‘Father insisted we stay at the embassy. And don’t worry, Quentin Hollows has assured us that he has an excellent Lutetian chef on staff.’
‘Hollows? He’s the ambassador? Good chap?’
‘He’s one of Father’s old friends, from the early days in the House. He can be trusted.’
Quentin Hollows had been one of his father’s earliest appointments after he won the election last year. He’d recalled the previous ambassador – Sir Wallace Bannister, a notorious timeserver and crony of Rollo Armitage – and replaced him with someone who could actually speak Holmlandish. Apart from that useful skill, Quentin Hollows was an outstanding political strategist who had helped Darius Fitzwilliam in his campaigning. He was the sort who was useful to have in the capital of the most warlike nation on the Continent, the nation that was shaping up to be Albion’s foe. He was also a natural diplomat; Quentin Hollows was not about to put his foot in anything.
‘Excellent, excellent.’ George rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ll help you then. I enjoy packing.’
George’s packing was instructional. Mostly it consisted of roaming around Aubrey’s sleeping compartment and slinging items at the trunk in any order, as they came to hand. After that, it was simply a matter of sitting on the lid of the trunk until it could be latched shut. ‘That’s why trunk lids are built so solidly,’ George explained as they stood to one side and let the porter ease his trolley under the edge of the compacted luggage. Aubrey thought that if the trunk did give up and disgorge its contents, the result could be dangerous, as well as embarrassing. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining how the porter’s head injury was caused by flying underwear.
In the hustle and bustle of the Central Fisherberg station, Albion embassy officials were waiting on the platform. A tall, distinguished-looking man dispatched officials to take over from the porters who were grappling with the luggage. Then he approached Aubrey’s mother, who was thanking the attendant who’d taken care of them on the train. The official wore a dark blue suit in the modern style, with a striped tie that Aubrey thought belonged to one of the better squash clubs in Trinovant. He took off his hat and gloves and handed them to an obviously less important official. ‘Lady Rose?’
Aubrey’s mother immediately brightened. ‘Quentin! It’s good to see you. How is Fisherberg treating you?’
He took her hand in both of his and held it for a moment. ‘Fisherberg is a fine town,’ he said. ‘Holmlanders are naturally generous, you know, and hospitable.’
‘I’ve always thought so. If it weren’t for politics...’
She left the thought unfinished, but Aubrey could see the guarded expression on Hollows’s face. ‘Now,’ he said, plainly changing the subject. A train on the next platform screeched a warning whistle and started to pull out in a cloud of steam. ‘I haven’t seen your son for years.’
Lady Rose made the introductions. Hollows had done his homework, for he asked cheerful questions about St Alban’s College and university life that left both Aubrey and George impressed. ‘I should make introductions myself,’ he said eventually. ‘Some new members of my staff: Mr Todd and Mr Stevens. Cultural attachés.’
Two figures had been hovering nearby, discreetly, and at the mention of their names they eased themselves through the crush. One murmured polite excuses, while the other did his best not to knock anyone over.
Aubrey stared. George started to laugh but it was cut off when Hollows stepped on his toes with some force.
Mr Todd and Mr Stevens were Hugo von Stralick and Otto Kiefer wearing disguises.
Aubrey looked at Hollows, who raised his eyebrow, minutely. He turned back to his new cultural attachés. He stared at the false beards and dark glasses. ‘Mr Todd,’ he said in a strangled voice. He held out his hand to von Stralick.
‘I’m Stevens,’ he said sharply.
‘Of course you are. And that would make you Mr Todd?’
Kiefer nodded decisively, as if he’d been preparing himself for this moment. ‘I am Todd. I am an inexperienced cultural attaché, but I am willing to learn.’
George shook hands mutely.
I hope the explanation for all this is a good one, Aubrey thought .
‘That’s a good explanation,’ Aubrey said, ‘but it isn’t actually explaining anything I wanted explained.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Hollows eased himself back into the embrace of the leather armchair. ‘I thought a quick précis of the political situation was in order.’ The inner drawing room in the Albion Embassy was extremely comfortable. It was high-ceilinged, with duck-egg blue walls and elaborate eighteenth-century cornices. Landscape paintings of idyllic Albion countryside hung on the walls except over the wedding-cake of a fireplace, where a vast gilt-framed mirror took up residence and reflected with all its might.
