Time of Trial

by Michael Pryor

  ‘But you don’t want to make an issue of it,’ George said suddenly. ‘Not wanting to give the Holmlanders a chance to get offended.’

  ‘Precisely. I could send a troop of bodyguards. I could demand a Holmland military escort. I could insist on around-the-clock protective spells from a squad of never-sleeping, all-seeing oriental mystics. Any of which would enable the Chancellor and his government to display enormous huffiness and then refuse to appear at the talks we’ve invited them to in September.’

  Aubrey straightened. ‘I hadn’t heard of any talks.’

  ‘I’m glad. I was starting to think that this office was leaking like a rusty sieve.’

  ‘Diplomatic talks aimed at anything in particular? Averting a war, for instance?’

  Sir Darius’s face grew solemn. ‘We’ve stood up to their posturing over the Goltans. We’ve refused to be cowed by their bluster over the Marchmaine question and their designs on south Gallia. But it’s not enough to act as a bulwark against Holmland aggression. This is the modern era. Surely civilised people can sit down and talk through differences. And if talking is going to stop carnage on the Continent, I’m prepared to talk until the cows come home.’

  ‘But you’re still worried about Mother and this symposium.’

  Sir Darius sighed. ‘I don’t like your mother going to Holmland. Not at this time.’

  ‘You could forbid her from going,’ Aubrey suggested, then he realised what he’d said. He nearly fell off his seat with horror. Both Sir Darius and George stared at him. ‘Er. I’ll deny that I ever said that, you know.’

  ‘I’ve already erased it from my memory,’ Sir Darius said. ‘Thank goodness.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone could stop Lady Rose from doing something she’d set her mind on,’ George pointed out.

  Sir Darius clicked his tongue. ‘I don’t think he’s recovered yet, the last fellow who tried.’

  The three males contemplated the awesome magnificence of Aubrey’s mother in silence for a few moments, looking at the floor and nodding, before Sir Darius clapped his hands together. ‘You’ll do it, then?’

  ‘Glad to.’

  ‘George?’

  George glanced at Aubrey. ‘Sounds like a wheeze.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Sir Darius looked pleased. ‘Now, what was it you wanted to ask?’

  Having had his wishes granted and his questions answered without having to offer anything in return, this question left Aubrey unprepared, but he rallied. ‘Stafford Bruce. What’s he up to?’

  Sir Darius raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, you didn’t come here to ask that because you didn’t know about him until you saw him pass the waiting room, but I’ll let that pass.’

  ‘He’s on the outer with his party leadership,’ George said. ‘Is he thinking of crossing the floor?’

  Aubrey was flabbergasted. ‘You’re becoming a political pundit, George. All that newspaper reading?’

  George smiled smugly. ‘That and a naturally enquiring mind.’

  Sir Darius chuckled again. ‘He’s a good man, is Bruce, so naturally he wouldn’t see eye to eye with Rollo Armitage. I’ve simply left the door open to him. If he can’t stomach the Royalists any more, the Progressives would be pleased to have him. Someone who has the steel to cross the floor on a bill so important to the party leader as the Security Intelligence Reorganisation bill is the sort of person we’d value.’

  Rollo Armitage was one of Sir Darius’s oldest political foes. At one time he’d been second-in-command to Sir Darius when he was Royalist party leader, but had shown his true colours in a series of dastardly alliances, deals and betrayals that saw Sir Darius stripped of party leadership and the Prime Ministership.

  Aubrey was about to ask more about the bill when the other door was flung open. An angry-looking Commander Tallis, head of the Special Services, marched in. Hard on his heels was an equally unsettled-looking Commander Craddock, head of the Magisterium. Tallis was wearing his usual black topcoat and trousers, while Craddock wore a long coat, almost sweeping the floor. He had a broad-brimmed hat in one hand. ‘Prime Minister,’ Tallis barked. ‘We need one of your constables to follow someone.’

  Craddock surveyed the room and narrowed his eyes when his gaze lit on Aubrey. ‘No need, I think, Tallis. We have someone here for the job.’

  Tallis scowled. ‘Fitzwilliam? You think so? Begging your pardon, Prime Minister.’

