Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

'Oh?'

  'He is sure he can find a way to preserve his soul, to keep it from leaving this existence.'

  Aubrey's eyes widened at this. He looked toward the upper floors. 'Where is he?'

  'In his rooms. Fifth floor.'

  While Duval engaged Maurice in discussion about his storage plans, Aubrey took the opportunity to climb the stairs and look for Bernard.

  As he climbed, his magical awareness began to nag at him. He rubbed the back of his neck, then he felt pins and needles in his fingers. He supposed his reaction could simply be from the centuries of experimentation that had taken place in the building, but after his recent brushes with magic, he felt uneasy.

  After he passed the third-floor landing, cobwebs began to festoon the staircase, hanging from the balustrades in baroque displays of lacework. When he reached the fourth floor, he thought he could hear noises coming from above. He paused, listening, and gripped the iron handrail. A bright light flared, leaking from around one of the doors on the fifth floor. Aubrey was heartened. He had a destination.

  He reached the landing on the fifth floor. The staircase still went upwards. He wondered if it opened onto a rooftop observatory, a favoured relaxation place for magicians everywhere.

  Aubrey stopped, frowning. He smelled a sharp, chemical odour. And was that smoke in the air? Perhaps Monsieur Bernard still had enough skill to tinker with interesting magic.

  The light flared again from behind the door three places to his left. Aubrey started for it, but paused when the bright light seeped through the crack around the door again.

  He reached the door and eased it open, finding himself in a vestibule. It was crowded with boxes and Aubrey had to pick his way through them before he reached the door to the main room. With care, he opened it and stepped into a decidedly old-fashioned magician's workshop.

  The room was long with three tall, narrow windows on the southern side, one of which was bricked over. In the middle of the room were four benches. One was covered with glassware that Aubrey was sure would make an antique dealer very interested. Another had small slabs of timber, woodworking tools and a collection of copper bowls. The third and fourth were laden with alchemical material and diverse spell-making paraphernalia – chalk, flasks of mercury, powdered charcoal, ink, hammers and tongs. An elaborate light fitting hung from the centre of the ceiling, plates of silvered glass reflecting light about the room. Racks of shelves lined the walls, some containing books, others holding bottles and jars. Wherever there were no shelves, boxes were piled high. At the right side of the room, the racks were covered with a tattered piece of canvas. It was a traditional, conservative working place with no concession to modern magic at all.

  At one end of the room, past the benches, a huge man was sitting on a chair, gazing fixedly into the air. He wore an old-fashioned suit and he had one arm resting on a small table by his side. Behind him, billows of white canvas hung from the wall.

  Facing away from Aubrey, with all his attention on the corpulent man, was a photographer.

  Aubrey had observed George's dallying with photography, and had learned enough to see that this camera was a very strange contraption indeed. The tripod was standard equipment, but the camera itself was oddly proportioned, much wider than normal. The bellows which connected the lens and the plate box was rich leather while the woodwork was almost certainly mahogany. A metal shelf holding flash powder was attached to the right side of the camera by a moveable arm. Aubrey wondered at the purpose of the brass levers that protruded from the plate holder. The photographer was adjusting them with particular care.

  The photographer straightened, still unaware that Aubrey had entered the room. He was a small man, with a long topcoat. He wore a bowler hat so low that his eyebrows nearly touched the brim.

  'Now,' the photographer said in thick Gallian, 'your final photograph.'

  Aubrey cleared his throat. 'Hello.'

  The photographer jerked around. He was holding a photographic plate in one hand and a lit taper in the other. Aubrey had an impression of a moustached, wildeyed face with sharp cheekbones. His black hair hung long and unkempt, almost to his shoulders. The photographer stared at Aubrey with such astonishment that Aubrey almost laughed.

  The photographer narrowed his eyes and touched the taper to the flash powder. A brilliant flash of light erupted. Aubrey reeled back, clutching his eyes while purple bursts danced across his vision and his magical senses ran riot.

  He heard a curse, followed by clattering and fumbling, a crash and more swearing.

  Opening his eyes and squinting through the smoke of the flash powder, Aubrey saw the photographer swinging a large black bag at him.

