'Good Lord,' George said. 'A bull in the middle of Lutetia.'
'Aurochs,' Aubrey said. He was pleased at how calm his voice was. 'It's not a bull, it's an aurochs.'
'Aurochs,' Caroline repeated. Police were scattering, throwing themselves out of the path of the furious creature. It swung its wicked horns from side to side, bellowing, and the way opened in front of it.
'The ancestor of modern cattle. Huge, wild, dangerous. Extinct now, of course. Last one died in West Faldenland about five hundred years ago.'
'Five hundred years ago?' George said. 'Then what's one doing here, throwing Lutetian police around like chaff?'
'You ask that as if you expect me to have an answer.'
'You usually do, old man.'
Caroline tapped her cheek with a finger. 'Bears, aurochs, buildings disappearing. I don't recall the guidebooks mentioning this sort of thing as a feature of Lutetia.'
'No. This is out of the ordinary, I feel confident we can say that.'
'Magic, then?' Caroline said.
Aubrey was slow in replying. Much was going on here, but none of it was clear. 'I'd say so, but it's a kind I'm not familiar with.' A disturbing, unsettled magic, he thought, and potentially very dangerous.
The aurochs finally burst through the last of the police cordon. Blue uniforms stumbled aside, then it made off down the road with police chasing at a respectable, and safe, distance.
'Are you saying that's a magical bull?' George said.
'An aurochs.' Aubrey opened the door of the lorry. 'As it went past, I definitely felt magic at work.'
'Where are you off to?' George asked, his door already half-open.
'Intelligence gathering.' He struck a pose – hand on his chest, shoulders back, head up. 'When the fog of war is at its worst, information is the beacon to light your way.'
'Another gem of wisdom from the Scholar Tan?' George asked as he joined Aubrey on the pavement.
'Naturally.'
Caroline slid from the lorry and joined them. 'You're not leaving me behind.'
Aubrey didn't argue. He thought she looked exotic and formidable in her fighting outfit. If there were any city in which she could openly wear such a garment, it was Lutetia, with its thespians, artists and assorted savants, entertainers and dignitaries from far-flung lands. Lutetian citizens were notoriously blasé about costumes that would shock the good folk in Albion.
'Now, at four o'clock in the morning, after surviving a riot at a political rally, a bear attack and being shot at in a dirigible hangar, shall we take a stroll to see what we can find out from a suspicious police inspector?'
When Caroline took the arm he offered, he was delighted. 'Thank you,' she said gravely, nodding, as if he'd asked her to accompany him on a promenade in the park.
Together, they set off, with George chuckling behind them.
'Constable,' Aubrey said in his best Gallian to the officer behind the remains of the barricade. 'I need to see Inspector Paul.'
Aubrey decided that the constable had long ago chosen the police force because he thought he'd look good in a uniform. Then he'd spent the next forty years regretting his decision. He eyed Aubrey. 'Yes? And why would he be bothered talking to you?'
'Because I am the son of Sir Darius Fitzwilliam, the Prime Minister of Albion.'
The constable blinked, then looked Aubrey up and down. Aubrey could read his thoughts on his unshaven face and it came as no surprise when he finally decided that it would be safest to pass the Albionish troublemaker on to someone more senior. 'Follow me.'
It grated on Aubrey, having to use his father's name and position. As they made their way through the police, he promised himself that one day, Sir Darius would be known as the father of the famous Aubrey Fitzwilliam, rather than the other way around.
By the time they reached Inspector Paul another suspect was being questioned – a whey-faced young man with bulging eyes.
Aubrey greeted the Inspector in Gallian. 'Inspector. Are you busy?'
'Fitzwilliam. What are you doing here?' Inspector Paul gathered himself and bowed. 'Miss Hepworth.' He stared at, but didn't remark on, her outfit. As an afterthought, he nodded at George. 'Doyle.'
Aubrey saw dark circles under Inspector Paul's eyes. 'You've been working hard.'