  Sir Darius frowned. ‘I take it this is urgent? So urgent that it can’t wait?’

  Craddock nodded. ‘We were waiting for your meeting. Through the window, Tallis saw Bruce leave. He was immediately met by one of his underlings.’

  ‘Gave him something,’ Tallis growled. He was a compact, almost solid man, especially when he stood at parade rest, hands behind his back, legs slightly spread, as he was now. ‘Papers.’

  ‘And this is an issue in exactly what way?’ Sir Darius asked.

  ‘The underling is a known Holmland agent,’ Craddock said. ‘A magical operative. We’ve had our eye on him for some time.’

  ‘Joint operation,’ Tallis growled again. ‘His being a spy and a magician meant Special Services had to inform the Magisterium.’

  ‘Luckily, we knew about him first and we were the ones to alert Special Services to his existence,’ Craddock said.

  For something that’s urgent, Aubrey thought, inter-service rivalry seems to be much more important. He stood. ‘Which way did this underling go?’

  ‘Right at Playford Street,’ Tallis said.

  ‘And what did he look like?’ George asked.

  ‘Small, striped trousers, bowler hat,’ Craddock said.

  That narrows it down to a few thousand civil servants in this part of the city, Aubrey thought. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He was carrying an umbrella. Black.’ Tallis snorted. ‘No sign of rain.’

  Aubrey turned to his father. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go. Be careful.’

  Thirteen

  The Police Constables started at Aubrey and George as they scampered out of the doorway. Breathing fast, flushed, Aubrey pounded along the pavement until they reached Playford Street.

  ‘Right,’ George panted, and they were off.

  The street was busy. Motorcars and lorries rumbled along with dour intensity. The pavements were thick with people who all had the focus of those who wanted to be somewhere else. Probably home, eating supper, Aubrey thought as he came to one of those awkward impasses with a woman wearing a large, flowery hat. He moved left, and she moved in the same direction. He went back the other way just as she did. She pursed her lips and frowned, as if he were deliberately playing games. Aubrey took half a step back just as she lurched in the same direction but he was ready and shifted his weight back, slipping around her and hurrying to catch up to George. ‘Any sign?’

  ‘Other side of the street,’ George said. ‘Just passing the tobacconist.’

  Aubrey stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. A tall man wearing a cloth cap obscured him for a second, then he saw their quarry. He was just as Tallis and Craddock said: small, bowler hat and carrying an unneeded umbrella. He had a buff envelope in one hand.

  Aubrey kept his gaze on the shop windows they were passing, using them to keep track of the umbrella-carrying spy, so he wouldn’t have to directly look at him as he navigated the busy pavements.

  He blinked and stared at the wavy reflection in the gentleman’s outfitters they were passing. Then he whipped his head around to scan the other side of the street.

  The spy had disappeared.

  ‘There.’ George prevented himself from pointing with an almost physical effort. ‘Down those stairs.’

  They crossed the street, slipping between lorries, motorcars and a dignified open carriage. The stairs led to a narrow shop below street level, the bottom floor of a tall building. Warm yellow light spilled from its windows, a sign that evening was asserting itself.

  Thomson and Sons, the sign over the door read. Fine and Rare Books. Bibli
ographic Antiquities. Aubrey had a moment’s hesitation, wondering if this was a dodge and the spy was exiting through a rear door, but decided they had no choice. He pushed in and a cheery bell over the door announced their entrance, much to his disgust. George reached up to still it, but it was too late.

  A tall, spindly man appeared from a darkened doorway behind the counter. He stood for a moment, polishing his spectacles, before slipping them on and nodding. ‘Welcome to Thomson and Sons. I am Mr Thomson. Can I help you?’

  He had long grey hair, parted in the middle and pushed back on both sides in waves. He was smartly dressed in dark green topcoat and well-knotted tie from one of the better clubs in the city. On either side of him, the counter was laden with books in neat piles.

  ‘Early Latin magic,’ Aubrey said briskly. ‘What do you have?’

  Mr Thomson raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m afraid we have very little on magic here, young sir. If that’s what you’re looking for, you’d be better off trying Fletcher’s, in Cook Street.’

