Time of Trial

by Michael Pryor

  Aubrey stared from the doorway. For a moment he thought that they’d stumbled into a meeting of a fraternity of extremely well-behaved bears.

  Kiefer sniffed, then – quite obviously – regretted it, for it meant that he inhaled more than he needed to of the rich aroma that fought with the light for possession of the air.

  Von Stralick took charge. He strode between the tables, looking straight ahead, and confronted the barman. Aubrey, feeling that in unity there was strength, hurried along behind, with Kiefer, who was still struggling for breath, and George – who was doing his best to look formidable.

  The barman was short, but he was as broad as two men. He had shaggy, shoulder-length hair. His hands were spread on the bar in front of him, ready, as it were, for anything.

  ‘Are you gentlemen lost?’ the barman said, making a fair stab at civility. As long as he didn’t make a fair stab in any other way, Aubrey was satisfied with this.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ von Stralick said. ‘This is the Blue Dog?’

  The barman turned this over, let it brown for a moment or two, then judged it was done. ‘Could be,’ he allowed.

  ‘Well, we’re looking for ghost hunters.’

  ‘A pity,’ the barman said, only missing a verse or two of beats, ‘there’s no ghost hunters around here.’

  Aubrey sighed. He knew evasion when he saw it, being somewhat of an expert. Even without turning around, he had the sense of dozens of pairs of ears listening to every word. He had the distinct feeling that they were getting the preliminaries to a very long run-around. It was time to change the game, he decided, so he stepped forward. ‘A pity indeed,’ he announced in his clearest Holmlandish, ‘because I have a hundred marks for the best ghost hunter in Fisherberg.’

  Aubrey hadn’t meant to start a brawl, but he was proud that having initiated one it became such a good brawl. Once von Stralick, Kiefer, George and he were safely on the same side of the bar as the barman, he watched in wide-eyed wonder as the furry men hurled themselves about the tavern in an attempt, presumably, to be the last standing and thus the only one able to claim the role as best ghost hunter in Fisherberg.

  Seeming to defy the laws of physics, and most of the laws of Fisherberg, they howled, bit, kicked, wrestled, headbutted, punched and flung each other in all directions until the bar room was full of flying furry bodies filling all available space. Benches and tables were pressed into service, splintered, abandoned, cursed at and then forgotten as it got down to hand-to-hand assault. Aubrey saw ghost hunters hurled against the giant uprights with such force that – if correctly harnessed – it could power entire cities; he stared in amazement as the flungees simply staggered to their feet, shook themselves in furry outrage and waded back into the fray.

  When he saw a ghost hunter thrown against one of the large windows and simply bounce off he shrugged, accepting that the glass had transmogrified over the years due to its exposure to the air of the room into something only remotely glasslike.

  Gradually, it became apparent that little actual damage was being done in the fracas. The heavy furs that swaddled the ghost hunters acted not just as insulation and homes to entire species of insects, but as padding. Equally apparent was that this expenditure of energy in mayhem had a ritual aspect about it, as if it had been done many times before. Singly, then in twos and threes, the ghost hunters reached some sort of understanding of their place in the great pecking order of ghost hunters. After picking themselves up and dusting themselves off, the lesser ghost hunters sauntered off, leaving the tavern with the air of people who just remembered an appointment. Not an important appointment, just a mildly diverting one, like a chance to see a man about an interesting dog.

  Once this part of the process had begun, things moved quite swiftly. Dozens became scores became tens became a handful. Then it was two ghost hunters facing off, snarling oaths that sounded blood-curdling but were incomprehensible to Aubrey’s ear. They circled each other, arms outstretched, like giant fuzzy crabs. Then, in a perfect pantomime that could have been seen by a shortsighted audience member in the rearmost of the back stalls, one of the two – they were quite indistinguishable – straightened, snapped his fingers, spun on his heel and limped toward the doorway.

  The remaining ghost hunter rubbed his hands together for a moment then ambled to the bar. ‘You have a hundred marks?’

  Fleetingly, Aubrey wondered what would happen if he said no. Pushing the impulse aside, he took out his wallet. ‘Are you a ghost hunter?’