Lady Rose was sitting in a red velvet easy chair, regarding the ambassador with some sympathy. Von Stralick and Kiefer were sitting side by side on a leather sofa. They’d discarded their disguises. Kiefer looked uncomfortable, but that was such a customary attitude that Aubrey thought no more of it. Von Stralick was far more composed, but Aubrey thought he was on edge, despite the easiness of his manner.
‘ I appreciated it, Quentin,’ Lady Rose said. ‘Don’t be so ungracious, Aubrey.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Aubrey said. ‘I am grateful, please don’t think that I’m not.’ He was. Hollows had confirmed that Dr Tremaine had embedded himself firmly as the Chancellor’s most trusted adviser. ‘But what I’d really like an explanation for is these two.’ He pointed at von Stralick and Kiefer, who had remained silent during Hollow’s briefing.
Hollows glanced at the two Holmlanders with a touch of amusement. ‘Our helpful friends? Of course.’
Lady Rose made an impatient noise. ‘I gather that this is some sort of intelligence tomfoolery, but I don’t like being kept in the dark. Everyone here except me seems to know something about these two, apart from the fact that they like wearing disguises.’
Von Stralick stood to attention. A moment later, after a subtle kick, Kiefer did as well. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Rose,’ von Stralick said. ‘Todd and Stevens were assumed names, as you’ve gathered. I am Hugo von Stralick, at one time a junior functionary in the Holmland Embassy in your country. This is my cousin, Otto Kiefer.’
‘Hugo is the Holmland spy I’ve told you about, Mother,’ Aubrey said.
Von Stralick looked pained, but this disappeared as he and Kiefer sat again. ‘ “Spy” is a word I do not like using, even at the best of times.’
‘What about “failed spy”?’ George suggested.
‘Thank you, Doyle. I am indebted to you for your unflinching honesty.’
Hollows coughed. ‘Von Stralick is working for me at the moment. He has no official role with the Holmland intelligence services, but I find his understanding of the Holmland situation to be valuable.’
‘What about your superior’s superior?’ Aubrey asked von Stralick. ‘You’d hoped he may be able to help you.’
‘Ah yes, Baron von Grolman. He apparently saw the writing on the wall and resigned from the Chancellor’s government. Withdrawn from public life, I understand.’ He looked unhappy. ‘Whatever has gone on, I’m having trouble contacting him.’
‘Dr Tremaine’s doing?’ Aubrey asked.
Hollows nodded. ‘It wasn’t long after Dr Tremaine assumed his new role in the inner sanctum of Holmland decision-making that Baron von Grolman was accused of embezzlement. It was a trumped-up charge. The baron is so wealthy he doesn’t need to stoop to anything as sordid as embezzlement.’
‘I will try to contact him again today,’ von Stralick said. ‘The baron is a good man, but perhaps too independent in his thinking for the Chancellor’s liking.’
‘And now he’s out of the picture,’ Hollows said. ‘When von Stralick contacted us with an offer to help us, we verified a number of things and welcomed him aboard, especially since he told us of his acquaintance with you.’
‘So you see,’ vo
n Stralick said, beaming, ‘we are now on the same side, officially!’
Aubrey was less than overjoyed. He’d been prepared to work with von Stralick, but on his own terms, with his own safeguards in place.
Kiefer looked at him anxiously. ‘So we are united in our mission?’
Hollows frowned. ‘Yes, quite. We’re glad to have you both aboard.’ He nodded at Aubrey. ‘Von Stralick has given us some useful insights into the way Dr Tremaine has been operating. I’ve coded them and sent them to...’ He paused. ‘The Directorate, is that what it’s called now?’
‘The Security Intelligence Directorate, sir.’
‘I really can’t keep up sometimes,’ Hollows muttered.
The ambassador’s mention of coding reminded Aubrey of his run-in with the Veltranian rebels. ‘Who’s your chief intelligence operative here, sir? I need to get something back to Albion.’
‘Major Vincent.’ Hollows reached over for the bell pull. ‘You had an incident on the train? Dashed exciting mode of transport, but somewhat wearying, with all the comings and goings.’
