Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

  No, he told himself, don't open another can of worms until you've eaten the last one.

  So it was without great surprise that Aubrey found his feet directing themselves toward the university just in time for Professor Lavoisier's lecture on taxonomy. In front of the lecture theatre, while George inspected the gothic grandeur of the cloisters, they happened to bump into Caroline Hepworth.

  'Caroline,' Aubrey exclaimed with his best attempt at astonishment, 'whatever are you doing here?'

  She was wearing a small, stylish hat trimmed with navy blue ribbon. Her blouse was white linen while her skirt was a shade of soft lavender. Shifting her large notebook from one arm to another, she studied him with an expression that was not the outright delight he'd been hoping for.

  'Aubrey. How long did it take you to find out Professor Lavoisier's lecture schedule?' She favoured George with a smile. 'Hello, George. How's the cornet?'

  'I'm making sure I don't over-practise. It's a nasty problem for any brass player.'

  Aubrey felt like putting up his hand to attract Caroline's attention. 'What are the chances, eh? Our bumping into each other like this?'

  'I refuse to believe in chance where you're concerned, Aubrey Fitzwilliam. I believe you'd try to manipulate the Laws of Probability if you could.'

  'I couldn't . . . I mean, wouldn't. I –'

  'Exactly. Now, I have a lecture to attend.'

  Aubrey desperately wanted not to appear a complete idiot in front of Caroline. It was difficult, considering the effect she had on him. Sometimes it felt as if his brain were turning to soup whenever he saw her.

  'Of course.' He fumbled for and found his pocket watch. 'Good Lord, is that the time?'

  Caroline rolled her eyes, but the transparent ploy gave Aubrey a moment to think. Then his eye fell on a noticeboard on the wall outside the lecture theatre. 'George, we must go. We'll be late for the audition.'

  George blinked, then rallied well. 'Can't be late. Sorry to rush, Caroline. Best of luck with the taxation lecture.'

  'Taxonomy. The science of classification.' She pursed her lips and then smiled, briefly. 'You know, this lecture is going to be repeated this afternoon. I'd rather attend then, I think. Perhaps I'll spend the morning with you two instead, it being such a lovely day. If you don't mind.'

  'Mind?' Aubrey said. 'We'd be delighted.'

  'Good. I haven't been to an audition for an age.'

  Aubrey felt as if he'd dug a very deep hole and then dived head first into it. 'Audition. Yes.'

  'Where is Tontine Hall?' George asked, scratching his head at the audition poster. It had been roughly and boldly printed, black on red. 'I'm guessing that's where the audition's being held. I mean, I remember that's where we're going.'

  'It's not far,' Caroline said. 'I'll show you the way.'

  She strode off along the cloistered walkway, leaving them to follow in her wake.

  Aubrey thought frantically. An audition. Of all the foolish things . . . At least it was an Albion-language production – a gesture of solidarity with Gallia's allies, organised by the university's Albion Friendship Society, according to the poster. Ivey and Wetherall's The Buccaneers. A musical comedy from the finest Albionish playmakers of the age. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, remembering the school production of The Buccaneers. It could be worse, he supposed. He could be starring in the first all-crocodile production of Hrolf, King of Scandia, for instance.

  Aubrey loved the stage, but he knew his singing voice was not first rate. Third rate, at a pinch. He could manage Ivey and Wetherall patter songs, but heaven help him if he had to attempt any of the romantic duets.

  Of course, if Caroline could be persuaded to take a part, he'd show he was a quick learner.

  Tontine Hall was a red-brick monstrosity that looked as if it had been built on the remains of a medieval chapel or two. Caroline stood at the entrance. If Aubrey didn't know better, he would have thought she were grinning.

  'After you,' she said.

  When faced with potential embarrassment, Aubrey had one tactic: head up, march straight into the thick of battle and rely on his wits to cope with what came.

  'Thank you.' With George at his shoulder, Aubrey opened the heavy wooden door and strode inside.

  He walked into a haze of cigarette smoke. On a stage at the end of the hall, a piano plinked away gamely. The tall arched windows were covered by black curtains and the room smelt of cloves and dry rot.

  Surrounding the piano, a score or so of people were trying their best to sing the chorus of 'Jolly Jack Tars Are We'. Their Albionish was good, but with a distinct Gallian accent that sat oddly with lyrics professing undying loyalty to King and Country.