  Aubrey ducked, rolled to one side and took a blow on his shoulder that made him grunt. His momentum combined with the blow to knock him forward, but as he fell he groped for his attacker. He grasped cloth, but with another curse it was yanked free.

  The pounding of feet on the iron walkway signalled the flight of his assailant down through the tower.

  Rubbing his shoulder, Aubrey climbed to his feet. He limped through the vestibule and out onto the walkway, wondering what had provoked such a reaction.

  Below, clanging pell-mell down the stairway, as if all the fiends of hell were after him, was the photographer. He held his large black bag in one hand and he carried a long case on his shoulder.

  The photographer looked up and saw Aubrey peering down at him, then he was off again. He pushed past Duval and Maurice, who'd come to see what all the din was about.

  Aubrey went to the railing. 'A madman,' he called.

  Maurice screwed up his face. 'This place has seen plenty of them.'

  Wincing, Aubrey rubbed his shoulder again. He'd have a good-sized bruise, he guessed, right underneath the shoulder blade. As the discomfort eased, however, he became aware of another sensation – the rasping of magic.

  He stared back at the workshop, his heart beginning to race. A deep moan came from the open door and his chest was suddenly tight with fear.

  A large, blundering shape filled the doorway. It swayed, then pawed at the air, muttering. When it stepped out of the darkness, Aubrey saw it was the fat man who'd been posing for his photograph. His vast belly was a bulwark in front of him.

  Then Aubrey saw his face. Slack, blank-eyed, devoid of all intelligence, it was the tell-tale visage of one who had been visited by the Soul Stealer.

  A Gallian wail came from Maurice two floors below. 'Monsieur Bernard! What has happened to you?'

  Aubrey flexed his hands. Bernard slowly heaved his great bulk to face him, and his moans turned to growls. With an effort, as if his body was slow to follow commands, he moved toward Aubrey, swinging his arms like clubs.

  Aubrey skated backward, then turned and ran. He circled the walkway, and Bernard came after him with the awkwardness that seemed to come with the dispossessed state. Aubrey was confident that he could keep his distance.

  Bernard – or the creature who had once been Bernard – growled and coughed, staggering from wall to railing, making rough, haphazard progress.

  Aubrey could have lured Bernard further, then sprinted around to the stairs, but he continued backing away, weighing up his options.

  With his state deteriorating again, he needed to find a way to stabilise his condition. He'd been hoping, deep down, that in the Faculty of Magic he'd find something that could help. Maurice had hinted at Monsieur Bernard's work in preserving life. Could the last magician in the faculty be Aubrey's saviour?

  But he won't be any help at all in this condition, Aubrey thought as he kept his eye on the mindless brute Monsieur Bernard had become.

  As if to emphasise Aubrey's thoughts, Bernard tottered to one side and collided with a door. It rattled under the impact and he swiped at it with a flat backhand.

  Noise from the stairs made him look in that direction. Maurice stood on the staircase, appalled at what had happened to his master. Duval was below him, staring, equally horror-struck.

  'D
on't let him see you,' Aubrey called.

  'What are you going to do?' Duval replied.

  'What's in his room, Maurice?'

  Maurice ran a hand through his stringy hair. 'Magical equipment. Books. Things he has collected over the years. He's never thrown anything away.'

  I hope that's the case, Aubrey thought. 'I'm going to entice him back there. Then I'll help him.'

  Duval gaped. 'You're a magician?'

  'Yes.'

  'What can we do?'

  'Be ready if I call.'

  Despite the weariness that dogged him, Aubrey ran for Bernard's workshop. He burst through the vestibule and into the main workshop. He stood directly under the mirrored light fitting and gazed around. A magician's workshop was the perfect resource for improvisation, so he had no shortage of useful stuff. While he thought, he pocketed a small box of rubber bands and a glue pot.

  Behind him, Bernard's growls grew louder, followed by the sound of boxes tumbling on top of each other. Aubrey slipped around the first workbench, putting it between himself and the door. Keeping one eye on the entrance, he searched the bench and tried to form a plan.