  The triumphant warrior beat his chest with the flat of a hand. ‘Bruno Fromm is the best in Fisherberg.’ Pause. ‘Best in Holmland.’

  George took this carefully. ‘You’re certainly the only one still here, at any rate.’

  ‘Those others? Impostors. Cheats. Fools.’

  ‘You know them well?’ von Stralick said.

  ‘Fromm should. They are Fromm’s cousins.’

  Bruno Fromm peered at them from the narrow gap between the brim of his furry hat and the start of his woolly beard. His eyes were dark and shiny, glinting through the steam of the coffee cup in front of him. ‘You want to find a ghost.’

  Aubrey, George, Kiefer and von Stralick were on the other side of the righted table. At Fromm’s insistence, they’d been supplied with coffee as well. Aubrey had sniffed his, but not tasted it since he had an aversion to sipping anything that promised to dissolve his teeth. ‘A special ghost.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fromm stared at his coffee. The movements of his cap made Aubrey realise that he was wrinkling his brow underneath all that fur. ‘Fromm thought you were just sightseers.’

  ‘Sightseers?’ George said.

  ‘Rich folk. Want to see a ghost. Plenty of them about.’

  ‘Rich folk or ghosts?’ von Stralick asked.

  ‘Both, lately. Lots and lots of ghosts, lots of work for ghost hunters.’ Fromm grinned with a mouthful of startlingly good teeth. ‘But finding what you’re after, something special, that’s different.’

  ‘You can’t do it.’ Aubrey made motions to rise.

  Fromm shook his head. ‘Fromm didn’t say that. Fromm just said it was different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Costs more.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘How much is it worth?’

  ‘What if I offer you fifty? After which you’ll get all offended and demand two hundred, and I’ll get up to leave only to hear you suggest a hundred.’

  Fromm looked nonplussed, then suspicious. ‘You’re making fun of Fromm?’

  ‘Not all. I don’t mind haggling. I just don’t like the time it takes, so I sped through it. For both our sakes.’

  ‘A hundred?’ Fromm brightened. ‘Must be important. Someone close? Relative? A friend?’

  ‘A friend of a friend,’ von Stralick said. George snorted.

  Fromm drained his coffee and rose. For a moment, he stood there and examined his hands. ‘They’re not really ghosts, you know.’

  Aubrey was alert. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Fromm can see you’re not stupid. Not just looking for cheap thrills, you. So Fromm doesn’t want to lead you astray.’

  ‘If they’re not ghosts,’ Aubrey said carefully, ‘what are they?’

  The ghost hunter groped for words. ‘Ghosts are meant to be what some people leave behind when they die.’

  ‘That’s the story,’ Aubrey said. The room had become tense. George, Kiefer and von Stralick were silent. Kiefer had grasped the edge of the table and was leaning forward as if that would make him remember better.

  ‘Good story. Not good truth,’ Fromm said. ‘When we die, souls don’t linger here. They go somewhere else.’

  Aubrey was very still. Could the crude magic of the ghost hunters shed some light on his condition? When his soul had been wrenched from his body, it had immediately been drawn to the portal that led to the true death. No chance of loitering, ghost-like, haunting anyone or anything.

  He tapped the Beccaria Cage under his shirt.
‘That’s my understanding, too.’

  Fromm peered at him. ‘Fromm was right. You aren’t stupid.’ He huffed for a moment, then he groped in a hidden pocket. Aubrey tensed, and felt George stir at his side, but relaxed when Fromm merely took out the hundred-mark coin, the reward Aubrey had already given to him. He turned it over and over in his hands. It sparkled, golden. ‘Ghosts aren’t souls. Not whole souls.’

  At this confirmation of his suppositions, Aubrey clenched his fists. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Ghosts are pieces of souls.’ Fromm tossed the gold coin in the air and caught it again. ‘Sometimes, it happens. Souls get shivered apart. The splinters get scattered. Sometimes, the biggest piece clings to the body, hard. The rest wander off, but they’re not quite right.’

  ‘Missing something?’ Kiefer asked.

