Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

  Aubrey smiled as they were bathed in reds, greens, yellows and blues. 'It's like being wrapped in a rainbow.'

  'It's one of my favourite places in the whole cathedral,' Sister Claire said. Her face was dappled red and blue. 'Don't tell the Mother Superior, though. She thinks I need to spend more time praying and less time smiling.'

  'You live here, in the convent?' Caroline asked.

  'Yes. It's a wonderful place.'

  'It's your choice, this life?'

  Aubrey tensed. He knew that Caroline had very modern views about the role of women. How would she view women who devoted themselves totally to the service of others?

  Sister Claire frowned, confused. 'This life?'

  'Becoming a nun.'

  'I'm not sure if it's a matter of choosing.'

  'But it was your decision?'

  'Oh yes. My family tried to convince me not to.'

  Caroline looked satisfied. 'Very well then.'

  Rather than be offended, Sister Claire was amused. 'If you'll come this way.'

  She conducted Aubrey, George and Caroline around the walls of the cathedral, moving in an anti-clockwise direction, she explained, to fit in with the other nuns who were also guiding visitors.

  The immense space both magnified and muffled sounds. Whispers became murmurs that moved in vague burbles of sound, rolling off the hard marble surfaces and chasing each other into the heights.

  Tombs and memorials were set into the walls. Some were austere, some were flamboyant and baroque, but none bore names that Aubrey recognised from Bertie's notes. Mixed in with prominent clergy were more than a few nobles, but occasionally an artist or a soldier was honoured with a place in the foremost church in Gallia. It was a mark of respect accorded to few, Sister Claire pointed out, and only those who'd done something special for their country.

  When they reached the transept, Sister Claire paused. 'The convent opens off here. If you like, I'll show you the cloisters. They're very fine, very peaceful.'

  Aubrey couldn't deny her. 'By all means, Sister.'

  A dusty, wood-lined passage took them from the cathedral. Aubrey spied a narrow doorway. 'The convent is through there?'

  Sister Claire shook her head. 'The convent is at the western end of the cloisters. That's the entrance to the Chapel of the Heart.'

  'Can we see inside?' Caroline asked.

  'Of course. It's very simple compared to the cathedral, but it's very special.'

  The Chapel of the Heart was tiny, no more than a dozen paces in length. The ceiling was low, and appeared lower after the lofty extravagance of the cathedral. It was a plain, rectangular chamber with no windows. A simple altar stood at the far end. The body of the chapel was filled with backless benches and a narrow aisle ran up the middle. Candles and a single lamp illuminated the space.

  It was close, but Aubrey didn't feel confined. The tiny place had a comfortable scale and, in some ways, was more human than the cathedral's magnificence.

  He stopped, frowning, and rubbed his hands together. Magic was hereabout, of a deep and primeval kind, but where was it?

  'Oh.' Caroline's voice was full of wonder. Aubrey glanced to find that she was staring at a niche in the western end of the chapel. He came closer to see what had taken her attention so completely.

  The alcove was unadorned, bare stone, windowless. A nun sat and gazed back at them with such tranquillity that Aubrey was quite dazed. She was young, younger even than Sister Claire. In her simple habit she looked complete, perfect, as if she wanted for nothing at all. When she smiled at them, it was with such overwhelming goodness that Aubrey nearly wept. Then she dropped her gaze to her lap.

  Nestled in her hands was a golden heart.

  It was the size of a large man's fist. Its surface was dull, but it glowed with a lustre that was seemed to come from deep within.

  Aubrey's breath caught in his throat. A profound, slow pulse of magic was coming from the golden heart. It rippled outwards with the majesty of a deep ocean swell.

  'The soul of Gallia,' Sister Claire said. 'The Heart of Gold.'

  'I didn't know it was here,' Caroline murmured.'But it makes sense: the heart of the country residing in the middle of the country.'

  'We don't hide the fact, but we don't trumpet it about,' Sister Claire said. 'This is its rightful place.'

  Aubrey didn't like being nonplussed. But here he was, totally at a loss. He saw the rapt faces of the three women as they stared at the Heart of Gold.

