'I didn't arrange this holiday solely as an excuse to see her, you know.'
'Really?
'Well, not entirely.' He stood. 'We may be able to catch up with her this evening, she said. She has a full day of practical work.'
'Lucky girl.'
THE UNIVERSITY OF LUTETIA WAS MUCH AS OTHER VENERABLE institutions of higher learning – a hotchpotch of buildings, paths, lawns and gardens that had grown in many different directions at many different times. As Aubrey walked around the perimeter of the large city block, he tried to judge from the architectural styles when each faculty had reached the height of importance. The Law Faculty was obviously one of the early achievers if its gaunt gothic-arched buildings were any guide. Theology, in the north-western part of the campus, harked back to an even earlier era, a blocky warren of buildings that Aubrey was sure would be dark inside. Its major feature was the belltower that had offended Dr Romellier. Science, Philosophy, Mathematics and Arts were all imposing, designed to impress and establish themselves as serious areas of scholarship.
Aubrey and George stood on the street with their backs to the Theology belltower. Aubrey kept an eye open for bicycles, which seemed to be ridden solely by maniacs to whom the difference between street and pavement meant nothing.
Across from the university, an unattractive tenement building faced them – about a hundred years old, four storeys of drab brick, rendered grey. Dozens of windows gazed down on them, mournfully. Aubrey thought it had all the architectural flair of a cliff.
'If Dr Romellier was disturbed by the Theology bells, then his rooms must be up there somewhere,' Aubrey said, pointing. He drew back his hand just in time to avoid decapitating a cyclist.
'I suppose we should just start knocking on doors,' George said. 'What's Gallian for "Hello, are you Dr Romellier?"'
Aubrey shrugged and winced at the dull pain in his shoulders. 'Perhaps we can find a porter or someone in charge.'
George tilted his head back and stared at the sky. 'I don't think we need to do that, old man.'
'What is it?'
'Bird expert, this Dr Romellier, isn't he?'
'That's what Mother said.'
'Now, if I were a renowned expert on birds, what do you think my hobbies would be if I lived in the middle of the city?'
Aubrey gazed upwards, shading his eyes. 'Hobbies?'
'Pigeons, old man. Let's go and see if Dr Romellier keeps a pigeon loft.'
THE ROOF OF THE TENEMENT BUILDING GAVE A FINE VIEW of the university grounds. Aubrey was pleased to see a few small patches of greenery that had escaped the urge to build bigger, taller faculty fiefdoms.
The pigeon loft was a substantial construction. No ramshackle assembly of cast-off building material, this large rectangular bird mansion looked as if it was strong enough to withstand a Force 10 storm.
George squinted through the wire. 'They're pigeons, all right. Lots of them.'
'I'm glad I brought an authority,' Aubrey said. He made sure he stood upwind of the loft. Even though it was well cared for, the smell of pigeon droppings was eyewatering.
'I had to learn something, being raised on a farm,' George said. 'Animals, birds, agricultural machinery, I'm your man.'
Aubrey scanned the surroundings. The rooftop sported pipes, ventilators, enigmatic shafts and doors that led to stairwells. Which would take them to Dr Romellier?
A whirring overhead made him look up. A flock of pigeons swooped low, then veered off again to circle the building. Aubrey shielded his eyes from the sun, but was startled by a barrage of angry shouting. He dropped his hand and saw a short, bald man hobbling toward them, waving a stick that would have been better used to help him walk.
George nudged him. 'What's he saying?'
'He's threatening to report us to the association.'
'What association?'
'The Pigeon Racing Association.'
The old man came closer, jabbing at them with his stick and keeping up a torrent of angry Gallian.
'He says that he's been waiting for us,' translated Aubrey, 'and now he's caught us red-handed.'
'How does he come to that conclusion? We could just pitch him off the roof.'
'He says he's been on the lookout for whoever's been nobbling – that's not the Gallian word for it, of course – his best birds. Oh, and the police have been called and we're not to move.'
The man's abuse wound down and he fixed them with a beady eye that looked remarkably like that of his charges. Aubrey took the opportunity to ask him if he knew Dr Romellier.