  Aubrey made his way to the stage. The few spectators in the seats regarded him with enough curiosity to stop smoking.

  He waited until the song finished. Fell apart rather than finished was Aubrey's summation, but he didn't want to be critical. He'd been involved in enough haphazard performances at Stonelea School to realise that any dramatic performance was a little miracle in itself.

  'Hello?' he ventured, and all eyes on the stage turned toward him. The pianist actually rose from his seat to get a better look. He took the cigarette from his mouth and threw it to the floor. 'You are an Albionite!' he said with evident delight. 'Welcome!'

  Immediately, Aubrey was surrounded by the Gallians. Most seemed to want to embrace him or kiss him on the cheeks, men and women both. The members of the Friendship Society belied the Gallian reputation for aloofness. Their regard for Albion did seem genuine, to the extent that Aubrey almost found it overwhelming. Finally, the pianist dragged Aubrey onto the stage.

  'The Albion Friendship Society welcomes you,' he declared in Albionish. 'What can we do for you?'

  Aubrey peered over the heads of the adoring Gallians. Caroline and George stood just inside the entrance, covering their laughter. 'Er. Who's in charge here?'

  The pianist raised an eyebrow. 'I am the director of this production. Claude Duval is my name.'

  'Do you have any non-singing parts?'

  This set Duval into paroxysms of glee. 'You want a part? In our humble play to honour the alliance between our two nations? But of course! To have a true Albionite in our production will be an honour!'

  A cheer went up at this announcement, but it was an oddly staggered one as the pianist's words were translated and passed among the spectators, crew and prospective players. 'This will be a triumph!' a short, dark woman cried.

  Aubrey pointed to his friends. 'And I'm not alone. Two more Albionites are here to join you.'

  As one, the spectators and players rushed at Caroline and George. Surrounded by Gallians, they were shepherded to the stage.

  'George is an excellent cornet player,' Aubrey announced. 'While Miss Hepworth is . . .' Competent in just about any area, he thought, but Duval interrupted.

  'She is most beautiful,' he said, and he took her hand. 'Won't you be our leading lady?'

  Caroline allowed Duval to kiss the back of her hand. She removed it from his grasp, slowly. 'No.'

  'No?'

  'I'm sorry. I'm far too busy with my studies.' She smiled, and Aubrey thought Duval was about to swoon. 'I will help backstage when I can. And I must have front row seats for opening night.'

  Duval thought this a splendid idea and he spent some time introducing Caroline to everyone, calling her the Belle of Albion.

  The Albion Friendship Society was apparently a rather recent phenomenon. Waving his hands with excitement, Duval explained that his mother had been an Albionite and he had spent some years there, when younger. 'Now, times are not good,' he went on. 'The Continent is alive with suspicion and fear, so I asked myself, "What can I do?"' He clapped his hands together. 'The answer came to me and I began the Albion Friendship Society to encourage camaraderie between our two nations. We have held lectures and soirees, and now we embark on our first dramatic production. Ivey and Wetherall! So fine, so Albionish!'

  'Well, ye
s. Both of them.'

  'And your name,' Duval asked Aubrey. 'What is your name?'

  Aubrey hesitated. Would it be better to go incognito in his time in Lutetia? Or was his presence in the city well enough known already? 'Fitzwilliam,' he ventured. 'Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'

  A stick-thin young woman stared at him. 'You are not related to the Prime Minister of Albion? Sir Darius Fitzwilliam?'

  Aubrey shrugged. 'I have that honour. I am his son.'

  'No,' Duval said, clutching at his chest. 'It is our honour! This will be an event that will be talked about for years.'

  Possibly, Aubrey thought, but perhaps not for the reasons you think. 'You're too kind.'

  'Now.' Duval gestured grandly. 'We must celebrate the grand alliance of our nations. Friends forever!'

  'What about the auditions?' Aubrey asked.

  Duval shrugged. 'We will continue them another time.' He eyed Aubrey and his companions. 'How long have you been in our city?'

  'George and I arrived yesterday.'

  'Impossible! We must show you Lutetia!'

  Duval and his friends would hear no objections. Aubrey, George and Caroline were swept up like driftwood in a flood. The chattering, laughing Gallians bore them out of Tontine Hall and into the city.

