Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

  'He's awake, but . . .' Aubrey flapped a hand. 'Doctor, I think you'll need to look at him.'

  Madame Calvert translated and the doctor started toward the unfortunate artist. The police officer stepped forward and interposed himself. 'No,' he said in accented but clear Albionish. 'He must come with me.'

  'Monsieur Jordan?' Madame Calvert said. 'Impossible. He's an important artist. Besides, he needs medical care.'

  'I must insist,' the police officer said. 'We have the facilities for taking care of these cases.'

  'Captain,' Madame Calvert began.

  'Inspector, not Captain,' the officer corrected. 'Inspector Paul. But given time, it will be Captain Paul, so you are correct, if a little premature.'

  Aubrey rolled his eyes. He'd heard the same confident tones in the junior bureaucrats who flocked around his father, looking for advancement. Inspector Paul was in his middle twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. His uniform had creases sharp enough to be a danger to small children. His hair had a centre part so perfect that Aubrey was sure he must use a measuring tape to get it exactly in the middle.

  Inspector Paul addressed himself to Madame Calvert while the doctor stared first at Monsieur Jordan, then at the police officer, then at his watch. 'If you have a telephone,' Inspector Paul said, 'I will call my superiors and they will send a special team for Monsieur Jordan.'

  Madame Calvert nodded, as if she didn't trust herself to speak, then she shepherded the doctor down the stairs. Before Inspector Paul followed, he nodded at Aubrey and George. 'You will remain, of course? I will have questions for you.'

  Monsieur Jordan had lapsed into silence. Aubrey studied the flaccid face and saw no emotions. Without them, he thought, the human face might as well be made of wax.

  'Welcome to Lutetia,' Aubrey muttered and he sat on the vacant chaise longue.

  'I don't know about you, old man,' George said as he joined him, 'but I was hoping for something a little less exciting.'

  Aubrey had the same regrets. In Lutetia for less than a day and already being interviewed by police after being assaulted by a citizen infected with something horrible. So much for a discreet presence in the capital. He knew he should contact the embassy and let the Ambassador know what had happened, but decided that it could wait.

  Inspector Paul reappeared, alone. He went to the canvas bolster that had once been an artist.

  'What about the doctor?' Aubrey asked. 'Monsieur Jordan hit his head badly.'

  Inspector Paul shrugged and Aubrey saw that the gesture was a favourite of the dapper police officer. He probably practises it in front of a mirror, Aubrey thought.

  'He doesn't need a doctor,' Inspector Paul said. 'It is very difficult to hurt them when they're in this state.'

  'What state would that be? And who are "they"?'

  'Nothing to interest a young visitor from Albion.' Inspector Paul smiled. 'Madame Calvert told me you arrived very recently. I hope you enjoy your time in the City of Lights.'

  Aubrey knew a dismissal when he heard one. 'I'm sure we will.'

  Madame Calvert passed Inspector Paul on the stairs. 'This just came for you,' she said to Aubrey and she held out a large, cream envelope.

  At first, Aubrey didn't want to take it. It had all the signs of official correspondence. His experience suggested that such items rarely contained good news.

  George saw his hesitation and reached for the envelope, but Aubrey overcame his reluctance and took it before his friend could. Madame Calvert lingered a moment, then left while Aubrey opened the letter.

  'It's your father's stationery, isn't it?' George said. 'What's it say?'

  Aubrey scanned the letter. His heart sank. 'No, it's not my father's. It's from the office of the Prime Minister.'

  'Same thing, isn't it?'

  'Not really. This is official, and probably not written by him.' It's not a note from a father to his son, in other words. 'It's to let me know that the Prime Minister of Albion will be in Lutetia soon for an official meeting with his Gallian counterpart.' He tapped the paper with a forefinger. 'My father is going to be here on the twenty-sixth, George.'

  George stood back, trying gauge Aubrey's reaction. 'Nearly two weeks away.'

  'I thought it too good to be true, you know.'

  'What is?'

  'Their letting me go on a holiday like this, by myself.'

  'I'm with you, old man.'

  'I mean, without them.' Aubrey folded the letter and put back in the envelope. 'He's coming to check on me.'