This set the pigeon man off in another torrent, but this time smiling broadly.
'It appears, George, that if we're friends of Dr Romellier, all is forgiven. This was the good doctor's loft and the home of his scientifically bred flock, which he gave to this man, Monsieur Moir. He asks forgiveness for his suspicions, but bad men have been poisoning his birds.'
'Does he know where Dr Romellier is?'
This query brought forth a shrug. Further questions revealed that Dr Romellier had disappeared some months ago. No goodbyes, no forwarding address.
They left Monsieur Moir berating a hungry-looking cat that had foolishly come within fifty yards of the pigeon loft. Aubrey didn't fancy its chances.
Back on the street, he looked up at the tenement again. The windows were identical, anonymous. 'To the university, George. Dr Romellier can wait for another day. Let's find this Faculty of Magic.'
'If we can cross the street without being run down,' George said as a pair of gowned cyclists careered around a corner and drifted toward them. They were conducting a heated argument and paying no attention to the road in front of them.
'Put your best foot forward, then.'
Aubrey and George ducked through an arch and came out into a paved courtyard. Five minutes later, they were lost in a maze of narrow lanes and steep-roofed stone buildings. Aubrey stood in the middle of a small courtyard trying to get his bearings. George examined a large camellia with all the intensity of someone who knows very little about gardening but wants to appear as if he did. Students hurried through the sunny space, avoiding the path and crossing via a well-worn track in the grass. A professor wandered along, staring at the sky and muttering, before disappearing through an open gate.
'A map would be a fine idea,' Aubrey said. Grateful for the chance to rest his weary legs, he sat on a bench that was against the sandstone wall of an anonymous building. He took care to avoid the pigeon droppings.
'We're the only ones who don't know where we're going.'
'Which means all these other people do.'
'Exactly.'
While George smiled, Aubrey asked a number of students for directions to the Faculty of Magic. The results were not encouraging. Most were puzzled by the request, claiming that no such faculty existed. Some were horrified. But one ancient professor thought he remembered it being on the western side of the campus, near the Library.
On the other side of the courtyard was a small walkway. It led to a large plaza overlooked by three- and four-storey buildings that varied widely in their ages, but not their elegance. The plaza was paved with red brick, but the harshness of this was broken by small, cylindrical conifers encircled by bench seats. It seemed to be a popular meeting place.
George drew Aubrey back into the archway. 'What is it?' Aubrey asked.
'You'll never believe it.'
Aubrey always felt that this sort of statement placed a low estimation on his powers of imagination. 'Tell me.'
'Hugo von Stralick.'
'He's here?'
'That's him, over there, charming those two girls.'
Aubrey couldn't believe it. They'd run into the Holmland spy in the tangle of events surrounding Dr Tremaine's plot to tip Albion into war. The last Aubrey had heard of von Stralick was that he'd fled the country to avoid being arrested.
Von Stralick was leaning against a pillar that supported an arched colonnade. He was dressed in an immaculate dark-blue suit. His white kid
gloves almost shone in the sun. Aubrey grinned. 'Let's see what he's up to.'
They managed to stay out of von Stralick's sight by keeping to the colonnade and behind the knots of students hurrying between lectures. When they reached von Stralick's pillar, Aubrey stepped out one side, while George appeared from the other.
'Ah, Hugo!' Aubrey said. 'Won't you introduce us to your friends?'
Apart from a momentary widening of his eyes, von Stralick was unfazed. 'Ah, Fitzwilliam, Doyle,' he said, as if he'd seen them only five minutes ago. 'Lola and Marie were just leaving, weren't you, my dears?'
Lola and Marie were young, well-dressed, and looked as if this was the last thing they'd been thinking. They made their farewells, with a few backward glances.
'I say, von Stralick,' George said, 'did you have to send them off like that? They seemed dashed friendly.'
'They were spies, George,' Aubrey said. 'Von Stralick wouldn't want us around while they discussed Holmland's espionage activities.'