  What began as a high-spirited promenade through the nearby parks and gardens turned into lunch at a café on the edge of a small lake. While couples rowed past and children sailed toy yachts, Gallian–Albionish relations were advanced on several fronts via the avenues of food and drink, with miscommunication simply adding to the hilarity. The sun shone through the trees. The fragrance of wisteria rolled over the café from a nearby arbour where the mauve flowers created a pastel-coloured tunnel. A small band in a corner of the café played dance music.

  Aubrey pushed aside his second slice of lemon tart and wondered if he'd ever need to eat again. He looked down the long table and saw George explaining something to two young Gallian ladies. By their expressions, they were baffled by the conversation, but entertained nonetheless.

  Duval was sitting on Aubrey's left, with Caroline just to Duval's other side. Duval was chatting in animated fashion, slipping between Albionish and Gallian when it became clear that Caroline was at ease with the language.

  Aubrey waited until Duval drew breath, which took some time, and squeezed himself into the conversation. 'Duval, most grateful for your hospitality. Wonderful place.'

  With an effort, Duval tore himself away from Caroline. 'Thank you, Fitzwilliam. This café is owned by my uncle. He is famous for his duck.'

  'I see.' Aubrey groped for another topic of conversation. 'And how would you say things are between our two countries?'

  'We are allies. We are good friends.' Duval's gaze fell to the small glass of coffee he was rolling around in his hand. 'We need to be, of course.'

  'Holmland,' Caroline said.

  'Yes. The Holmlanders have ambitions. The Housel River is broad, but not so broad that the Holmlanders cannot see across it to Lower Gallia. Coal mines, iron mines . . . it is a rich land, especially if you have large, growing industries.'

  Aubrey revised his opinion of Duval. The man was no empty-headed dilettante. 'And is everyone in Gallia afraid of Holmland?'

  A shrug. 'Many are. Some dislike Albion more than they hate Holmland. Some do not know what to think; others ignore the obvious.' He sighed. 'The Giraud government is foolish. Prime Minister Giraud tries to be too many things to too many people. He is weak, and this is a bad time to be weak.'

  George appeared, beaming. 'Delightful crowd you have here, Duval. Very friendly.'

  'We're talking politics here, George,' Aubrey said.

  'What? On such a pleasant day with such ravishing company? Shame, Aubrey, shame.'

  'Things can be pleasant while unrest lies underneath. Isn't that right, Duval?'

  Duval shrugged again. His high spirits seemed to have evaporated.

  'Hardly,' George said. 'Lutetia is nigh on perfect, I'd say.' He waved at one of the girls at the end of the table.

  'Not so perfect,' Duval muttered. 'Not when the Soul Stealer is abroad.'

  The words were so theatrically ominous that Aubrey at first thought Duval was joking. When the Gallian refused to raise his eyes, Aubrey wasn't so sure. 'What is the Soul Stealer?'

  'Sounds interesting,' George said, and dragged a chair over from a nearby table.

  Duval spread his hands. 'It is not something we talk about. It is distressing.'

  'You should. Aubrey's dashed interested in stuff like that.'

  Aubrey shrugged. 'We are newcomers to your city, Duval. If there is something we should be aware of, please tell us.'

  Duval put his hands palm down on the table and lifted his head, a picture of resolution. 'You are our friends. You deserve to know, for your safety.'

  He gulped the last of his coffee and put the glass firmly on the table. 'When the first victims were found, a few months ago, nothing was thought of it. Catatonia, the doctors called it. Catatonia of a strange sort that left the sufferers shambling along the streets, striking out blindly at those around them.' He grimaced. 'It happened to a neighbour of mine, a wine merchant. I saw him blundering along the street and thought he had imbibed too deeply from his own stock.'

  Duval gazed over the lake. Two rowing boats had collided, but at such a sedate pace that the couples in their respective craft were laughing instead of arguing.

  'The victims increased,' he went on. 'A few, then a few more. Dozens by now, all over the city. There is a terror at work.'

  'We saw one,' Aubrey said, and he couldn't help but notice Caroline's quick glance of concern.

  'You did?' Duval said. 'Where?'

  Aubrey described the encounter with Monsieur Jordan, the artist. 'It was like grappling with an animated corpse,' he finished.

  'No,' Duval said. 'They're not dead. They are missing something.'