  Four

  THE NEXT MORNING, AUBREY DRAGGED OPEN THE curtains, then the windows. Their fifth-floor position may have been awkward for toting luggage, but it did provide a glorious aspect of the city.

  The room faced the apartments opposite, but their building was taller so that Aubrey had a clear view south toward the river. Between the river and his vantage point, he could make out the bordering greenery of the trees along the riverside gardens.

  When he leaned out of the window, he could see that the city was stirring. In the distance to the south-west, over the river, the Exposition Tower stood proudly. Not far to the east of the tower, he made out the gold spire of the church of St Ambrose. He looked west, trying to find the heights of the Haltain district, but the early morning haze obscured the view. He took in Lutetia, his gaze roaming across parks, bridges and streets crowded with narrow buildings. He itched to grab his guidebook and use the map to work out which stately building was which, where museums, galleries and archives were, the best way across the river to the university, but he decided simply to enjoy the vista, revelling in the unknown, tantalising city spread out in front of him.

  Looking closer, he sought the ornate cast-iron entrance of the underground railway on the street corner. Having found it, the river and – by craning his neck and looking south – the university, Aubrey felt oriented.

  Below, in front of a tobacconist, he noticed a man in a grey flannel suit. Unlike all the others on the street, he wasn't hurrying. He was studying Madame Calvert's building and scribbling in a notebook. Street names? Numbers? Aubrey tried to get a better look, but the man snapped his notebook closed and strode off.

  He remembered the words of the Scholar Tan. On the battlefield, the enemy will watch you as you watch him. He snorted. He wasn't on a battlefield; he was on holiday.

  His bedroom was sunny, with an angled roof and two windows, one of which Aubrey had been using for his reconnaissance. Striped wallpaper, a washstand, a large oak wardrobe that looked as if it was being strangled by a thousand wooden vines, a tall, standard mirror, and a brass gaslight hanging from the ceiling made the room comfortable, while a door led to a small study with a desk and a bookshelf full of classic Gallian philosophical works.

  A horrible groan made the good spirits shrivel inside him. He spun and saw George in the doorway, staring at him with baleful eyes. He wore his favourite old dressing-gown, and his hair was dishevelled. 'It's a holiday, old man,' he mumbled. 'Go back to bed.'

  Aubrey grinned. He felt good – strong and healthy after a full night's sleep. It seemed his condition had steadied, thanks to his innate stubbornness and a small strengthening spell he'd tried. 'I don't think so. We have so much to do.'

  'Sleep is high on my list, as it should be on yours.' George went to trudge back to his room.

  'Food, George,' Aubrey said softly. 'A Lutetian breakfast awaits us. Pastries. Fresh bread. Jam and cream. The kind of hot chocolate that angels weep for.'

  George stopped in his tracks. He turned. 'On the other hand, a man who sleeps too much fritters his life away, I always say. Which way is breakfast?'

  AUBREY BATHED FIRST THEN TOOK THE STAIRS TO THE breakfast room to wait for George. The windows were open and, along with the sounds of horses' hooves on cobblestones, Aubrey thought he could smell apple blossom. It was difficult to tell, as a platter of freshly baked pastries was waiting on a sideboard. Their aroma filled the high-ceilinged room.

  Madame Calvert was the only ot
her person at breakfast, even though a dozen other tables were set. She was sitting at a table by a window, reading and sipping a cup of coffee.

  Aubrey bowed. 'Madame.'

  'Ah, Mr Fitzwilliam.' She closed her book.

  'Is there any news of Monsieur Jordan?'

  'Nothing. There rarely is in these cases, or so I hear.' She gestured at the sideboard. 'Please help yourself.'

  Aubrey took a plate and selected a rolled-up chocolate construction and a curly jam-filled masterpiece. He didn't have a sweet tooth, normally, but Lutetian baking was hard to resist. He poured a cup of chocolate and joined Madame Calvert at her table. 'You don't mind?'

  She gave a slight inclination of her head that indicated she was not inconvenienced by Aubrey's company at this time, but in other circumstances it may be different. Aubrey thought it an eloquent – and economical – gesture.

  He sipped his very fine hot chocolate. 'You said "these cases". What did you mean by that?'