  ‘Ah. Of course.’ Aubrey flapped a hand and looked about vaguely. ‘Isn’t this Fletcher’s?’

  George took his cue. ‘I told you it wasn’t, Richard. Now, come on, let’s go.’

  ‘There’s no hurry, Horace. Now I’m here, I’d like to look around. This seems a delightful place.’

  Aubrey wandered off, but not before seeing George roll his eyes at Thomson the Bookseller.

  Now, to find our quarry.

  The bookshop was deeper than Aubrey had thought, and it opened into a number of separate rooms, all teeming with bookshelves. The whole place smelled of must and dust, while tiny hand-written signs pointed out that this shelf was devoted to Comparative Religion, while this one was full of Eastern Religions, and another was simply the home of Food.

  With a nod and a tilt of the head, Aubrey and George split up, strolling though the bibliophile’s paradise. At any other time, Aubrey would have been fascinated by what surrounded him. The books were old and intriguing, from all over Albion, from the Continent and even further afield, if he recognised a row of handsome Nipponese volumes correctly. In his guise of a book fancier he picked several books from shelves to maintain his pose, but had to be firm with himself otherwise he was going to get immersed in an old Holmlandish hunting text.

  At the sound of George clearing his throat nearby, Aubrey raised his eyes from the delightful engraving of a three-horned beast that seemed to be slightly affronted at the lance a mounted hunter was jabbing in its rump. The throat-clearing sounded too definite to be just book dust, so Aubrey wandered to the end of the shelf in search of its source.

  There, right at the rear of the shop, under a narrow, barred window, was their quarry.

  The spy looked up at their appearance and then did something that let Aubrey know that the man wasn’t a polished operator. He quickly slipped an envelope into the book he was holding, snapped it closed and rammed it back on the shelf.

  Then he stood there and tried to look innocent.

  Amateur, Aubrey thought. Of course, the best thing to do when revealed was not to pretend to be doing no thing, but to pretend to be doing something much less serious than what one was really doing.

  Then Aubrey realised he was behaving in an equally amateurish fashion. He was staring at the suspect, thereby breaking his cover and drawing attention to himself. George, too, was goggling and the result was something like a meeting of three people where someone has just done something embarrassing and no-one is willing to draw attention to it.

  Aubrey recovered. He turned to George. ‘You said that Architecture was up here.’

  George rallied splendidly. ‘I did not, Richard. You just didn’t listen.’

  Aubrey smiled at the rat-like man, who was frozen to the spot in his efforts at innocence. ‘Sorry to disturb you. You haven’t seen Architecture, by any chance?’

  He shook his head, and Aubrey could see tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘It’s History here,’ he croaked.

  ‘There’s a pity.’ Aubrey caught George by the arm and they retreated. ‘Can you follow him when he leaves?’ he whispered as they gathered themselves in a corner near Epic Poetry and Medicine.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’ll retrieve the documents after he’s gone.’

  ‘He’s leaving them here?’

  ‘It’s a drop. He’s obviously arranged with a confederate who’ll arrive here soon and pick them up.’

  Furtive footsteps on the other side of the bookshelf signalled that their quarry was on the move again. George scratched his head. ‘I don’t like separating.’

  ‘It’s the only thing to do. We need to know if he has any other assignations. I’ll take the documents and then contact Craddock so that this place can be watched to see who arrives for them.’ Aubrey could hear the congratulations already. ‘I’m not taking any chances by leaving the documents here. They’re better off with me.’

  A flicker of doubt crossed George’s face, but he nodded and set off in the direction of the front of the shop. Aubrey hummed to himself a little, then slipped around to where the spy had done his clumsy sleight of hand.

  It took Aubrey a few minutes. He had to picture where the spy had been standing, how far he’d been reaching up (or was it down?) and the size and colour of the book in his hand. It didn’t help that the books in this section of the shop were almost uniform. Old, some hundreds of years, they were all bound in dull, age-darkened brown leather. The sizes did vary, as did their extent, but Aubrey had to try half a dozen before he struck gold.

  The book was heavy when he slipped it from the shelf and he needed both hands. He hefted it, smelled the foxy smell of mould. When he opened it, the spine creaked, but the pages fell open to reveal an envelope.