  He could try immobilising Bernard with his standard binding spell. As long as it's strong enough for such a behemoth, he thought when he took in the enormous bulk of the man framed in the doorway. He riffled through the spells and fragments of enchantments he'd learned, seeking something useful, but with the nagging doubt that came from the spell failure he'd experienced with even the simple binding spell.

  He needed to restore Bernard's senses if the magician was to be of any assistance. To do that, he'd have to establish exactly what was wrong with the man. For a wild instant, he grinned at his calmness. This was turning into a rational investigation in the best manner of modern magic. Test, observe, hypothesise, even while being menaced by a mindless creature intent on mayhem.

  Bernard stumbled into the workshop, each footstep a ponderous one. His face was somehow both empty and cunning.

  Quickly, Aubrey decided that Bernard didn't look like a docile experimental subject at all. He resolved to postpone a methodical examination until later, when he wasn't in danger of being torn apart.

  Aubrey gathered himself, determined not to mess up this casting, and chanted the binding spell, twice in quick succession. Twin glowing ribbons flew across the room, one hobbling Bernard's feet and the other looping over his head to trammel his arms.

  Aubrey was dismayed when Bernard managed to wrench one arm free, but as he struggled, it gave Aubrey a chance to snatch some chalk from the workbench. He edged past Bernard until he was directly behind him, in the alcove formed by the vestibule projecting into the room. Here Aubrey found the clear floor area that was vital in any magician's workshop. He dropped to his knees and hurriedly swept the dust away with a hand to find faint traces of chalk marks.

  A roar and a crash made Aubrey's head jerk up. Bernard had managed to burst free of the glowing loop around his arm and chest, but his flailing combined with the binding on his feet had sent him sprawling against the workbench. A pile of glass photographic plates toppled and smashed, tins of powder sprayed and a wooden elephant marched up and down on the bench while playing a fanfare through its trunk. Bernard sprawled in this wreck, thrashing and managing to tangle himself in a large spring he'd dislodged from a brass orrery on the bench.

  Concentrate! Aubrey told himself. He tried to work swiftly but methodically as he drew a simple restraining diagram. All he had time for was a straightforward double ring of chalk on the floor, but he strove to make up for its deficiencies, chanting while he inscribed, throwing together variables of integrity, volume and duration. His palms were sweating, and a monstrous headache pounded behind his temples, but he kept his grip on the chalk, not wanting any irregularity in the double lines. He joined the loop together and stood, the completed ring between him and Bernard. Aubrey waved to attract his attention.

  Bernard had freed himself from the tangle of glassware and wire. His legs were free of the last glowing loop. Green oil dripped from one of his arms, but he didn't seem to notice. He turned, searching, in a complete circle, kicking aside a flat metal bowl which spun on its rim, but it was only when he noticed Aubrey's waving that he fixed on his target and started in that direction.

  Aubrey's head pounded as Bernard came closer to the trap. In a few more paces he'd step into the ring and Aubrey would have him, safe and locked up.

  Aubrey froze. He stared at the diagram on the floor, stunned at his ineptitude. He'd made a novice's mistake and not left a gap in the ring. Bernard wouldn't be able to get inside.

  With Bernard only a few feet away, Aubrey leaped across the ring and broke the chalk line with his foot. The gap was small, but he gambled that it was enough of an interruption to the integrity of the restraining figure.

  Aubrey retreated, using himself as bait. Bernard didn't hesitate. He lifted his massive leg and stepped into the circle.

  Aubrey twisted and backed away as Bernard pawed at him, ending up outside the ring, pressed against the wall. With a shake of his head, he realised that this time he had literally backed himself into a corner.

  Chalk still in hand, he pushed off the wall and into a forward roll that evaded Bernard's grasp. He somersaulted to his feet, dizzily, to see Bernard's vast back, like a cliff, in front of him. He bent and with a few quick slashes of chalk he sealed the gap in the ring. He straightened, panting and feeling sick. Bernard was trapped.

  He hoped.