  Madame Calvert considered her answer before speaking. 'It is not widely reported, but lately the city has seen many like poor Monsieur Jordan. People have been found wandering the streets, assaulting passers-by, and all as mindless as you saw.' She made an expression of polite distaste. 'I never thought I'd see one in my establishment.'

  'I see. And this is the stuff of rumour?'

  She fixed him with a look. 'It is true.'

  'And what happens to these unfortunates?'

  'A police facility. It was once a hospital. Much has been tried to cure them, but nothing has worked. They are monitored, now, that is all.'

  'How many times has this happened?'

  'Who knows? Dozens, most certainly. Dozens of people who have been transformed from normal Lutetians into husks.' She shuddered, elegantly. 'It is distressing. Monsieur Jordan was a wonderful artist. A fine watercolourist and just starting to become well known. Why, the Society of Artists had even commissioned a photograph of him for their journal.'

  George entered, fresh from bathing, his hair brushed, his cheeks ruddy. He rubbed his hands. 'Excellent! Good morning, Madame Calvert.' He arrowed toward the sideboard and stood for a moment, entranced by the variety, before taking a plate and building a tower of pastries.

  Madame Calvert rose and clasped her book under her arm. Aubrey stood, remembering to clutch his napkin before it fell from his lap. 'Madame.'

  She left. George joined Aubrey at the table. 'Plans, old man?' he said in between bites of a custard-filled delicacy. 'You'll want to do some magic or whatnot to find out what's ailing our Monsieur Jordan?'

  'I don't think so. The police seem to have that matter well in hand.'

  'That hasn't stopped you in the past.'

  'Be that as it may. Today is a day to stroll around our neighbourhood at leisure, enjoying the sights. I need to do some shopping, odds and ends, that kind of thing.'

  'You want to see Caroline, don't you?'

  Aubrey adopted an expression of what he hoped was haughty disdain. 'If we happen to bump into her, I won't be displeased.'

  George tackled another sugar-encrusted work of art. 'Remarkable young lady, wouldn't you say? I mean, coming over here to study and all that. Keen intellect.'

  'George, you don't have to convince me. I think highly enough of her as it is.' He rubbed his cheek. 'We're in Lutetia, she's in Lutetia. She's at the university, we're close by. I'm sure an opportunity will arise.' An opportunity this time, he thought, not a crisis.

  'Excellent.' George dusted sugar from his chin. 'She said she'd teach me that shoulder rolling thing, the one where you send an attacker flying through the air.'

  'A person of many talents is our Miss Hepworth.'

  THE SUMMER MORNING WAS BRIGHT AND SUNNY, WITH A cloudless blue sky welcoming them. The streets were busy with carts, carriages, bicycles and motorcars. Pavements thronged with pedestrians, some ambling along, others walking briskly. Aubrey felt he could tell the tourists from the natives by the velocity of their gait.

  As he studied the passers-by, he thought he had another way to pick the local citizens: their garments. By and large, the clothes of the Lutetians were well cut and smart.

  The women wore long dresses that were softer and less bulky than the fashion in Albion. Hats were large, often fastened under the chin with a scarf, but they avoided the extravagant feather and flower adornments that always puzzled Aubrey at home.

  He paid close attention to the garments the men wore. Suits for the men were trim and comfortable, and it seemed as if the Lutetians had done away with high, starched collars, a trend Aubrey was in favour of. Hats seemed to signify the demeanour of the wearer – jaunty straw boaters, cheery bowlers, as well as more sombre homburgs and even some top hats on the older gentlemen.

  The Lutetians wore their clothes with taste and style, often adding a brooch or a silk handkerchief to an outfit to add a touch of individuality. This approach appealed to Aubrey and he made a note to see what he could do in that department.

  Having gained directions from Madame Calvert, Aubrey steered their way toward the Central Market. He'd mapped the day carefully; the market was between their apartment and the university.

  Aubrey smelled and heard the market long before he saw it. Shouting, cackling, sizzling and braying announced its location, and then he smelled hot food and farm animals. When they turned off the Boulevard of Honesty and saw the market precinct, the assault on the senses was complete.