  'Their soul?'

  'Possibly. Rumours are like lightning, facts are like snails.'

  It sounded intriguing, but what really pricked at Aubrey was the notion of souls being stolen. He hadn't considered this, even though he knew that potent magic had been involved in Monsieur Jordan's case. Any magic that involved souls interested him as there was always the possibility that it could shed light on his own condition.

  Duval thumped the table with a fist, making Aubrey jump. 'Ha!' the Gallian said. 'It is too beautiful a day to be so gloomy! And with such beautiful ladies, we should be singing, not sighing!'

  Caroline laughed and Aubrey's heart sank. The Gallian's continental charm was powerful. What hope did dull old Aubrey have?

  The party eventually left the café as evening was drawing in. Aubrey claimed tiredness and tried to slip away, but he was dragged along with the crowd who, true to Duval's words, sang as they wove along the streets of Lutetia. The Albion Friendship Society became a sort of caravan as it made its way from one landmark to another, stopping at various oases for refreshments as the need arose. The need seemed to arise with astonishing frequency.

  They had just finished admiring the electric lights illuminating the Middle Bridge and were about to leave to see the rebuilt Town Hall when George tugged on Aubrey's arm. 'Something's heading our way, old man.'

  Aubrey peered across the river to see a host of flaming torches coming toward the bridge.

  Duval flapped his arms with some urgency. 'Quick! Quick! Let them through!'

  Aubrey agreed that it was best not to be caught on the bridge with such a horde. He saw that Caroline had made her way down the stairs to the walkway along the embankment, and that George was nearby. He went after them. They came together near a statue of a revolutionary hero on a horse that looked as if it was tired of being bronze.

  The marchers tramped closer to the bridge. They went in good order, silent except for the noise of hobnailed boots on cobblestones. They were dressed in workers' clothes – twill trousers, vests, cloth caps – and those who weren't brandishing torches were holding u
p placards announcing that they were the Marchmaine Independence League. Aubrey raised an eyebrow. The movement had more supporters than he'd thought. When his father had spoken of it, Aubrey had imagined a few unworldly troublemakers standing on street corners and haranguing passers-by.

  Aubrey climbed the grassy bank to the road above to see better, and a few of the more curious actors went with him.

  He could spy no obvious leader of the marchers. Grim faced, many had rolled-up sleeves, an indication that they'd recently come from work. Or they're expecting more physical exertion, Aubrey thought. He glanced in the direction they were marching – toward the Town Hall – and his eyes widened.

  An equally large mass was heading up the road directly toward the Marchmainers. This crowd didn't hold up torches, nor placards. Streetlights glinted from gold braid and highly polished truncheons.

  'Police,' Aubrey said. A reveller at his shoulder muttered something uncomplimentary. Soon the word had spread through the Albion Friendship Society. Nonchalantly, they backed away and gathered on the embankment, well away from the road and the bridge.

  Aubrey decided that the Lutetians would know best, and he followed. An iron rail ran along the edge of the embankment and Aubrey vaulted onto it for a better view. He steadied himself against a wrought-iron lamp post and watched, with trepidation, as the two opposing groups spied each other.

  A ripple spread through the front ranks of the Marchmainers. Murmured commands, passed from one comrade to the next, slowed the procession, packing bodies close together. Soon, they stopped, filling the bridge and stretching south up Charity Avenue. They stood, torches burning, waiting.

  A whistle sounded from the police. They, too, stopped, boots crashing as the ranks halted in good order twenty yards from the Marchmainers.

  The two groups eyed each other. 'What's going to happen?' he asked Duval. The director's face was pale.

  'Nothing, I hope. The Marchmainers have not been violent before. I do not know why the police are here.'

  Aubrey frowned and scanned the area. His fingertips were itching in a way that said magic was nearby. He rubbed them together, but the feeling didn't diminish – it grew more intense. He concentrated, casting about with his magical awareness, and he caught a touch, a flavour that was tantalisingly familiar. It had a resonance that he'd encountered before – and it was growing more powerful. Before he could recall it exactly, he was shocked by a wave of potent enchantment that shook him deeply, leaving him stunned for a moment. Reeling, he clutched at the lamp post, struggling to draw breath. Numbly, he felt as if the whole world had shivered. He gasped, drawing a sharp look from George. 'What's wrong, old man?'