‘Ah. Your father.’
‘It’s helpful sometimes. A bother at others.’
‘So I imagine.’ She craned her neck and stood on tiptoes, putting a hand on Aubrey’s shoulder to balance herself. ‘We appear to have lost Captain Bourdin.’
Aubrey looked around. Many people, none of them Captain Bourdin. ‘Well, we’re supposed to find Major Morton...’
Elspeth grinned. ‘Wait here, both of you. I know my way around. I’ll find out where Captain Bourdin’s gone. Or I’ll find Major Morton, one or the other.’
‘So you’ve been here before?’ Aubrey asked.
‘I have a friend who works in the library. She saves the latest Gallian romance novels for me.’ She eyed him directly. ‘And I don’t want you inferring anything from my reading preferences.’
Aubrey blinked. ‘Reading preferences?’
‘Never mind. We have afternoon tea together and discuss the sighs, the longing looks and the thumpings of the heart under crisp linen bodices.’
Aubrey looked around. Was it hot in here?
George, however, was interested in something else. ‘Afternoon tea?’
‘Oh yes. They have fine pastries here.’
‘Did you hear that, old man?’ George said. ‘I’m sure we need to sample their wares. Do our best for the alliance and all that.’
‘I’ll take you both when we’re done.’ Elspeth laughed. ‘Can you wait here? I won’t be long.’ She insinuated herself through the crowd, leaving Aubrey and George behind.
‘You know what Caroline would have said,’ George said as they shuffled away from the stairs and the flow of clerks and porters. ‘She would have said, “Don’t move. And do try to stay out of trouble.”’
‘Elspeth doesn’t know us that well.’ Aubrey dodged a rolled-up map that was being toted on the shoulder of a young man who appeared to be oblivious to the havoc he was wreaking as he peered from side to side, searching for someone or somewhere.
‘Pleasant enough, isn’t she?’
‘Elspeth? Quite. Able enough, too, if your reports are to be trusted.’
‘Believe me, old man, she’s top-notch in almost every way. Apart from her judgement.’
‘Her judgement?’
‘We spent some time together, you know, while we were on field training. Very modern, unchaperoned and all that. In a bunker by ourselves, she told me, quite sweetly, that I wasn’t her type.’
‘So you’re thinking she’s probably insane.’
‘Very droll, old man, very droll.’ George frowned a little. ‘It just struck me as a little odd, that’s all. I hadn’t pressed my suit on her at all. So to speak.’
‘She just blurted it out?’
‘Hardly. I don’t have the impression that our Elspeth blurts anything out that she doesn’t want to.’ He edged back against the wall to let a porter wheel past a trolley with a single drawer filing cabinet. ‘She did go on to ask about you, though.’
‘Me?’
‘Said she’d admired you from afar.’ His face was deadpan. ‘That’s when I became worried about her sanity.’
Before Aubrey could follow this further, Elspeth appeared at the top of the stairs and beckoned. ‘I think I’ve found him.’
The corridor was panelled with wood and displayed rather good Gallian watercolours. Sidelong, Aubrey studied Elspeth with renewed interest, but she stopped abruptly at a door halfway along the corridor, and gestured grandly. The light coming through the large arched window at the end of the corridor caught her hair. ‘Go ahead. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Aubrey raised an eyebrow. She made a gesture of exasperation, throwing up her hands and rolling her eyes. ‘Someone from the translation department wants to see me. Trouble with a document. But don’t worry, I’ll be back before you have a chance to miss me.’
With that, she was off and Aubrey was left bemused.
The door closed behind them, cutting off the buzz of Gallian office rearrangements with a very solid snick that Aubrey didn’t warm to at all, but his attention was taken up by the alarming sight of a tall, bald man pointing an alarmingly large pistol at him from the other side of an elegant desk.
‘Do not move,’ the bald man said in Albionish. ‘I will not hesitate to kill you on the spot if you do.’