Inspector Paul straightened his cap. He twirled his pencil, then flipped it upside down and tapped the blunt end on his notebook. 'The entire police force is busy,' he allowed. 'Much is happening. Now, what do you want?'
Aubrey eased into his work. He enjoyed this sort of sparring, seeing it as something like fencing – advancing, deflecting, feinting, thrusting where appropriate. 'I thought you might like some news, something that your colleagues might not know yet.'
Aubrey had guessed that Inspector Paul's ambitions were being thwarted by the eternal politicking of the Inspectorate, where commissions and advancement depended more on connections and patronage than on ability. He saw Paul's frustrations and sympathised. The Inspector was a competent man. If Aubrey could help him while helping himself, then he was happy to do it. 'There is an airfield to the north-west of the city,' he said.
Inspector Paul's eyebrows rose. 'Take him to the station,' he said to his men in Gallian. 'Find out what he knows. Do not harm him, but brook no nonsense.'
The two burly officers bustled their charge toward a police wagon.
Now they were in a bubble of solitude. About forty yards away to the east, medics had set up a station and were attending to those injured by the charge of the aurochs. Most of the police had clustered there, smoking and laughing at those who'd been hurt, as if it was their bravery that had saved them from being trampled rather than luck.
To the west, the barricades were manned again. Constables were talking to a group of elderly gentlemen who were staring with dismay at the Academy of Sciences. Behind them, two or three men with notebooks were scribbling furiously. Journalists, Aubrey thought, and this was confirmed when a motorcar screeched up. A photographer leapt out and, in an instant, had a camera mounted on a tripod. For a split second, a flash of brilliant white light turned the darkened street into daylight. Aubrey tensed, but the photographer was evidently of the mundane variety, for the police – after blinking – went about their duties unharmed.
'So,' Inspector Paul said, in a low voice. He'd pocketed his notebook, but he still held his pencil. 'What dirigible field are you talking about? The Lutetian airfield is south of the city, as everyone knows.'
'Well, you'd hardly keep experimental airship designs at the public airfield, would you? Prying eyes and all that.'
Inspector Paul studied Aubrey for a moment. 'Come with me.' When Caroline and George followed, he held up a hand. 'Please. I wish to speak to him alone.'
Caroline shook her head. 'I don't think so. We were at this airfield together. We all saw the sabotage.'
'Sabotage?' Inspector Paul raised an eyebrow. 'Very well.'
He took them to the middle of the crossroads, well away from the scene of activity that had once been the Academy of Sciences, the queen of Fortitude Street. In the other direction, Charity Avenue led to the heart of the city.
'Now no-one will overhear us,' Inspector Paul said.
'Wait,' Aubrey said. Despite his tiredness, he called his muffling spell to mind. He held up a hand and began to roll out the elements, but was dismayed when he stumbled over a simple nexus-defining term.
'Old man?' George said.
'Sorry,' Aubrey said. 'Seems I'm rather more tired than I thought.' He took a deep breath. 'I'm sure we won't be heard here anyway.'
Caroline frowned. 'Are you all right?'
'Of course. It's been a long day, that's all.'
Inspector Paul shrugged. 'Tell me about this mythical airfield.'
'One of your experimental airships has been lost.'
'Why should I believe you?'
'I saved Captain Saltin's life in Albion. He will vouch for me.'
Inspector Paul sucked air in through his tee
th. 'Saltin? Is he back on duty already?'
Aubrey liked his opponents to be on the back foot, so he followed this with another short-pitched delivery. 'And how does a police inspector know about personnel in the Dirigible Corps?'
Inspector Paul's face hardened. 'I have a cousin who works at the St Martin airfield.' He clamped his lips together. 'It is no matter. You say that there has been destruction?'
'Much destruction. I'm sure the police will be asked to investigate. And be on the lookout for a bear.'
'A bear? There are no bears in Gallia.'
Aubrey shrugged. 'Your men were just run down by an ox from the dawn of time and you think a bear is impossible?'
The Inspector made a note in his journal. 'I will investigate this.'
