey had appreciated the support of Hollows when they were in Fisherberg and had been concerned at his situation in the Holmland capital once war was official.

  He was also sobered to read that the Holmland invasion of the Low Countries had begun with a bombardment by airship. This was a modern war, in all its horribleness.

  Aubrey pointed at the long line of men stretched along the pavement in busy High Street. Shopkeepers stood outside their establishments and cheered the young men who were coming from all directions, alone and in small groups arm in arm. Whistles and shouts came from the line, attracting attention, and every newcomer was greeted with a roar of acclamation. ‘All those chaps seem to think it’s a good idea, George.’

  George put his hands on his hips. ‘For king and country?’

  ‘And for our families. For Caroline and Sophie.’

  ‘Those chaps don’t know Caroline and Sophie.’

  ‘They must have their own reasons, then.’

  During the bus ride to Harnsby Road, a mile or two from Fielding Cross, Aubrey had told George about Lady Maria and her correspondence with Professor Delroy. George expressed puzzlement over the hint of family trouble, and Aubrey could see that a letter would soon be winging its way from George to Sophie.

  They tacked themselves onto the back of the line, to cheers, and Aubrey soon realised that the overwhelming reason for joining up was that it had every prospect of being a smashing lark. At least, that was the prevailing opinion around them.

  They shuffled along, slowly getting closer to the doorway of the recruiting office. The volunteers were all young men. Some were very down at heel, others well dressed, but they were all excited, chatting in animated fashion, sharing anecdotes fathers and uncles had told about the last war. Carefully chosen anecdotes, Aubrey was sure, by said fathers and uncles. Plenty of jolly japes among the troops, and not much fear or panic or actual bloodshed.

  The standard expression was a broad grin, as if anticipating a football match, and Aubrey wondered where all the sober, thoughtful types were. He refused to think that they weren’t volunteering because they knew better, but he couldn’t help notice that none of the faces in the line looked to be older than their early twenties.

  The chap directly in front of them turned around. He wore a cloth cap, but his suit was well cut and expensive. ‘I say, those Holmlanders won’t be expecting this, don’t you know?’

  ‘Won’t be expecting what?’ Aubrey asked carefully.

  ‘All these fellows, ready to go.’ A broad sweep of an arm. ‘We’ll show the Elektor what’s what.’

  Having met the Elektor, Aubrey had the impression that he’d be upset by developments rather than rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m sure we will.’

  This satisfied their interlocutor, who grinned and went back to discussing horses with someone in front of him.

  ‘Do you think they know what they’re getting themselves in f
or?’ George muttered to Aubrey.

  ‘I don’t think anyone does,’ Aubrey said. ‘Not even the generals.’

  Aubrey subsided into himself and listened to the chatter about coming to the aid of the plucky people of the Low Countries. While Aubrey couldn’t fault their generosity of spirit, he did wonder about his fellow recruits’ lack of worldliness, especially when he heard, more than once, the confident sentiment that the war would be over by Christmas.

  It took nearly two hours – and lunchtime was approaching, as George pointed out – when they finally mounted the stairs into the shop front of a building that was clearly inadequate to handle the numbers. The counter was manned by a stern-faced sergeant who was doing his best to keep up. Next to him, a monstrous pile of paper threatened to topple over and Aubrey hoped that the sergeant wouldn’t be in the way when it did, thus becoming the first Albionite casualty of the war.

  He laboured over forms and lists, and each recruit was then sent to one of the four rooms in the rear of the building. Medical examinations, Aubrey expected, as a stream of young men exited and then ambled out of the back door with papers clutched in hands.

  Posters hung on the walls, extolling the virtues of the service. They explained why army life was a good life and that joining up was the only decent thing a man could do. They looked as if they’d been there for decades, to judge from the uniforms and the weapons, and Aubrey knew that deep in the Ministry of Defence a whole team would be working on newer, more appealing ways to coax the hesitant to join up – not that this was a problem at the moment.

  On the bus, Aubrey and George had discussed their options. Aubrey had considered the navy, after being impressed with the Invulnerable and the Electra. George had suggested joining the new Flying Corps, which brought together various military airship and ornithopter squadrons and was rumoured to be toying with the new fixed-wing aircraft.

  In the end they agreed on the army. Mostly it was because the nearest recruiting office for any branch of the military was the Caulfield Regiment, one of the great infantry names in Albion Army history. Aubrey had little preference, really, as long as they didn’t join the Cliffstone Guards. Joining his father’s old regiment was simply too much to contemplate.

  ‘Name?’

  Aubrey started. He’d reached the head of the line. ‘Fitzwilliam.’

  The sergeant grunted. ‘First name?’

  ‘Aubrey.’

  Aubrey amused himself by looking at the top of the sergeant’s head as he scratched away. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short. Aubrey ran his fingers through his own longish black hair and wondered if the shortness was compulsory or simply a preference on the sergeant’s part – although he was sure the army didn’t encourage personal preferences.

  ‘Fitzwilliam, eh?’ the sergeant said, looking up. He had a neat moustache. Aubrey readied himself for the customary confirmation that he was indeed the Prime Minister’s son, but the sergeant just frowned and consulted a list. He grunted again and picked up the telephone. ‘Over there.’

  Aubrey looked in the direction the sergeant had jabbed his pencil. Against the side wall, a bench stood under a window. Three unhappy-looking young men sat on it. ‘Over there?’

  ‘That’s what I said, sunshine,’ the sergeant said.

  Aubrey shrugged at George and crossed the room, his boot heels loud on the wooden floor, even over the hum of chatter in the small room. The three others on the bench looked sidelong at him when he sat down. Each of them had their hats in their laps – two bowlers and a straw boater. Aubrey was glad he hadn’t worn one or else they would have ended up looking suspiciously like a milliner’s showcase. He looked up and behind him to see a sign tacked to the wall over their heads: ‘Group W’.