Eleven
The office was dimly lit by gaslight, even in the middle of the day, because the drapes were drawn over the single tall window. The heavy wood panelling only emphasised the closeness of the confines.
Instant obedience never came easily to Aubrey. He was too willing to question first before agreeing to go along with commands. In the case of people pointing firearms at him and telling him not to move, however, he was able to quell this natural propensity.
At his side, it was George who spoke. ‘Who are you? What’s going on here?’
The bald man was sweating, Aubrey realised. His head and face shone, and was his hand trembling as it held the pistol? ‘Fitzwilliam,’ he said flatly. His eyes narrowed, and Aubrey, in a moment of acute alertness, saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger – and he also sensed the magic spells that the pistol was overlaid with.
The equation was clear. If he moved, he was going to be shot, and shot by a magically enhanced weapon. If he didn’t move, he was still going to be shot. When it came to choosing, he favoured action over inaction, but before he could move the man grimaced and squeezed the trigger. Immediately, something whipped past Aubrey’s right ear with a deadly, low hum. The large mirror on the wall behind him shattered.
Aubrey instinctively ducked, much too late, then hunched at the shower of glass, but his mind was taken up with astonishment. Where was the report of the pistol? It hadn’t made a sound at all! Aubrey saw that the bald man was as astonished as he was; the would-be assassin was shaking his head at the revolver, staring at it in disbelief. Then a large vase flung by George struck the man squarely in the chest.
He grunted and doubled over. While hammering came from the door behind them, Aubrey pawed at a side table and sent a carriage clock after George’s successful vase strike and was pleased to see it collect the would-be assassin squarely on his shining skull. He screeched, then straightened and waved the pistol. ‘I will not miss this time!’
A deafening boom from the doorway interrupted the assassin’s plans. He dropped the pistol, sagged in the corner, swore and tried to staunch the flow of blood that was coming from a fresh, and nasty, shoulder wound.
Aubrey whirled. Elspeth stood in the doorway with a large and smoking revolver. She kept it trained on their assailant while George stalked him warily, a brass umbrella stand in his hand. ‘Careful, George,’ she said. Her voice was even and Aubrey noted how steady her hands were, holding the revolver in a manner that would draw admiring gasps from the shoutiest of military instructors.
‘He’s not a menace any more.’ Without taking his eyes off the bald man, George scooped up his pistol and pocketed it.
As if it were one of Ivey and Wetherall’s musical comedies, a trio of armed guards arrived after events had been resolved, almost tripping over themselves in their eagerness to get through the doorway. Aubrey had a giddy moment wondering if he’d ever live to see the day when armed guards appeared in the nick of time rather than too late, then, rather than having his knees give way and his head introduced to the carpet, he sat on one of the chairs. Captain Bourdin appeared, looking both distressed and offended, and pointed a pistol at Elspeth – rather needlessly as she was the target of each of the squad members. ‘M’mselle. Please to drop your weapon.’
She looked amused. ‘I’ll just engage the safety first, if you don’t mind. There.’
The revolver thumped to the floor.
‘Thank you. Now, you men, see to the cultural attaché before he bleeds to death.’
Aubrey rubbed his forehead. He could feel the effect
s of nearly being shot starting to assert themselves. His knees were trembling. His stomach was both hollow and cavernous. His mouth was devoid of moisture. He was relieved, naturally, to have survived, and he couldn’t help but feel grateful for Elspeth’s timely intervention, but he could see a long, complicated explanation ahead.
‘And you’re sure the weapon is ensorcelled?’ Captain Bourdin asked.
The captain’s office was a small, neatly arranged room toward the rear of the embassy. Through the window, Aubrey could see the cordoned-off area of the courtyard that marked the site where Major Morton and his bomb squad were. It was fifty yards away, but Aubrey wondered about the safety of their location. Or was it Gallian bravado, refusing to move away from the scene of danger?
Initially, Bourdin had been outraged at three Albionite guests assaulting the cultural attaché, but as the story emerged his attitude changed remarkably. He became, by turns, mortified, apologetic, then outraged again – but this time the outrage was directed at the would-be assassin.