Aubrey knew the Inspector would be in a hurry to get back to headquarters to make the most of his information.' Now that I've told you something, I hope you will be able to help me in return.'
'What is it?'
Aubrey pointed at the Academy of Sciences. 'What have you found out about this?'
The Inspector scowled. 'You see the green jackets? They are from our Bureau of Exceptional Investigations.' Two men wearing the anonymous dark-green uniforms were standing near one of the pillars at the front of the building. They were rubbing their hands against the pediment.
Aubrey could see the ambivalence that Inspector Paul felt for his magician colleagues. 'What have they told you?'
'Very little. But they say that the building was affected by a very powerful magical artefact.' Inspector Paul looked keenly at Aubrey. 'They would give me no details, but I think we know what they were talking about.'
'They say it was here?'
'They were not sure. It may simply be that, having been dislocated from its resting place, it is affecting the city in erratic ways. I have reports of deranged men, running around breaking street lights. Another was arrested trying to cut down the bells in the church of St Catherine.'
Aubrey had a final thought. 'Have you any news about the Soul Stealer?'
Inspector Paul rolled his eyes. 'This photographer is not as important as other matters. He can wait.'
I hope you're right, Aubrey thought, but he had a nagging suspicion otherwise. He held out his hand. 'Thank you, Inspector. Good luck.'
They shook. 'I think we should stay in touch, no?'
'Yes.'
THEY DECIDED TO LEAVE THE LORRY WHERE IT WAS. THE police would be bound to notice it sooner or later and return it to the airfield. As George, Caroline and Aubrey walked through the quiet streets, he wondered about Saltin and hoped the airman had not been hurt again. He liked Saltin, with his passion for the airships.
At one point, they were followed by a pack of mongrel dogs that appeared from nowhere. Growling, they advanced until driven off by a few stones, well thrown by George.
They reached the Isle of the Crown and Caroline's apartment building. She stood at the door and studied them, seriously. 'I suppose I'm committed, now.'
'I beg your pardon?' Aubrey said.
'I may as well see this thing through, now that my studies have been taken from me.'
Aubrey started guiltily, but managed to hide it with a yawn. 'Sorry. Of course, we'd be glad to have you along, wouldn't we, George?'
George played a straight bat to this. 'Of course.'
Caroline nodded. 'You're not the only one who's tantalised by a mystery, Aubrey. Besides, I'm finding this sort of thing has some appeal. I may have to talk seriously to the Special Services.'
'What about your science studies?'
'I'm not saying I've made up my mind yet. About anything.'
With that, she was through the door and closed it behind her.
George shook his head. 'You know, old man, if I were you –'
'Don't finish that sentence, George. Please.'
'My advice on romance has been sought by thousands, you know.'
'Thousands?'
'Metaphorically speaking.'
'I see. That's where "thousands" is a metaphor for "none", is it?'
'What a hurtful thing to say,' George responded, grinning. 'As a result, I'll leave you to your own devices.'
'An entirely satisfactory state of affairs.'
Eleven
THE TWO HOURS AUBREY HAD IN BED WERE NOT restful at all. Sleep fled from him, and instead, he was plucked and pummelled by worry.
His fatigue and weakness were steadily growing, but he'd had enough experience to feel that he could force himself on despite them. The other signs were more disquieting. His appetite was still a stranger to him, and he was sure he'd lost weight. His senses of taste and smell had diminished. He had lost more hair. The rough and flaking skin had spread up his arms, across his chest and shoulders.
Most worrying of all was the impaired healing. In the early morning light, he examined the slash on the base of his thumb. Having removed the tightly bound handkerchief, he noted, gloomily, that although the bleeding had slowed, it hadn't stopped.
That's not what I need at all, he thought. He found a clean handkerchief and rebound the wound.
He crossed the room on unsteady legs and stood at the washstand. He shuddered at the pale, drawn face he saw in the mirror. His eyes were dull, and was that a patch of flaking skin on his neck?
He dashed water on his face. He dressed, wearing a starched high-collared shirt despite the discomfort. He tucked Bernard's journal into his jacket pocket in the hope that he'd find some time to decipher the writings.
