Time of Trial

by Michael Pryor

  ‘Four individual sleeping compartments at the rear,’ came a Gallian-accented voice at Aubrey’s shoulder. He jumped and whirled to see a dapper attendant, white coated, thinly moustached, reserved and ready. ‘A bathroom with full-sized bath – no shortage of hot water, piped directly from the locomotive – and a small library. Small, but well stocked.’

  George appeared behind the attendant. ‘I say. This is just the ticket!’

  ‘I dare say,’ said the attendant, as if he had such approbation from every passenger. On reflection, Aubrey decided he probably did. ‘Is there anything you young sirs need before we leave the station?’

  Aubrey shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It seems as if you’ve catered for everything.’ He had a thought. ‘Is there a door at the rear of this carriage?’

  ‘Indeed. But your security men have made sure that it’s locked, bolted and chained.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Will there be anything else?’

  George raised what was obviously a pressing question for him. ‘Lunch?’

  ‘Will be available as soon as we leave the station. Fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  It took some time to stow the appropriate luggage, dispatching the rest to the box car, and then it was a matter of setting up Lady Rose so she could continue her work. Absorbed in her presentation, she spoke little as Aubrey and George steered her toward a table in a corner of the carriage, near one of the large windows. She didn’t stop working for a second, reading from her papers, frowning and scribbling on them with a well-worn pencil.

  Eventually, she was set up just as the train began to glide from the station. The whistle, when it sounded, was smooth and well modulated, far from the usual brazen shriek of a locomotive signal.

  So Gallian, Aubrey thought. ‘Should we order you some lunch, Mother?’

  ‘Of course.’ His mother dashed something on the page she was reading, then she screwed it up and flung it at the waste paper bin that stood near the grand piano. It lobbed in perfectly.

  ‘Anything you’d like?’

  He had to wait for some time before he had a reply: ‘I’ll leave it up to you.’

  As they left, Aubrey wondered if she even knew they were there.

  Fifteen

  The restaurant car was two carriages towards the front of the train. Aubrey and George passed compartments which were sparsely populated; Aubrey amused himself by trying to tell the spies from the saboteurs from the international criminals. Most of them looked like solid business travellers with dark suits and glasses, and briefcases bulging with soap catalogues, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that that was a measure of their craft, adopting such a perfect disguise for crossing countries. Who would suspect a soap salesman of plotting international intrigue?

  They also had to make their way through a lounge car, dimly lit even in the middle of the day thanks to the shades pulled down on most of the windows. Conversations here were studiously furtive, as if the few denizens were making a point of their raffish notoriety. A central bar stretched almost the entire length of the lounge car and had attracted a handful of determined-looking travellers, all of whom seemed to be experts at avoiding eye contact.

  The restaurant car was another long, narrow oasis of opulence. An aisle ran down the middle with tables under the windows on each side. All was compact but luxurious, with fine china and silverware in place on the starched white linen cloths. Fresh flowers – in low, stable vases – graced every table. They were greeted by a waiter who took them to a vacant table.

  For a lunch, it was both substantial and grand. Four courses, from soup through to dessert, with the sort of service that Aubrey had only experienced in the most exclusive of restaurants. His appetite was hearty and he thoroughly enjoyed the experience of appreciating fine food while the train pulled smoothly through the outskirts of Lutetia before gathering itself and racing through the countryside.

  Through his shirt, he touched the Beccaria Cage in silent thanks for its good work.

  Eventually, George touched his napkin to his lips. ‘Superb. That strawberry mousse was the best I’ve ever had.’

  ‘After your third helping, I guessed as much.’

  George sighed with great inner satisfaction. He gazed through the window with a happy smile on his face. ‘This is the way to travel. Scenery, good food, comfort.’

  ‘You know, I hear that one of the Holmland dirigible companies is starting passenger flights. That could be spectacular.’

  ‘Good food?’

  ‘They promise it will be first class.’

  George nodded. That was enough for him.

  Aubrey grinned. ‘Let’s go to the lounge car for a while.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back to your mother?’

  ‘She’s well protected. We can play cards, or backgammon, or chess.’

  George put a finger to his nose in a gesture that Aubrey guessed was meant to look conspiratorial. ‘You want to spend some time watching the other passengers, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Call it a spot of covert surveillance, but it really boils down to a bit of poking about.’

  ‘Discreet poking about.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  It was also a chance to study the train’s journey. Aubrey had chosen a table which had a map on the wall between the windows. It showed the Continent, from Lutetia to Constantinople, with the Transcontinental’s passage picked out in blue. After leaving Lutetia, it climbed through the mountains in an almost straight line to the border with Holmland. The border crossing at the dual city of Teve-Grodenberg was the major stop before Fisherberg. A tense city in these times, Aubrey had hoped to have time to do some intelligence gathering around there.

  Aubrey sat with his back to the window, the better to keep an eye on the half dozen patrons who were seated at the bar. A waiter brought mineral water and, when asked, a pack of cards. Aubrey admired the stylised representation of the Transcontinental locomotive on the back of the cards and then dealt a hand of Goltan whist. They’d both been introduced to bridge, by Caroline, and enjoyed the fashionably new game, but when there was only the two of them, they always returned to the game of their childhood, Goltan whist.