  'I've never heard of it,' George said softly. For a moment, Aubrey regretted missing the chance to honestly profess his ignorance, but it passed.

  'My mother told me about it,' Caroline said. 'The legend is that Gallia will never fall as long as the Heart of Gold remains here.'

  'This chapel was here before the cathedral, at the very middle of Gallia,' Sister Claire said. 'Our convent, too. It is the duty of our order to hold the Heart of Gold, for it needs to be cradled by a living person. If it is parted from the presence of a human being, it will die and our nation will not endure.'

  George scratched his head. 'She must be older than she looks.'

  Sister Claire dimpled again. 'It is Sister Anne's turn now, but we take our duty in shifts, as you would say. Our order has provided an unbroken line of attendants for over eight hundred years.'

  'That must be reassuring,' Aubrey said. 'Especially in such troubled times.'

  'It means much to every Gallian to know that the Heart of Gold is with them. It is the basis of our nation, much more so than kings or queens or presidents. With it, Gallia endures.'

  Aubrey stared. He could feel its intense magic. He gnawed his lip and tried to banish the thought, but his mind kept circling it: What happens if it's lost?

  Sister Claire ushered them out.

  The cloisters were special, as she had promised. The regular, pointed arches opened onto a green sward bordered with rose bushes. They walked along the covered way, Sister Claire pointing out the garden of medicinal herbs on the eastern edge of the long convent building. It was a paradise for bees and they droned about engrossed in their labours. Caroline leaned down and picked a sprig of lavender. Aubrey enjoyed the soft fragrance of thyme and lemon balm. He followed Caroline's lead, but plucked rosemary instead and rolled it between his hands. The fresh, green woodiness tickled his nose.

  It was idyllic, restful. Aubrey began to forget his aches and weariness in the drowsy, herbal warmth.

  'Lovely,' he said.

  'It feels safe,' Caroline said. 'A refuge.'

  Aubrey was intrigued, but before he could question her a scream echoed along the cloistered way. Aubrey dropped the rosemary. 'It came from back there,' George said, already running.

  Sister Claire put a hand to her mouth. 'The Chapel of the Heart.'

  AUBREY HISSED WHEN HE ENTERED THE TINY CHAPEL, JUST after George. Lying on the floor, like a rag doll flung aside by an angry toddler, was Sister Anne. He rushed to her and knelt. Her eyes were closed, but she was breathing. Aubrey sagged with relief. A large bruise was already appearing on the almost translucent skin of her forehead, and she had torn nails on both hands. She'd been attacked, but had defended herself until she'd been rendered unconscious. He touched her neck, and was reassured by the steady pulse.

  'Sister Anne!' Sister Claire cried. Then she moaned. 'The Heart of Gold. It is gone.'

  Aubrey jerked around and saw the niche was empty. He rose and took a hesitant step towards it but then stopped himself. They couldn't have gone far, he thought. He pushed past George and out of the tiny chapel. A priest was hurrying along the corridor, grey-headed and serious. 'Did anyone pass you, Father?' Aubrey asked, in Gallian.

  The priest stepped back, startled. Aubrey grabbed his arm. 'I need to know, Father.'

  Aubrey's urgency made an impression on the priest. 'Three men. That way. Into the cathedral.'

  George and Caroline emerged from the chapel. 'In there, Father,' Aubrey said. 'A sister needs your help.' He gathered his friends. 'T
his way.'

  In the cathedral, all was quiet and solemn, apart from three figures moving with deliberate haste toward the nave. One was stooped, as if under a heavy weight, and the other two were helping him along.

  Aubrey did his best to hurry while still appearing reverential. Outright running didn't seem to be polite in a cathedral, but he was willing to risk it if necessary.

  The men they were following reached the elaborate tomb of the composer St Pierre, then, just before they rounded the corner into the main body of the church, one of them glanced over his shoulder. He had a close, dark beard, a remarkably broad face and wore an expensive-looking suit. He shook his stooped partner and then let the other two disappear around the outflung hand of the spirit of music.

  He rounded and waited for Aubrey and his friends to draw closer.

  Aubrey slowed. 'Magic!' he said, and pushed George and Caroline toward the rows of pews before lunging for them himself.