While his subordinates dragged the wounded official to the infirmary for treatment and interrogation, he’d confided that he’d always suspected the cultural attaché of something or other.
‘I didn’t get a chance to examine the weapon before your people took it away,’ Aubrey said, ‘but it was definitely spell-ridden.’
‘A silencing spell?’ George suggested.
‘When he fired, it didn’t make a sound. I don’t know what other spells it might have had.’ And if he hadn’t missed and smashed that mirror instead, no-one outside would have been the wiser. Aubrey shuddered. He’d been so concerned about international dangers that he’d forgotten the peril that came from simply being the son of the Prime Minister.
‘Rather incompetent assassin,’ Elspeth pointed out, ‘missing the PM’s son from that range. I’m glad I didn’t miss him. I’d be a laughing stock.’
She looked remarkably cheerful, unfazed by the whole incident. Aubrey realised then that her breezy demeanour was an asset. She was unflappable. Such an attitude would make her a valuable field operative in a crisis. ‘I haven’t had a chance to thank you,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘It was the least I could do. I led you to him, after all.’
‘It could happen to anyone,’ George said. ‘Big place, this, easy to get confused.’
‘I know, but I keep thinking of how it would look on my file, losing a colleague in my first liaison officer role. I don’t want a reputation for being so careless.’
Aubrey couldn’t help but notice that her gaze flitted across him, not challenging directly as had been her wont. Her words were casual, but lacked her usual touch of impudence.
And was that gleam the beginning of tears in her eyes?
He cleared his throat, in a haphazard effort to distract attention from the blush that was creeping to his cheeks. ‘This man,’ he said to Captain Bourdin. ‘Has he made any admissions?’
Captain Bourdin looked at Aubrey then at Elspeth and Aubrey cringed, internally, when the Gallian smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘None so far, Fitzwilliam. But it won’t be long before our cultural attaché tells us everything.’
Cultural attaché, Aubrey thought. You may as well tattoo ‘spy’ on his forehead. He pinched the bridge of his nose. A Gallian spy trying to shoot the son of the Albion PM. He wondered how the Holmland intelligence agencies had persuaded him to come over to their side.
‘I’m sure that our authorities will be interested in talking to him,’ Elspeth said. ‘After you’re done, you’ll get in touch with Commander Tallis? I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to hear about this.’
Captain Bourdin frowned. ‘Overjoyed?’
‘Sorry. It’s Directorate slang. It means “outraged”.’
‘We will provide a thorough and complete report, m’mselle. And I must thank you for your quick action. It would not do for the son of the Prime Minister of Albion to be hurt in the middle of the Gallian Embassy.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Now, do you think we can continue with our assignment? I’m a stickler for following instructions.’
Aubrey couldn’t help smiling. She was nothing if not dedicated. He eyed the bag she clutched. Discreet brown leather, he wondered what other useful equipment it held besides a revolver.
Outside the office, it was still bedlam.
‘Anyone would think a war was on,’ George remarked, hands in his pockets. ‘All this running about, your getting shot and whatnot.’
‘Keep that line up your sleeve, George,’ Aubrey said. ‘Such levity could be useful soon.’
‘Gloomy thought, that,’ George said, ‘but you may be right, old man. You may be right.’
‘Major Morton?’ Aubrey called as they approached the large crater in the middle of the courtyard. It was a good three yards across and twice that long, with cobblestones scattered in all directions around it, and earth flung against the sides of the embassy buildings. The crater was surrounded by waist-high barricades and the area inside was swarming with black-clad Department operatives.
One of them straightened and squinted. He shook his head, said something to one of the other operatives that Aubrey couldn’t make out, then he climbed out of the crater in the courtyard and easily vaulted the barricades. Aubrey fumbled his salute. He still wasn’t used to the action and kept forgetting exactly where the brim of his Department cap was. As a result he nearly knocked himself backward, but Major Morton didn’t appear to notice.