  Rows of stalls stretched out in front of them, with barrows doing their best to push through the mass of people. Most of the customers were laden with bags crammed full of fruit, vegetables, and mouth-wateringly fragrant wrapped packages.

  They stood near the base of a monument, an ancient stone cross. George sniffed the air. 'These Lutetians know a thing or two about food.'

  'It's a way of life,' Aubrey said. He stood on tiptoes and tried to see over the heads of the crowd. 'Buy some cheese, if you like. Have it sent back to our rooms.'

  'Excellent idea. Any preferences?'

  'Not for me, thanks, George. I'm making preparations.'

  George raised an eyebrow. 'What are you expecting?'

  'It's the unexpected I'm preparing for, not the expected.'

  'Splendid, old man. What if I take responsibility for buying edibles so you can concentrate on your stuff?'

  'Excellent idea.'

  In truth, Aubrey wasn't sure what he was after. 'Useful Purchases' was how he thought of this sort of provisioning. With George ploughing a way through the crowd, he ignored the shouts of the stallholders, instead drifting along and letting his gaze roam over the offerings from across Lutetia.

  After seeing all manner of fruit, vegetables, cheese, meat and fish, they pushed into the part of the market that was dominated by garment and cloth merchants. He stopped at a stand with second-hand clothes neatly hanging from racks. 'Wait here a moment,' he said to George.

  'Certainly. Would you like a peanut?'

  George held out a paper bag. The aroma of warm nuts rose from it. 'I didn't see you buy these,' Aubrey said as he took a few. They were fresh, salty and very good.

  'You have to be quick around here.' George shook the bag into his hand and then threw the nuts into his mouth.

  'So I see. No more left?'

  George crumpled the bag in his fist and shook his head. 'Sorry, old man.'

  Once Aubrey had inspected the clothes and convinced himself they were clean, he bargained his way into a reasonable price for an assortment of vests, trousers and caps. Then he negotiated a fee to have them delivered to their rooms. The gnome of a stallholder grinned broadly when they were finished and Aubrey realised this was a sure sign he'd paid much more than he needed to.

  The stalls became more various. Books, bric-a-brac, flowers, more clothes, second-hand musical instruments – the market was a treasure trove of stuff both useful and useless. Aubrey made some considered purchases, but a number of things he bought on impulse, simply because they caught his eye. Some cheap costume
jewellery. Skeins of wool. A tuning fork. A bag of glass beads.

  After parting with a handful of coins for a pair of brightly coloured spinning tops, Aubrey took stock.

  'Done?' George asked. He was finishing a strawberry ice-cream.

  'I think so.'

  'So, you're now prepared.'

  'If I have to distract a small child while tuning a piano and mending a pullover, I'm all set.'

  'Marvellous.' George scratched his nose. 'Promises to be a ripping holiday, this.'

  THE BOULEVARD OF WISDOM LED TO THE UNIVERSITY. Intrigued by Lutetia's street names, Aubrey consulted his guidebook. After the revolution in the eighteenth century, Louis Gant, one of the senior committee members, had been fanatical about renaming all the thoroughfares in the city. The old street names were remnants of an oppressive past when the monarchy ruled, and the liberation of the people would only be complete when their addresses were liberated too.

  Thus, many streets were renamed after admired revolutionary qualities such as equality or fortitude. The move met with little resistance, particularly since arguing against the reforms of the revolution usually ended up with more names added to the list of those about to be executed for anti-revolutionary sentiments.

  Some of the old street names survived, however. Louis Gant's program had faltered after he went on to express the view that cheese was inherently anti-revolutionary and needed to be stamped out. He was quickly promoted to the head of the 'To Be Executed' list and wasn't missed at all.

  George kept up an admiring commentary as they strolled, extolling the virtues of the architecture and the young ladies with equal verve. Aubrey, however, had his mind on sorting out his priorities. Which of the multiple demands on his time would he undertake first? He was tempted to try to find the Faculty of Magic for himself, but duty suggested he take on his father's requests first. Then again, locating Dr Romellier for his mother might be straightforward. Or perhaps he should approach the police officer, Inspector Paul, about his grandmother's stolen letters? And while he was there he could inquire about Monsieur Jordan's progress . . .