  He hit the floor and grimaced as skin was torn from his palm. In the narrow space between the pews, he rolled in time to see a searing violet globe spatter against the tomb of an obscure aristocrat. Instantly, the marble of the tomb twisted and stretched, as if caught in an updraft.

  Screams filled the cathedral. The sound of running feet echoed as every sightseer decided that they'd seen enough. Aubrey scrambled along the row, bruising his hands and knees. 'George, get to the aisle. Keep low and see if you can flank him.'

  'And me?' Caroline demanded.

  Aubrey knew that Caroline was a formidable opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Her father had insisted that she learn from the best. 'You don't have a pistol, do you?' She was also a crack shot.

  'Not at the moment.'

  'Pity. Go with George. I'll try to get him to focus on me. Take your chance if you get one.'

  George was already crawling toward the end of the pew. Caroline nodded and followed.

  Aubrey prepared himself. He needed something offensive, but something that wouldn't damage the cathedral. He was both heartened and dismayed by his adversary's first salvo. It was powerful, redolent with wild magic, but it was also loose and sloppy. It was the work of someone who didn't care about such niceties as limiting the range of effect or of using restrictions on duration. This was the heedless magic of someone who had power, but had been taught little wisdom or restraint.

  Aubrey ducked and peered under the seats of the pews. Someone wearing heavy boots was walking toward him.

  Aubrey bit his lip. He had to try some magic, but his failure back at the university had unnerved him. For someone who had always been able to wrestle with the most complex spells, such a stumble upset his understanding of who he was. His confidence had been shaken, and that was something he was unaccustomed to.

  Nothing extravagant, then, he thought. He launched a schoolboy spell, merely to keep his opponent occupied. It was so simple that only the most dullard of spell-casters messed it up and he ran through its elements, giving the final variable of intensity an extra twist.

  He grunted as it required more effort than he expected, but his concern was overtaken by a guttural shout. He peeped over the backrest of the pew. The black-suited man was wrapped in a stinking cloud, a putrid miasma that clung to him no matter how much he flailed and cursed.

  I know I'm going to regret this later, he thought, but by then he'd already sprung to his feet, then onto the seat of the pew. He barked the three syllables that cancelled the spell and launched himself at the man.

  The cloud had begun to evaporate, but when Aubrey collided with the figure inside, he caught a lungful of the rotten, sickening stench and instantly wished he was somewhere else. He tangled with the black-suited man and fell to the floor, trying to get in a few uppercuts along the way.

  Eyes streaming, Aubrey rolled over as his stomach tried to rush up his throat. He managed to get to all fours, a part of his brain readying for the kick he assumed would be delivered to his ribs.

  When it didn't come, he looked up and saw George grappling with their foe. Caroline slipped into Aubrey's watery vision as the bearded man roared and knocked George aside. George struck a marble pillar and sagged, winded. Their foe's eyes widened when he saw Caroline, then he sneered.

  She darted closer, then shot out a fist. It struck him just under the breastbone. His eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled.

  Caroline rubbed her knuckles, then helped Aubrey to his feet. 'Are you all right?'

  He wiped his eyes. 'I'll never think that stink bombs are harmless pranks. Not any more.'

  'I imagine not.'

  George limped over. 'The other two. I think they've got away.'

  Whistles sounded from outside. Aubrey had a premonition and was not disappointed when Inspector Paul rounded the corner, supported by a squad of burly constables. He studied Aubrey sourly.

  'I should have locked you away,' he said, in Albionish.

  Aubrey pointed at the unconscious bearded man at their feet. 'His cronies stole the Heart of Gold. If you're quick, you may be able to catch them.'

  'Do not attempt to teach me my business. I have matters in hand.' Inspector Paul motioned to the constables. 'Put them all in the wagon,' he said in Gallian.

  He bowed to Caroline. 'Except you, Miss Hepworth. You will come with me.'

  Aubrey sighed. 'What about this man? He's a magician, you know.'

  'The Bureau of Exceptional Investigations has been called and will take him into their custody.'

  The Bureau of Exceptional Investigations. Aubrey was intrigued, despite his discomfort. He wanted to see this equivalent of Albion's Magisterium.