  ‘Missing more than a few somethings. If ghost hunters can smell them, we can round them up and...’ He shrugged. ‘After that, it’s not up to us.’

  Aubrey could imagine the grateful relatives receiving the fragmented souls and then having to find a way to reunite the pieces. This was a branch of magic he’d never heard of, never suspected. Was it just a Holmland specialty, a way of looking at things that was peculiar to this country, or was it the sort of backwoods thing that existed in Albion but had never been thought worth serious study?

  He knew one university that would soon be pursuing this area, as soon as he got back to Greythorn. ‘And you can find a particular ghost? Splinter?’

  ‘Fromm can. If Fromm can sniff something that the person owned.’

  Aubrey felt in his pocket. ‘I have just the thing.’

  He held out the Tremaine pearl. He’d expected Fromm to snatch at it, but instead the ghost hunter sat back and regarded the pearl with narrowed eyes. He licked his lips nervously and held out a hand. ‘Here.’

  With some reluctance, Aubrey placed the pearl in Fromm’s grubby palm. The ghost hunter grimaced, then cocked his head to one side and squinted at it. Then he surprised Aubrey by growling deep in his throat.

  Slowly, the ghost hunter raised his hand. He brought the pearl up to his prominent nose and sniffed, like a man taking snuff. The pearl actually rolled closer to his cavernous nostrils before rocking back to the middle of his palm.

  Fromm hissed and closed his fist on the pearl. ‘There are ghosts in here, already.’

  Aubrey was both impressed and relieved at this confirmation of the ghost hunter’s power. ‘Sorry. I forgot to tell you about that.’

  ‘This ghost you want Fromm to find. It’s another one like these? Part of the same soul?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fromm rolled the pearl between his thumb and forefinger. ‘If you want to make her whole again, you’ll need her body as well as the pieces.’

  Aubrey glanced at George and von Stralick. ‘And what makes you think we want to do that?’

  ‘It’s what people do. Not easy, though.’

  ‘Let us worry about that,’ von Stralick said. ‘Can you find the ghost out there using this?’

  ‘Plenty to work with, here. She’s in the city, for sure, and Fromm will find her.’

  ‘He will?’ George said. ‘I mean, you will?’

  ‘Of course. Meet here tomorrow, noon.’

  Aubrey had more than a few misgivings, and not the least was seeing Fromm tuck the Tremaine pearl into a pocket. ‘Do you need to keep that?’

  ‘How can Fromm do his work without it?’

  ‘It’s magic, you know.’

  ‘Fromm knows. That is why Fromm doesn’t want to keep it. As soon as all is done, you can have it.’

  Aubrey settled for that.

  They made arrangements to meet the next day. He gave the ghost hunter a twenty-mark piece as a token of good faith. The ghost hunter gave him a clap on the back as a token of his.

  Fromm left, vowing to find his cousins and treat them to a meal.

  They followed, after paying their bill. The sun was getting low, barely above the rooftops. A wind was coming from the river. It was fitful, but decidedly chilly.

  Kiefer stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘I must go. I have important preparation for the symposium.’

  ‘You’re helping at the symposium?’ Aubrey said.

  ‘Helping?’ He smiled. ‘This morning I heard that I have won the inaugural Chancellor’s Prize. I will be presenting an important paper.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Aubrey said and he had the explanation for Kiefer’s distraction. ‘I didn’t know they were giving prizes for catalytic magic.’

  Kiefer was dismissive. ‘Nothing as straightforward as that. Much more interesting, but I still need to meet someone who is helping me work through some documents.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Mention of the symposium made Aubrey think of Caroline. Where would she be staying? In Lutetia, her mother had a flat. Would she have one here?

  ‘I should go as well,’ von Stralick said. ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘A ghost hunter’s reputation to check?’ George said.

  ‘Among other things. I will be in touch.’

  Aubrey watched the Holmlanders march off, deep in conversation. ‘Do you trust him?’