Comings and goings. Aubrey could see how being flung off a moving train could be put into that basket. ‘I met some brigands. Not on the train, though. Near the Bramantine Gorge.’
‘Eh?’ Hollows sat forward. ‘Brigands? What happened?’
Aubrey gave an account of the brigands who turned out to be Veltranian rebels. After he finished, he spent an hour or so of coding and the job was done. Major Vincent promised that the report would go in the next dispatch bag.
Aubrey wandered back to the residential section of the embassy, deep in thought. The ambitions of the rebels added another wrinkle to a situation that was already well furrowed, but it seemed as if its consequences weren’t as urgent as some of the others.
Such as finding Caroline.
He brightened at this prospect, rounded a corner, and ran into von Stralick and Kiefer.
They were waiting for him on the landing above the main entrance, right under a large stained-glass rendering of the Albion flag. ‘Fitzwilliam,’ said von Stralick. ‘We must find this fragment of Dr Tremaine’s sister before anyone else does.’
Aubrey stopped dead, took stock, backed up a little, then took another run at his words. ‘Anyone else?’
Kiefer glanced at von Stralick, then answered. ‘I ran some experiments. Talked to some people. Ghost hunters are abroad.’
Aubrey had a fleeting longing for simple times. Then he remembered his father’s hint that there was oddness in Fisherberg. ‘Ghost hunters. You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘I do not joke.’ Kiefer looked thoughtful. ‘Not that I know of.’
Von Stralick nodded. ‘That’s right. Totally devoid of humour is Otto.’
‘But ghost hunters? It sounds like something from a fairytale.’
‘Holmland has always had ghost hunters,’ Kiefer said. ‘They’re part of our history.’
‘A bit of an embarrassment in this day and age,’ said von Stralick. ‘But they seem to have had a resurgence recently. Especially here in Fisherberg, where people are complaining that ghosts have been harassing them.’
Aubrey had the itchy uneasiness of a mystery presenting itself, but he wanted to throw up his hands. His plate was currently full of mysteries drenched in mystery sauce, with a mystery side salad. Enough was enough. ‘And where have these ghost hunters come from?’
Von Stralick spread his hands. ‘Rural areas, I expect. Until recently, I didn’t think we had any left. I thought they went the way of the fletcher and the reeve.’
‘Ghosts.’ Aubrey shook his head. ‘What exactly are ghosts?’
‘Are you unwell, Fitzwilliam?’ von Stralick said. ‘Ghosts are not real. They are fairy stories, something to scare children.’
‘A fairytale that’s given rise to an occupation dedicated to finding them.’
‘Charlatans.’ Von Stralick snorted. ‘Like fortune tellers, they prey on the gullible.’
‘Most likely,’ Aubrey said, ‘but what if they aren’t? What if they really can find ghosts? Or something they call ghosts, anyway.’
Kiefer frowned. ‘My friends say that people are reporting transparent figures wandering about, passing through walls, things like that. They sound like ghosts.’
‘Wait,’ Aubrey said. ‘Haven’t we recently seen transparent figures wandering about, passing through each other?’
‘So you told me,’ Kiefer said. He touched his spectacles and added to the tapestry of smears Aubrey could see on the lenses. ‘In Dr Tremaine’s pearl.’ He smiled. ‘So it could be that the ghost hunters are detecting the same sort of thing: fragments, splintered souls.’
In that instant, Aubrey saw it. ‘That piece of his sister’s soul. It’s out there.’
‘And someone might be hunting it as we speak,’ von Stralick said.
‘Perhaps we need to talk to some of these ghost hunters,’ Aubrey said.
Von Stralick sighed. ‘You can’t trust them. They will tell you what you want to hear.’
Kiefer put a hand on his cousin’s arm. ‘It can’t hurt to talk to them. They gather at the Blue Dog, do they not?’
‘They do.’ Von Stralick glanced at Aubrey. ‘You are free tomorrow, Fitzwilliam?’
Aubrey winced. He’d been hoping to find where Caroline was staying. ‘I’ll see what George is up to.’
‘Splendid,’ von Stralick said. ‘That way we’ll be well prepared if we need someone to act as a sack of potatoes.’