  The constables were abrupt, but not rough as they marched Aubrey and George through the cathedral and out into the open air. A crowd had gathered and they were escorted through it to the waiting police wagons. With no ceremony, Aubrey and George were bundled into the nearest.

  Inside was a solitary figure, handcuffed and looking most displeased, stooped over and glowering.

  Aubrey grinned. 'Well, hello, Hugo! Fancy meeting you here!'

  Hugo von Stralick winced, then straightened with a smile. 'Ah, Fitzwilliam, Doyle. I see you've fallen foul of this misunderstanding, too.'

  'What have you been up to?' Aubrey asked.

  Von Stralick tried to shrug, but the manacles made the gesture awkward. 'I was simply trying to stop them, that's all.'

  'Stop who?' George asked.

  'The Holmlanders who stole the Heart of Gold.'

  Seven

  IT WAS THE ALBION AMBASSADOR HIMSELF, SIR PERCY Derringford, who was waiting with Inspector Paul when Aubrey and George were brought from the cells. A broad, silver-haired man, he scowled as if he'd been disturbed from a very fine dinner.

  'They are yours, Ambassador,' Inspector Paul said. 'From what the nun told us, it seems clear that they are not the perpetrators of the theft.'

  'Good of you, Inspector.'

  'Not at all.' Inspector Paul smoothed back his hair, even though it didn't need any adjustment. 'I do not say that these people are entirely innocent. Especially that one.' He gestured at Aubrey. 'But we feel it best to let them go – as long as they agree not to make this affair public. The authorities have decided that it would be unhelpful if the incident were widely known.'

  The Ambassador glared at Aubrey. 'I'll take them in hand.'

  Aubrey did his best to appear compliant. 'But before you do, sir, I have a question for the Inspector.' He hurried on before the Ambassador had a chance to deny this request. 'You've found the Heart of Gold? The thieves?'

  Inspector Paul stiffened. 'We are doing what we can. We have blocked all exits from the city to ensure the artefact doesn't leave.'

  'What's happening to von Stralick?'

  Sir Percy grunted. 'The Holmland spy? He's mixed up in this?'

  Inspector Paul glanced at Sir Percy, shrugged, then answered Aubrey 'We have questions for him, on a number of matters. Especially since the other Holmlander has died.'

  'The magician's dead
?'

  'He took his own life. By sorcerous means.'

  AT THE EMBASSY, SIR PERCY ORDERED AUBREY AND George to his office. After arriving at the conclusion that Caroline was a helpless party to the events, she'd been whisked off by maids before she could express her displeasure at the notion that she was helpless about anything.

  Aubrey and George, however, were castigated in the Ambassador's domain, a room full of such heavy, dark furniture that Aubrey guessed its maker had a fear that one day it might try to float away.

  Sir Percy's reprimand drew on his military background. It was pointed, forceful and colourful. It raised points about duty and responsibility and also dwelled on various character deficiencies that the Ambassador found personally repugnant. Standing next to George, in front of the monolithic desk, Aubrey was concerned at first, then grew irritated, then finally drifted into a state of admiration for Sir Percy's dogged inventiveness.

  The Ambassador didn't end with a flourish. He ended by fixing them with a grim eye. 'If I were your father, I wouldn't have you gallivanting about foreign parts like this.'

  Aubrey stiffened. He'd been prepared to endure the Ambassador's tirade, but he wasn't about to ignore this criticism of his father.

  'Sir Percy, I am here with the consent of both my father and my mother. They trust me – and George – to do the right thing. They are aware that I may make mistakes.' How could they not be? 'But they know that I will shirk neither my responsibility nor my duty.'

  'Now listen here, young Fitzwilliam –'

  Aubrey held up a hand. 'Not once have you asked what happened. Not once have you sought to find out the truth of the matter. That is your right, I suppose, but do not attempt to sully the reputation of my family for matters that concern me only. And my friends.' Damn, he thought. I was doing well until that lame ending.

  Sir Percy glared. 'Letters have arrived for you. Collect them from the Under-Consul on your way out.' He smiled coldly. 'A message from the Magisterium has arrived for you too.'