  ‘Von Stralick? Not really. He bears watching.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Aubrey always enjoyed getting to know a new city, and he and George took the opportunity to walk to the embassy rather than catch a cab. He looked back at the centre of the city a mile or so away, toward the Assembly Building, where the Chancellor was no doubt holding sway at this very moment, and the bulk of the Freestein Arch, the monument to Holmland’s military past. The Academy, the site for the symposium, was north of the centre of the city, only a short tram ride away. The streets were busy and if it weren’t for the Holmlandish signs he could have believed he was in Trinovant. Tobacconists, shoeshops, bookshops all tended to emphasise how similar the folk of Holmland were to the folk of Albion. Aubrey took some heart at this, but shuddered at the thought of war coming to these bustling, ordinary streets.

  Clean streets, too. The pavements were well swept and the glass in the shop fronts sparkled. After they bought pies from a roaming vendor as a quick lunch, they wandered through more streets full of shops. After a time, Aubrey had an itchy feeling. He stopped and peered at a collection of hats. ‘I think we’re being followed,’ he said to George.

  ‘How can you tell?’ George put his face closer to the glass. ‘I think Sophie would like that yellow one.’

  ‘Reflection,’ Aubrey said. ‘That man. The one inspecting flowers at the barrow. That’s the third time I’ve seen him.’

  ‘I see. What do we do?’

  ‘We could evade him easily enough.’

  ‘Which sounds like a good idea.’

  ‘Or we could see what he wants.’

  ‘Which sounds like a potentially dangerous idea.’

  ‘But productive.’ Aubrey frowned at the shop display. ‘Do you really think Sophie would like that yellow one?’

  ‘Certain of it, old man.’

  Aubrey shook his head at George’s confidence. ‘Let’s see how much it is, then.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘We’ll go in. You engage the shop assistant, talking hat talk and whatnot. I’ll take up a position just inside the doorway and accost this stranger, not allowing him to leave.’

  ‘First-class plan, that. Apart from one thing you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t speak Holmlandish.’

  Aubrey winced. How could he forget? George approached foreign languages in the same way a bull approached a china shop – plenty of energy, unfortunate results.

  Aubrey sidled along the pavement until he could see through the glass of the door. ‘Strikingly attractive shop assistants they have in these Fisherberg shops.’

  George took his hands out of his pockets. ‘Eh? Let me see.’ He peered through the glass. ‘Look, Aubrey, I always say that language is overrated as a means of commu
nication. I’m sure I can get through to her.’ He peered again and his smile broadened. ‘To them. Come now, mustn’t give up so easily, old man.’

  What’s a plan without a hiccup? Aubrey thought as he followed his beaming friend into the refined enclosure of the hat shop.

  After that, all went smoothly. George threw himself into the task of engaging the two charming blonde shop assistants with gusto, pointing, sawing at the air with his hands, somehow getting one of them to try on the yellow hat.

  The whole performance was so ludicrous and engaging that Aubrey was taken by surprise when their quarry slipped in, glancing in irritation at the bell above the door.

  Aubrey was fortunately well hidden behind the door as it swung back and was able to flip the card on the door to ‘Closed’, turn the key in the lock and then stand with his back to the door after the man had taken a few steps into the headgear wonderland.

  ‘Who are you working for?’ he said in Holmlandish and was pleased at the startled hunching of the man’s shoulders. George and the shop assistants were too busy in their language-free frenzy of miscommunication to even notice.

  When the man turned, he’d managed to compose himself. Aubrey automatically noted his thin, clean-shaven features, his pinched mouth, his well-made clothes. Not expensive, but well made nonetheless. ‘I work for someone who has been looking for you.’

  Hmm, Aubrey thought, that narrows it down to a few hundred. ‘Why didn’t your employer send me a letter instead of dispatching someone to follow me?’

  The man adjusted his cuffs, glanced at the shop assistants, who still hadn’t noticed him, and shrugged. ‘She prefers not to commit herself to writing on this matter.’

  She? For an infinitesimal moment, Aubrey wondered if Caroline had been seduced by the cloak and dagger world in which they found themselves, but he immediately rejected this notion. Caroline was far too level-headed to participate in such nonsense.

  He mentally riffled through the possibilities and an intriguing prospect presented itself – the mysterious foreigner from the train. ‘I’ve been waiting for her to make contact. You’ll take us to her?’