  ‘How long were you in for?’ his nearest benchmate asked. He was a sallow-looking chap with a nose so sharp it could be used to open letters.

  ‘In for?’ Aubrey frowned, then his eyes widened. ‘In prison, you mean?’

  The next chap along – small, pugnacious, face like a limpet – leaned forward. ‘Nah. In the latest Royal Academy exhibition.’

  It was with relief that Aubrey looked up to see George trudging toward him, bafflement on his face. ‘They think we’re criminals,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth once George had sat down.

  ‘And there’s something wrong with that? I thought a few criminal skills would be very handy in the army.’

  ‘Are you saying that soldiers are criminals at heart?’

  ‘Soldiers? I thought the criminals would be made officers straight away.’

  ‘Be that as it may, they’ve got the wrong end of the stick here. We don’t belong.’

  ‘Oh ho,’ his pugnacious benchmate said. ‘Something wrong with Group W? Too good for us, are we?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Aubrey said and paused when he realised he was therefore arguing that he belonged with convicted felons. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I think we should go and explain our situation,’ George said.

  ‘Good luck, mate,’ Pugnacious said, crossing his arms. ‘Tried to tell him that my stretch in the clink was a misunderstanding. He wouldn’t listen.’

  Aubrey looked at the queue. It still stretched out of the door and past the shop front window. ‘I think he has enough on his hands.’

  The telephone on the sergeant’s counter rang. When he answered, his attention immediately went to the Group W bench and Aubrey swallowed. The sergeant had the look in his eye that Aubrey imagined some commanders had when choosing volunteers for suicide missions. ‘You two.’ He jabbed his pencil at Aubrey and George. ‘On the end. Room 3. Look lively.’

  ‘Both of us?’

  ‘Now, sunshine.’

  Aubrey swung open the door to Room 3 to see it was bare apart from two wooden chairs in the middle. George shrugged. ‘The army.’

  When the door closed behind him, it revealed that a tall officer had been standing behind it. He was tall and lanky and had so little chin Aubrey assumed all his pillows had no slips. ‘Right. This way.’ He pointed at a door that could only lead outside.

  ‘No medical examination?’ Aubrey asked.

  ‘This way,’ the officer repeated, as if he were talking to a small child. ‘This way.’

  Aubrey was strangely reluctant, but guessed that disobeying orders was a bad way to start an army career.

  In the lane outside the door, a lorry was waiting, motor running. A private stood at rigid attention by the tail gate. ‘In the back,’ the officer ordered. ‘Hurry now.’

  As soon as they scrambled in, the tail gate was banged shut and the lorry lurched off down the lane. A screeching left-hand turn and they bullocked their way into High Street traffic.

  ‘War does strange things to normal procedures,’ George shouted over the growl of the engine. Canvas flapped over the rear of the lorry, making it easy enough to see their passage.

  ‘The modern army,’ Aubrey said. ‘It’s all new.’

  The driver was in a hurry. He used the horn almost constantly as he threw the lorry from side to side through the busy traffic. ‘We’re headed toward the city,’ Aubrey said as they passed Limner’s Hall. ‘Maybe they’re inducting everyone at the Ministry of Defence.’

  ‘All the criminals, anyway.’

  Aubrey sat back at that. Maybe undesirables were shipped off somewhere. He could see them driving straight through the city and heading out into the country east of Trinovant, ending up in a camp that harboured all those unfit for military service, like a boil on the buttock of Albion.

  The lorry rounded the Jubilee Pavilion and roared along Hollingsworth Street, past the greenery of Pitcher Park and then into Eastride. It was then that Aubrey threw out his first wild imaginings. When they slowed and turned into Pettypoint Street, he was certain he knew where they were going. Grainger Square loomed ahead. They turned right and drew up
in front of a vast, gloomy building, the knocked-together conglomeration that began with a pair of three-storey townhouses and had grown over the years into a vast warren of secrecy.

  ‘Good lord,’ George said, staring up at the oppressive façade that loomed over them. ‘Darnleigh House.’

  The soldier who had loaded them appeared at the rear of the lorry. ‘All out,’ he said, but his eyes were on the building rather than on his passengers. ‘This is your stop.’

  Commander Craddock watched Aubrey and George from the other side of his desk. ‘We can’t waste talent, I’m afraid. While you would have been useful in the army, we think you could be more useful elsewhere.’

  Aubrey’s irritation at being impressed – at being co-opted against his will – was soothed somewhat by this, but he allowed it a bite. ‘It is called volunteering, isn’t it?’

  ‘Unfortunate, that,’ Craddock said. He had a small silver paperweight in one hand and he rolled it through his fingers. ‘It’s not necessarily the best thing for the country.’

  ‘Ah. And you know better?’

  George looked uncomfortable at this exchange. ‘I say, Commander, I can appreciate why you’ve got Aubrey here. Top notch magic talent and all that. But it doesn’t explain what I’m doing here.’

  ‘I agree,’ Commander Craddock said. ‘It’s remarkable, Doyle, how little magic you have in you. Many people have a touch, even if only an infinitesimal amount. But you seem entirely devoid of magic.’

  George smiled. ‘That comes as quite a relief, actually, since I’ve seen the sort of thing magic can do.’

  ‘You do have other skills, but they are of more use elsewhere. Propaganda, perhaps, with your writing. Just follow Tate here and she’ll take you to Lattimer Hall.’

  Aubrey and George swivelled in their chairs. A blackclad Department operative was standing at the door. Long black skirt, black jacket, gloves. Aubrey hadn’t heard her enter. ‘Lattimer Hall?’ George said. ‘Special Services headquarters?’