Von Stralick looked pained. 'Informants, not spies. And information gathering is not espionage. Really, Fitzwilliam, was I this rude when I was in Albion?'
'This is Gallia, not Holmland.' Aubrey took a step backward. 'You've done a fine job with your hair. You'd hardly notice your ear at all. And the gloves hide your missing finger beautifully.'
Von Stralick smiled. 'If you think you can make me lose my temper and reveal all Holmland's plans, then you're wrong.'
'Still junior attaché at your embassy?'
'Under-secretary for Cultural Affairs. A promotion.'
'A spy is still a spy,' George said.
'What do you care? This is Gallia, as you pointed out.'
'And Gallia is an Albion ally,' Aubrey said. 'An important Albion ally.'
Von Stralick beamed. 'But enough about me. What about you two? What are you doing in Lutetia?'
'We're part of a magical operation,' Aubrey said. 'We're planning to awaken the ten thousand mystic warriors who are sleeping under Lutetia waiting to defend the city in its time of greatest need.'
Von Stralick frowned, then grinned. 'You will have your Albion jokes.' He studied Aubrey's face. 'You do not look so well, Fitzwilliam. Is the Gallian food not agreeing with you?'
Aubrey was choosing between a few plausible responses when a scream came from the other side of the courtyard. Before he could locate the source, it sounded again.
Aubrey turned back to von Stralick, only to find him gone.
He didn't have time to look for him. More shrieks and cries of horror came from the far side of the square. People were now streaming toward them, fleeing from the disturbance.
George scowled. 'Von Stralick?'
'Don't worry about him. What's going on over there?'
'I don't suppose we could simply leave it be? No, I didn't think so.'
Aubrey led the way toward the disturbance. It was difficult moving against the surge of the crowd, but he skirted garden beds and vaulted benches until he and George reached the gap between the buildings that appeared to be the source of the noise.
A growl came from ahead, then a throaty cough that turned into a moan. 'Someone's hurt,' George said and he started forward.
Aubrey grabbed his arm. 'No.Wait.'
The telltale tingle of magic had made Aubrey pause. He was trying to locate its source when a lurching, drooling creature blundered through the archway, eyes vacant, hands clutching at the air.
George stifled an oath. Aubrey danced back a step or two, his skin suddenly cold at the thought of its touch. Another one, he thought with dismay.
The dispossessed one had once been a young woman. She was dressed in her best clothes, as if she'd been about to go to church – dark-blue jacket and dress, white gloves. She wore a large hat, but it had come astray and was dragging on her shoulders. Her hair hung loose and bedraggled.
She lunged at them. Desperately, Aubrey dragged George around the corner away from the shambling menace. They stood with their backs to the office of the university's maintenance department. 'What's that smell?'
'Smell? Aubrey, have you taken leave of your senses?'
'No. This is important.'
George frowned and sniffed the air. 'Smoke.'
'Wood smoke?'
'No. Like fireworks.'
'I thought so.' He caught George's expression. 'I'll tell you later.'
Another tortured moan. 'What can we do for her?' George asked.
'Stop her from hurting anyone. Restrain her, keep her safe until the authorities come.' Aubrey peeped around the corner as another scream arose. 'But we have to act now.'
'Isn't anyone doing anything?'
'No. It's up to us.'
He darted out. On the other side of the archway, the space between the two buildings opened into a covered gallery supported by slender, cast-iron pillars. It was empty, apart from the soulless horror and a terrified charwoman who had dropped her bucket and mop. She cowered against the wall and covered her eyes.
Aubrey moved into the vacant-eyed woman's field of vision, flapping his arms. 'Here! Here!' In an instant George was by his side, jumping around and waving.
The horror staggered back from the charwoman, then lumbered around, seeking the source of this noisy interruption. 'Good,' Aubrey said. He refused to be taken prisoner by panic, no matter how much he felt like it.
'Now, George, you keep her distracted while I work on a spell.'
George glanced at Aubrey. 'Be quick about it, old man, if you would.'
'I'll do my best.'
George moved to one side, still waving his arms and shouting, doing his best to keep the woman's attention. She moaned and drooled, then lurched at him, but he skipped back and slid to one side. He shoved her shoulder, putting her off balance, and quickly moved away.