  They had played the game so often, over so many years, that they knew each other’s habits extremely well. The two-handed game, in any case, was simple and straightforward, so that the enjoyment didn’t come from the play, it came from the company.

  While shuffling between hands, he tried a showy single-handed cut. The cards sprayed all over the table.

  George raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been practising.’

  Aubrey scrabbled around on the floor, picking up the cards. ‘Almost ready to go on the stage, I’d say.’ He barely avoided banging his head on the table as he straightened.

  ‘Stick to magic, old man,’ George suggested and, as luck would have it, his voice fitted neatly into one of those silences that fall in a crowded room, so that his words hung in the air like an unusual cloud, the sort that brings people to windows to stare, point and consult books about rare meteorological phenomena.

  Aubrey dealt the next hand. ‘Well, we didn’t set out to draw attention to ourselves, but we’ve managed it beautifully.’

  ‘Any arms dealers rushing over to try to make a sale to us?’

  ‘No. But a startlingly attractive woman looks as if she’s coming this way.’

  ‘She is?’ George put down his cards and straightened his tie. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Complex.’

  ‘Complex?’

  Aubrey didn’t have a chance to answer. The woman had arrived at their table. ‘I am Zelinka. You have magic?’

  She was tall, taller than George, and dressed entirely in black. Her dress and tight-fitting jacket had the sheen of expensive silk. Aubrey couldn’t clearly make out her features for she wore a hat with a veil, but he had the impression of large, dark eyes.

  Her voice was husky and undeniably foreign,
although her Albionish was good. Aubrey found it hard to guess her origin. Somewhere on the east of the Continent, most probably, although nationalities in that region were often a matter of opinion. Depending on the year of one’s birth, one’s home town could belong to half a dozen different nations.

  When she pushed up her veil, Aubrey swallowed and tried to catalogue a description, both to steady himself and because the authorities might find it useful.

  She was only a few years older than he was, middle twenties at the most. Black hair framed her face and her eyes were large and dangerously dark. Exotically beautiful, she had high cheekbones and when she frowned, small, even teeth caught the edge of her dark-red lips.

  Aubrey stood, slowly. ‘Madame Zelinka.’ After gaping for a moment, George also managed to get to his feet.

  She turned her head from Aubrey to George and back to Aubrey again. She stared into his face. ‘You are the one I was to meet, no?’ She dropped her veil. ‘I can feel that you have the magic. Where do we talk?’

  Aubrey made a split-second decision. She’d obviously mistaken him for someone else, but he was intrigued as to who that was. Who’d be waiting to talk magic on the Transcontinental Express? If he could play along and learn the answer, it could be very useful.

  Besides, it was thrilling.

  ‘I am Mr Black,’ he said. ‘This is my associate, Mr Evans.’ He glanced around the lounge car. ‘That booth in the corner. It’s private enough.’

  She followed his gaze, then nodded.

  Aubrey endeavoured to convey his intentions to George by way of gestures and facial expressions. George rolled his eyes, but signalled his acquiescence with a shrug. Aubrey was thankful for their long friendship, which meant that words were sometimes unnecessary. This silent dialogue, however, was cut off when the stranger reached the booth and turned. ‘I will sit nearest the door.’ She slipped into the booth with a rustle of fabric.

  ‘We were going to insist you did,’ George said, rallying to his role. She glanced at him sharply, and George smiled the smile of someone who knows a great deal more than he’s willing to let on. It was a useful expression, especially for when he didn’t have a clue what was going on.

  ‘You’re younger than I expected, Mr Black.’ She shrugged, minutely. ‘It is no matter. I deal with people who seem to be all ages. I make no judgement.’

  Aubrey smiled slowly. ‘I’m older than I look.’

  George coughed into a closed fist. ‘And that’s old enough.’

  Aubrey just restrained himself from kicking George under the table. There was such a thing as over-egging a pudding. ‘What do you want?’ he said abruptly, trying to catch her off guard. ‘Time is short.’

  Her expression hardened. ‘You are meeting someone else, aren’t you?’

  ‘Who we are meeting next is of no concern to you.’

  ‘It’s Guttmann, isn’t it? I thought I saw him earlier.’

  Aubrey made a note of the name and was already congratulating himself for his decision to go along with the pretence. ‘I haven’t seen Guttmann for years.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. Guttmann will cheat you and then kill you.’

  ‘It’s a dangerous business we’re in,’ Aubrey said, doing his best to hide the fear that woke in his stomach. ‘Guttmann and the others.’

  Cryptic though his utterances were, they seemed to convince her.

  ‘Your company can supply the magic we need?’

  More intelligence gold. Aubrey rubbed mental hands together with delight. ‘Provided we’re given the right parameters.’

  ‘Parameters? No-one said anything about parameters.’

  Aubrey held up a placatory hand. ‘You can’t do magic without parameters. I’ll need to know area of effect, duration, that sort of thing.’