The major had abandoned his cap, and his thinning sandy hair was dishevelled in the brisk breeze that gusted about the courtyard. He was in his forties, Aubrey guessed, medium height, with shrewd eyes and a narrow nose with such tiny nostrils that it looked as if it could hardly supply enough air to keep a person alive.
‘Ah, Fitzwilliam.’ His voice was dry and amused, and his salute was languid. ‘Doyle. Mattingly. I was told you were on your way. Now, any of you had any experience with compression magic?’
George and Elspeth turned to Aubrey with such perfect timing that Major Morton laughed. ‘Only one magic operative in your team, eh?’ Major Morton patted the pockets of his black uniform and eventually found a pipe, which he jammed in his mouth.
Immediately, one of the other operatives called out. ‘Major Morton, sir! No flames, sir!’
Major Morton sighed and glanced over his shoulder. He took the pipe from his mouth. ‘It’s empty!’ He waved it in the air. ‘Good work, though, Maloney!’ He turned back to find Aubrey, George and Elspeth doing their best not to look curious, and failing. ‘It’s part of their job,’ he explained, ‘to remind me not to strike a match when we’re on the job. I forget, sometimes.’
Aubrey wondered how often someone would forget in such a dangerous occupation as bomb disposal. He counted Major Morton’s fingers and, to his relief, found that none were missing.
‘Now,’ the major said, pointing his pipe at Aubrey. ‘Compression spells?’
‘I have had some field experience, sir. A little.’
‘Really? Tell me about it.’
‘Sir?’
‘I want to hear about your experiences, Fitzwilliam. It may be useful.’ He jerked his pipe at the crater. ‘I’d welcome anything that could help us with what we have on our hands here. It could go off at any minute.’
Aubrey glanced at the pit. Five yards away. Not far enough. He could see George doing his best not to back off, but Elspeth actually leaned forward to get a better look. ‘It fell the night before last, is that right, sir?’
Major Morton smiled. ‘Early in the morning, really. About four. We’ve been working on it ever since, when it became apparent that the Gallians didn’t just have an unexploded bomb on their hands, but something magical as well.’
‘Something magical that could go off at any minute,’ George said.
Major Morton shrugged. ‘Or it could go o
ff tomorrow. Or it could turn into a pig and start asking the way to St Swithins Station. Or it could do nothing except make us very, very nervous, like the others these skyfleets have been showering on us these past few weeks.’
Aubrey had been monitoring the spectacular skyfleets, battleships formed of cloud stuff, since Dr Tremaine had sent one after him last year. They had been appearing at irregular intervals all over Albion, but obviously coming from the Continent. They hadn’t done anything except sow panic, so this was a new and unwelcome development. The skyfleets had been excellent at spreading confusion and fear, a sense of imminent dread that stopped the normal commerce of everyday living any time a shadow appeared in the sky.
‘I dealt with a compression device, sir. In Fisherberg. One that was constructed by the enemy.’
‘You did? By Jove, you could be just what we need. Tell me about it.’
Aubrey described the events of finding the compressed lightning spell outside Fisherberg Academy Hall, and how he barely managed to stop it exploding and wrecking the venerable building – a building with Prince Albert inside.
‘And what did you do? Remove it?’
‘No time for that, sir. I used a few variations on Harland James’s technique.’
Major Morton blinked. ‘But you’re alive.’
‘That was one of the main variations, sir, keeping the spell caster alive. The other variation was that it worked. I managed to graft something onto the existing spell with a temporal inversion constant and thus neutralise it. Long enough, anyway, to remove the package safely.’
‘You did that?’ Major Morton eyed him with something verging on respect. ‘But why haven’t I heard of this?’
‘I’m writing a paper on it, sir,’ Aubrey said, and he thought of the thirteen half-written papers on his desk at Maidstone. He really needed to finish some of them. ‘I just need some more time.’
‘Time. We could use some of that, I suspect. Come this way, have a look at what we’ve found.’
Moment of Truth Page 10