Eighteen
The next morning, Aubrey decided that the Blue Dog was well named, because the sign hanging out the front of the tavern was as blue a dog as he’d ever seen. Not grey, not a delicate seal colour, but an eye-watering, startling blue, the sort of blue that tropical fish adopted as a warning of their extreme toxicity.
The tavern lurked in an old district of Fisherberg that rejoiced in the attractive name of Thart, near the river. At first, as they made their way down the hill towards the bridge that bisected the tiny locale, it appeared to Aubrey as if Thart was composed entirely of taverns, inns, hotels and grog shops. When they drew closer, however, he was able to make out that a few eateries had squeezed in between the rowdy, low-slung bars, and a pawnbroker had a prominent position on the crossroads, ready to buy, sell and loan day and night.
From the top of the hill, Aubrey had seen how Thart was turned inward, resisting the tide of modernising that had enveloped the rest of the city. Its buildings were all low – none more than two storeys – and built in a combination of wood and stone that reeked not just of age but of smoke, dirt, grease, oil and other, mostly inflammable, substances. It was only a few city blocks, perhaps two or three streets wide and the same again across.
Kiefer gestured vaguely at the bridge. ‘Many of the ghost hunters sleep under there, when they’re in the city.’
‘They come from the countryside?’ Aubrey asked as George surveyed the scene.
‘Hmm?’
Aubrey sighed. Kiefer had been even more absentminded than usual this morning, his thoughts quite obviously elsewhere. Aubrey had never realised that catalytic magic was so fascinating.
Von Stralick snorted. ‘Usually, the people in the city are not näive enough for the ghosthunters’ business. In the country, though, they can ply their trade, make their money by preying on the peasants.’
Aubrey had no time for frauds who deliberately preyed on the insecurities of people – hopes, fears, losses – but he didn’t like the way that von Stralick lumped all country dwellers as simple-minded dullards who were just as culpable as the shysters.
Aubrey understood how von Stralick could be sceptical about the ghost hunters, but he wasn’t about to leap to that conclusion. While great strides had been taken in rational magic in the past few decades, most of that was the result of work done in universities and other academic institutions. The results had found their way into industry and life in general, but this didn’t mean that all traditional folk practices had ended ov
ernight. Many had been shown to be worthless but others had demonstrable results that kept them in circulation. At the farm on Prince Albert’s estate – Penhurst – Aubrey knew of a worker who could reliably cast a spell that would lead him to a lost lamb. As Aubrey’s own magical talents had developed, he could sense the man’s magic and he had no doubt that it was real, not just some combination of luck and local knowledge. It was the only spell the man could cast, and it was an erratic, fugitive talent, so it was fortunate that he was a cheery fellow with a broad back and an almost unlimited ability to work hard.
Aubrey wasn’t willing to discount the ghost hunters. If they had any insights into what was happening in Fisherberg, he was happy to glean what he could.
The Blue Dog’s entrance was below street level. He and George followed the two Holmlanders, and together they found themselves in a place that looked as if it was designed to deter strangers.
Whatever light the windows let into the tavern – and it wasn’t a great deal – was instantly turned grey and tired by the build-up of noxious exhalations and fumings from the patrons and the huge open blazes that filled the fireplaces on either side of the single large room. The air, thus, took on a character of its own and became a feature of the place. Aubrey, accustomed as he was to air that was mostly transparent, was intrigued by the smoky indistinctness. For a moment, it was as if he were looking through gauze.
The room was entirely constructed of dark wood, grimed and blackened by the same miasmas that had done the job on the windows, lack of diligent cleaning apparently being a prerequisite for owning the Blue Dog over the centuries. Directly in front of him was the bar, a long counter that looked solid enough to withstand a siege. On reflection, Aubrey decided that this was probably a good thing. Behind the bar were empty shelves where, in a more genteel establishment, bottles may have stood.
Two mighty wooden pillars held up the ceiling. They were scarred, slashed, carved and burned but looked as if they wore these marks as trophies.
Long tables and benches, arranged with almost military precision, filled the room. Aubrey had trouble seeing this array at first, because the benches were packed with customers. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder, a solid lattice of squat, silent, broad, fur-clad people.
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