  She considered this then nodded. ‘I’ll need to contact my people.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your reputation says that you have access to some sort of magical suppression. Is this true?’

  Aubrey stared. Had she worked out who he really was? He sought for time. ‘It depends. It’s difficult to know without some idea of the type of magic we’re dealing with.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘I need more information from my colleagues.’ She stood. ‘You will wait to hear from me?’

  Aubrey and George were on their feet, and Aubrey took a chance. He sensed that she was keen to do business. ‘I have other clients, you know.’

  She stiffened. ‘I will contact you in Fisherberg.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Aubrey looked at George. He took his cue and nodded. ‘Very well,’ Aubrey said.

  She left without saying goodbye. Aubrey and George resumed their seats. ‘Now, old man,’ George said. ‘Would you mind telling me what that was all about?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure. I was extemporising.’

  ‘Ah. Making it up as you go along.’

  ‘Exactly. I thought it a lark to see if we could pick up some titbits which could be useful to our spymasters.’

  ‘It seems as if we’ve stumbled into more than that,’ George muttered. ‘Striking-looking woman, she was, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘She’s too old for you, George. And probably too dangerous.’

  ‘Who is she, anyway?’

  ‘No idea. She didn’t give away much, so she’s certainly an experienced hand at this.’

  ‘At this? At what?’

  ‘Subterfuge. Clandestine plots. Trans-national schemes.’ Aubrey crossed his arms and sat back. ‘She’s a mercenary, perhaps, or a member of some partisan group or other, resisting something they think needs resisting. The Continent is swarming with such at the moment.’

  Aubrey knew that Holmland wasn’t alone in its territorial ambitions. The hotbed that was the Goltan Peninsula was a mass of seething malcontent and brooding grudges. Borders moved around as if they were made of rubber. And on the other side of Holmland, even though the Central European Empire was thrashing around in the last days of its viability, Emperor Wolfgang was looking for any excuse to prove it wasn’t so.

  Riding roughshod over local history, culture and sensibilities was a way of life for those with lofty ambitions and fat heads, and it resulted in resistance leagues and underground movements springing up like mushrooms after autumn rain. All of these groups had axes to grind and there were plenty of shady business people ready to sell them bigger and better axes – at a price.

  Aubrey knew that Albion’s intelligence agencies were doing what they could to keep informed about these groups. Part of this was defensive, but part of it was strategic. He was sure there was a sub-department somewhere in the Ministry of Defence devoted to working out just which of these groups may be useful in distracting Holmland from war with Albion – or which could be handy allies in the war that was to come. If he could garner any information along these lines, it could be valuable.

  George sat up. ‘I say. Shouldn’t we be getting that lunch to your mother? We promised.’

  It had slipped Aubrey’s mind. He summoned a waiter and explained his situation. The waiter was happy to organise a luncheon for Lady Rose. Aubrey was sure she wouldn’t notice the lateness of the arrival of her meal. When she was immersed in a knotty task, the end of the world could come and go and she wouldn’t be aware of it.

  They passed the rest of the afternoon in their special carriage. George went back to his newspaper and was making a determined effort to reach his goal of being able to recite its contents by heart. Lady Rose scowled her way through her lunch of soup and a beautifully constructed salad, without leaving a table that had become a city of book towers. Aubrey was left to his own devices and applied himself to reading something he’d found in the small library, a collection of Holmland folktales featuring the unlikely hero of Hans the Cheesemaker, who waddled his way through a series of increasingly bizarre dairy-related adventures.

  As evening drew in and the shadows crept ac
ross the countryside, the attendant was escorted in by one of the guards. He lit the gaslamps and took away the remains of Lady Rose’s meal, which made Aubrey sit up. ‘I think I’ll go back to the restaurant car,’ he announced, ‘and book a table for us. We don’t want to miss out.’

  Lady Rose waved a hand. He had the impression he could have declared he was going to sprout wings and fly to Antipodea and he would have had the same reaction. George grunted. ‘You want me to come along, old man?’

  ‘No need, no need. Not when you’re making such splendid progress.’

  George had already lowered his head. He grunted again.

  The lounge car was more crowded at this time of the day. Aubrey wondered if it was the darkness that brought them out, making the furtive ones feel more secure in the shadowy corners of the car. He listened for any details of assassinations or bombings as he eased his way through the well-dressed crowd, but caught nothing except complaints about the water.

  A first-class sleeping car separated the lounge car from the restaurant car. It would be a favoured position, Aubrey decided, not far from the amenities of life. The corridor ran alongside the compartments, each closed discreetly. The train was navigating a long curve, for Aubrey found himself leaning outward. Through the windows, he could see they were well into the mountains. The solemn pines were thick and close to the tracks.

  The train rocked back the other way and, as it did, the compartment door just in front of Aubrey burst open. A man staggered out. He had blood streaming from a cut on his forehead, but he hardly seemed to notice. He barked a guttural oath, then waded back into the compartment, from which came the unmistakeable sound of a fracas.

  Aubrey rushed over. He stood in the doorway, holding onto the frame as the train chose this moment to shudder and jerk.