  Bernard turned, seeking his prey. He swayed from side to side, then tottered toward Aubrey, but when he reached the confines of the ring he jolted to a halt, as if he'd run into a sheet of glass. He edged sideways, but still couldn't step over the chalk line. His growl changed to a desperate moan as he worked his way right around the ring until he was facing Aubrey again.

  Aubrey felt sorry for the mindless Bernard. Or was it still Bernard, he wondered. If you take enough away from a person, is it a person any more? He shuddered at the implications.

  He chanted his binding spell again, summoning the glowing ribbons. Unimpressed with their flimsiness, he took a rubber band and the glue pot from his pocket. He improvised a spell which drew on the Law of Transference and the Law of Essence. He wanted to use the stickiness of the glue and the elasticity of the rubber band to improve the effect of the spell, but he faltered. He was weaker than he had been at the university, when his spell attempt had failed. Should he be attempting something so complex while he was exhausted and aching?

  Self-belief was matched against self-doubt. Aubrey was heartened when self-belief won by an innings and a handful of runs. He launched into the spell, hands curled into fists of determination.

  He sighed with relief when the glowing loops behaved as he'd hoped. Bernard struggled with the bonds, but where he'd been able to rip the previous effort apart, this time the bands stretched then snapped back, frustrating his attempts. And the more he struggled, the more his limbs clung to each other as the stickiness went to work.

  Soon, Bernard was snared in multiple glowing ribbons, contorted awkwardly with his arms wrapped around his body. He wobbled for a moment, then toppled, landing on his back with a crash that shook the whole workshop.

  Aubrey let out a long, thankful breath. His hands trembled. Dizziness swept through him until he reached out and steadied himself against the wall. He'd exerted himself and he knew that this was hastening the deterioration of his condition. He ran his fingers through his hair and was stunned when clumps came loose.

  He stared at the dull, black strands. He was falling apart.

  Wearily, he dropped to his knees. He crawled to Bernard's side to find that the magician's struggles had lessened. He lay almost motionless, his blank gaze on the ceiling.

  Aubrey placed an open hand on Bernard's chest and extended his magical awareness. Then he drew back at what he found.

  It looked like a person, but the creature was a shell. It explained the violence of Monsieur Jordan and the poor
woman at the university. Only the basest, primeval instincts were left to animate the body. Defensive and violent, reacting aggressively to what they dimly perceived, they lashed out like animals.

  Full of pity, Aubrey stared at the old magician. Bernard's soul was gone – and yet his body survived.

  Aubrey shook his head. Without a soul, Bernard should be dead. His soul, once severed from his body, should have fled through the portal that led to the true death. Of all people, Aubrey knew that. Then how was this thing still alive – if it could be called life?

  Pieces came together in Aubrey's mind, falling into place with inarguable elegance. The photographer. The magical aura that came when the flash powder erupted. Monsieur Bernard's state. The Soul Stealer.

  The photographer was the Soul Stealer. Somehow, he'd discovered a way to divorce souls from bodies without incurring the true death. Excited, Aubrey realised that if he could find out how, he may be able to gain some insights into the relationship between body and soul that he could use to help himself.

  He sat back on his haunches sifting through the possibilities. While he hummed, something caught his eye. On the floor near the chair Bernard had been posing in was a photographic plate.

  Aubrey thought back to the moment he entered the workshop. He'd cleared his throat, noise, confusion, bright light, magic flaring, and then the sound of . . .

  The Soul Stealer had dropped something. He'd panicked and then he'd dropped something.

  Aubrey rose, wincing at pain in his knees, and limped to the plate. He studied it where it lay for a moment. Then, carefully, he picked it up.

  It fairly vibrated with magic. Aubrey frowned as the tips of his fingers hurt. It was a kind of magic he'd never encountered before. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. The gelatin on the plate was imbued with unfamiliar substances. The smell was harsh and faintly rotten.

  He held the plate up to the light and gasped.

  The backdrop, the chair and the vase stand were all clear and perfectly in focus. As a still life, it was a fine photograph. Every fold in the cloth was articulated, every board in the floor was sharp and in focus. But the main figure in the composition – Bernard – was grey and translucent. The backrest of the chair was easily seen through his ghostly form as he sat, with an expression of pure horror on his face.