For a moment, Aubrey rested his head on the brass bed post. Deep down, he'd always been confident he'd find a remedy for his condition. It was just another puzzle to solve, after all. Some hard work, some flashes of insight, and he'd triumph, snatching victory when all seemed lost.
Now, however, time was proving to be a more difficult opponent than he'd thought. It was racing away, leaving him more debilitated as the hours ticked by.
With a chill that began in his heart and worked its way outwards, Aubrey realised that perhaps things weren't going to be all right this time. He could do nothing other than press on with the plans he'd formulated during the sleepless hours, but the consequences of failure were looming as more than something to be put in a box and marked 'possible outcome'.
If he couldn't stop his deterioration, he would die the true death.
Sobered, and more than a little shaken, he went downstairs, thinking hard.
Madame Calvert was finishing her breakfast when he arrived downstairs. She handed him a letter. 'It came last night. From the embassy. And a Miss Hepworth rang. She said she couldn't go with you today as her mother needed her for more modelling. She apologised and asked if she could join you tomorrow morning. A polite young lady.'
Aubrey nodded. In a way, he was glad. His plans for the day included something he'd rather Caroline not see.
Aubrey read the letter and, dimly, noted he couldn't smell the cup of coffee Madame Calvert had placed in front of him.
The letter was from his mother and it gently but firmly prompted him for some progress in his seeking of Dr Romellier. He read it guiltily, but then considered the status of his commitments.
He decided that George had made some dent in the genealogy quest for Bertie, and while he didn't have his grandmother's letters in his possession, he had a promising avenue of investigation to follow, with Monsieur Caron having promised to bring the letters to his shop. That made two tasks where he could firmly say some headway had been made.
George walked through the door, yawning. 'Morning, old man. Busy day ahead?'
'Not if we had an army of servants at our disposal. But seeing as there's only us, it promises to be full and interesting.'
'Splendid. Sounds as if I should make sure I'm well fed before setting out.'
'Of course.' Aubrey sighed and laced his hands on his chest. 'I'm going to do something about my condition.'
'Excellent. Not before time, I'd say.' George gestured at the empty plate in front of Aubrey. 'You're no
t eating.'
'No. I can't.'
'Ah. That bad, is it?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Then we must get you fixed up, straightaway.'
Aubrey watched his friend stow away an astonishing amount of food. He admired the gusto with which George attacked the pastries, rolls, cheese and fruit. He was full of life, practically vibrating with it, and Aubrey felt envious.
When they finally left the apartment building, Aubrey was taken aback to find Gabriel propped against a lamp post at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for them. A poster promising unspecified disaster had been pasted on a letter box and Gabriel was eyeing it moodily. He was accompanied by four substantial colleagues, none of whom looked as if he would be much use in a battle of wits. Freestyle brawling, however, would be a different matter.
'Fitzwilliam,' Gabriel said in Gallian. 'You say that you're interested in supporting our movement, do you?' He spoke as if their conversation of the previous evening hadn't been interrupted by a bear attack and an exploding dirigible.
Aubrey had a vision of his plans for the day torn into confetti and thrown into the air. 'Albion has an interest in a stable continent,' he replied, carefully.
'Excellent.' Gabriel slapped his thigh as if Aubrey had just pledged his fortune to the cause. 'To test your commitment, however, we have a task for you. To prove yourself.'
Aubrey narrowed his eyes. What sort of proof of loyalty would Gabriel want? Something illegal would be useful, putting a new recruit apart from normal society, binding them closely to the organisation as the only place that would have them.
'If you doubt our word . . .' Aubrey said.
'Actions speak louder than words. Come.'
George caught Aubrey's eye. 'Old man?'
'We're going with them.'
'D'you think that's wise? Don't you have something urgent to do?'
With Gabriel looking suspiciously at him, Aubrey shook his head. 'This is more important. I'm sure that other matter can wait.'
George didn't look convinced. 'I hope you know what you're doing.'
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