  Buff, heavy bond, it was unaddressed. The spy wasn’t that much of an amateur. For an instant, Aubrey considered opening it, but – with an effort – he refrained. His curiosity was fierce – he desperately wanted to see what the spy was handing over. Such a well-placed agent could get his hands on all sorts of things. And what was Bruce’s involvement? It would be a blow to Aubrey’s father if the man was a Holmland dupe. If Bruce’s office was found to be leaking secrets to foreign powers, he’d have no choice other than to resign, and with him would go Sir Darius’s chance to solidify his party’s position in Parliament.

  Aubrey replaced the heavy old book on the shelf and almost laughed aloud. Gallian Royalty. He should really buy it for Bertie. Perhaps it could shed some light on the tangled tree that the Crown Prince’s family had become. It might be a useful sort of apology for trying to kill him...

  Aubrey replaced the book and slapped the envelope in his other hand. Now, he thought, a quick trip back to No.4 and Craddock can’t help but be impressed. A mission taken up with no warning, successfully achieved – especially if George returned with news of the spy’s destination.

  A job well done. Aubrey would be happy with that – especially if his father was the one who said it.

  Craddock finished reading. He nodded significantly at Sir Darius, then handed the letter to Tallis on the other side of the desk, but Aubrey took note of Craddock’s expression. His gaze was on the ceiling. His lips were pursed – not tight with anger, but thoughtfully, as if he was considering a number of options. Aubrey glanced at George, but his friend merely shrugged then sat back in the leather armchair.

  The room was silent until Tallis snorted like a hippopotamus. ‘Dung.’

  Aubrey blinked. ‘Dung?’

  ‘Bird droppings. What do you call it? Guano.’ He held the papers by one corner and handed them back to Craddock.

  ‘From San Martin, the Andean republic,’ the head of the Magisterium said. ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘It’s a shipping manifest,’ Tallis said.

  Sir Darius was standing with his back to the closed door. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Or is it a list of arrivals and departures?’

  ‘Could it be a code?’ George asked, keen to contribute after
returning to No.4 with the disappointing news that he’d lost the spy.

  ‘We’ll test it,’ Craddock said, ‘but it doesn’t appear so. We’ll also probe it for hidden writing, for magical imprints, the whole panoply.’

  ‘Guano,’ Sir Darius repeated. He touched his moustache. ‘It’s not just for fertilizer, you know.’

  Tallis frowned. ‘Eh?’

  Craddock was up to the mark. ‘When guano is refined, it’s a vital source of nitrates – what we used to call saltpetre. For fertilizer. And explosives.’

  ‘Munitions,’ Sir Darius said. ‘Every bullet, every shell is dependent on nitrates for its power. Albion companies have a monopoly on shipping San Martin guano. And San Martin guano supplies most of the world.’

  ‘Including Holmland?’ Aubrey asked.

  ‘At the moment, yes,’ Sir Darius said. ‘But if it comes to war, Holmland’s supply would be cut off, with disastrous consequences for its armaments.’

  ‘So no wonder they’re sniffing around the guano.’ George made a face. ‘Makes me feel quite ill, that thought.’

  ‘All this doesn’t put Stafford Bruce in the clear,’ Sir Darius said. ‘Unfortunately.’

  Tallis grunted. ‘We’ll make a copy of this document, alter the sensitive parts, and replace it in the bookshop. Then we’ll monitor the place to see who arrives to pick it up.’ He smiled. ‘And if this agent is foolish enough to return to Bruce’s office, we’ll nab him there. If not, we’ll have to work harder.’

  ‘We’ll find him,’ Craddock said. ‘And then we’ll know what he’s up to.’

  ‘And who will be overseeing this?’ Sir Darius said. ‘Is this the domain of your department, Craddock, or yours, Tallis?’

  Aubrey watched the reaction of the two men with interest. Both seemed unhappy with his father’s words, but neither wanted to say as much. Tallis scowled, his heavy eyebrows almost threatening to meet the moustache on his upcurled top lip. Craddock, on the other hand, merely stiffened, his mouth slightly tensing, his nostrils constricting by the tiniest amount as if to ward off a nasty smell.