In the meantime, Aubrey was rehearsing a spell. It was a simple binding spell, something he'd used a thousand times. It applied the Law of Cohesion and the Law of Elastic Deformation. It could be strengthened in intensity or lengthened in duration by careful variation of parameters.
This application was simple. All he wanted to do was to manacle the woman's feet, hobbling them, and bind her arms to her side. He knew it would tax his energy, given his declining state, but there was little else he could do.
He focused on the empty one as she grappled with George, and began.
The first few syllables came easily, but Aubrey was shocked when the subsequent syllables were awkward on his tongue. What should have been a straightforward spell became a struggle. He started to sweat as the individual spell elements seemed to resist his pronouncing them. His muscles began to tremble and his head throbbed abominably.
The final syllables fell from his lips and Aubrey immediately knew that he'd botched the spell. A handful of dull shreds – flimsy fragments, quite unlike the robust bonds he'd been attempting to summon – appeared and fell to the flagstones. They shrivelled and vanished.
'Stop messing about, old man,' George called. 'I'm in a spot of bother here.'
Dazed, Aubrey stared at where the shreds had fallen. It was a simple spell. He should have been able to cast it in his sleep.
He realised his hands were trembling. Pain burned in the small joints of his knuckles. He clenched his teeth and then hissed as his jaw became two bright spots of agony where it hinged. A wave of terrible fatigue swept through him and he thought he was about to collapse.
A grunt brought Aubrey back to his surroundings. George was backing away from the shambling woman. With the back of one hand, he smeared at a trickle of blood on his cheek, his face a grimace that combined fear and uncertainty.
Aubrey shook himself. His condition might be parlous, but his friend was in danger. Ignoring the pain, he brought his hands together and clasped them, tightly, to stop the trembling. Then he began the spell again.
This time, the syllables rolled smoothly off his tongue, each one articulated clearly, with no dangerous elisions or slurring. After uttering the final element,
a glowing ribbon flipped through the air and wrapped itself around the woman's ankles.
Aubrey let out a sigh of relief, but before he could examine his condition again the woman tottered and started to fall backward, making no effort to cushion her fall. Aghast, Aubrey saw that her head was going to smash on the stone.
He flung himself, catching her by the shoulders and grating his elbows on the flagstones. But instead of being grateful, she reached up and clawed at his face, snarling. Without letting go, he jerked his head back and tucked in his chin to protect his throat. 'George!'
'Right here.'
George grabbed at the woman's arms, but she wrenched them away. 'Look out!' Aubrey cried and George barely avoided having his ear bitten off.
Aubrey eased her to the ground then leapt back. 'Hold up her arms!'
George struggled, then seized both wrists. Aubrey chanted the spell again. Another glowing loop appeared and bound the woman's wrists.
Panting, George stepped back and glared at her. 'She tried to make a meal of my ear.' He sounded more offended than afraid.
The woman thrashed on the ground. Aubrey wiped his brow. The pain in his joints had receded somewhat, but still lay there like coals ready to burst into flame. 'I should have done the hands first. Idiot.' The woman settled and growled. Her face and eyes remained as blank as new paper.
Aubrey became aware that people were drawing closer. They were fearful, but curious, and soon were crowding around the unfortunate woman. Students, he decided, with a few professors elbowing for room and trying not to appear undignified.
A figure at the rear caught Aubrey's gaze. A slender man in a grey flannel suit and a grey trilby. He had one hand in his pocket and, when he noticed Aubrey's attention, he stepped back behind a pillar. Aubrey went to move in that direction, but before he could follow, a uniformed police officer stepped through the crowd.
'Ah, Fitzwilliam,' he said, in his stylishly accented Albionish. 'It is you again.'
'Inspector Paul.' Aubrey straightened his tie and tried to look as law-abiding as possible.
Inspector Paul gestured and four constables appeared with straps and heavy belts. 'I take it this is your spell work?' Inspector Paul asked Aubrey. 'Would you please cancel it?'
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