Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

'Easy, Aubrey. Calm. You'll fluff your spell if you keep this up.'

  'You're right.' He took a breath and held it for a moment before releasing it. 'Now,' he said and managed to tip backward. His heart was in his mouth for an instant, then George's firm hands caught him. Gently, he was settled onto the floor.

  'I'm not touching the diagram?' he asked.

  'You're snug and tidy. Ready to go.'

  'Good. Stand back, George.'

  'Good luck.'

  Aubrey took another deep breath and began Monsieur Bernard's spell.

  As soon as the first syllables left his lips, he began to have a sense of double vision. The room was still yellow tinged from the veil of cloth of gold, but everything – walls, benches, windows – had an overlay, a subtle outline that shifted in and out on the edge of perception. Then, as he worked through the Etruscan syllables that itemised elements of intensity, dimension and resilience, the portal that led to the true death began to appear.

  It took all Aubrey's willpower not to stutter or pause in the rolling cadences of the spell. The portal that led from this world to the other was hanging in the air at the end of the room, a rectangle twice the height of a man, featureless except for the churning greyness it opened onto.

  Plunging right through it was the golden cord, the mystical bond that united body and soul. Aubrey felt it tugging on his soul, a summons that was hard to resist.

  Aubrey averted his eyes. He spoke the element of the spell that delineated the frequency of the spell (once!) then the awkward guttural items of affinity (the cloth of gold and the golden cord) before coming to the last element.

  The final element in most spells was the equivalent of a signature. It was a flourish that identified the originator of the spell, and any magicians who subsequently added to or revised the spell. With this spell, the final syllable belonged to Monsieur Bernard alone. Aubrey pronounced it with care, and wished that he'd known the lonely magician better, before adding a tiny syllable of his own, signifying his revisions to the spell.

  Immediately, Aubrey was jerked rigid, his limbs and spine stiffening. All his muscles strained and he arched until only his head and his heels touched the floor. Then, on the verge of panic, he felt pressure on every inch of his body. In a moment of terror, he thought he was going to be crushed, then the pressure disappeared and was replaced by an exquisite stinging as if a thousand razors danced on his skin. He was poised there in a blinding symphony of pain, his body throbbing.

  Then it was gone.

  He heard George give a startled cry, then his friend's face swam into view, sharp and clear. Impressions beat at him – chalk dust on one of George's eyebrows, the way the light caught a crack in the ceiling above him, the faint, oily odour of the cloth of gold, a train whistle in the distance – all demanding his attention at once. An almost holy exhilaration seized him and he had a brief instant's concern that the top of his head would fly off with joy. He trembled, not with exhaustion this time, but revelling in the strong, vibrant interconnectedness of muscle, tendon, nerve and bone. He breathed and almost swooned at the simple rhythm of life.

  He squinted, then opened his eyes fully. His vision was normal again. The yellow tinge had gone.

  Aubrey shrugged and grinned wholeheartedly. He sat up in one smooth, unhurried motion. His head frothed and bubbled and he had to steady himself with a hand on the floor. For a moment he was lost in its fine, woody texture. It smelled of polish and dust, a heady, intoxicating aroma.

  He could smell again.

  'George.'

  'Aubrey. Old man. It worked?'

  'It would seem so.' He felt like shouting, dancing a jig, doing handstands and cartwheels. He was alive!

  George rubbed a hand over his face, then looked away for a moment. 'Good, good.' He coughed and cleared his throat. 'The cloth of gold's gone.'

  Aubrey plucked at his chest. 'It's not gone, George. If the spell worked properly, it's just become part of me.'

  Thirteen

  AUBREY SAT ON A WORKBENCH, KICKING HIS FEET, AND took a few moments to compose himself. George fussed about, clearly not convinced by his friend's protestations that he was feeling well.

  Aubrey alternated between grinning and beaming. His aches had vanished and he felt full of vigour. He unwrapped the makeshift bandage from his hand to see that the cut had stopped bleeding and was crusting over nicely. His tongue told him that his gum tenderness was gone and his teeth were solid in their sockets once again.

  Humming, he used his magical sense to probe his condition and nodded with satisfaction. His body and soul were swaddled in subtle, shimmering gold; he looked as if he were actually glowing. He chuckled and wondered if this was the aura that magicians in olden times sometimes reported. It seemed to be working, for he could find no trace of the golden cord which had been his constant companion, tugging his soul toward the true death. He felt strong and whole again.

  Aubrey was both relieved and exultant. He'd challenged the unknown, the dark edges of magical theory, and he'd survived. Not only survived, but triumphed.

  He clapped his hands together and barely restrained himself from repeating the action, just to experience the sharp sensation again. 'Success, George.'

  'You're better?'

  'It seems so. For now. As far as I can tell.'

  'I'm glad to hear you so certain. D'you think it will last?'

  'I don't know.' Aubrey jumped off the bench. He raised his hands over his head, stretching. His spine popped and he enjoyed the feeling. 'So that's all the more reason to get moving and find this Heart of Gold.'

  He went from the workshop to the spiral staircase. 'Now, I have an idea,' he said, then seized the balustrade and vaulted up the stairs two at a time.

  George followed with a groan. 'You must be feeling better. You're having ideas again.'

  'I'm fizzing with them, George,' Aubrey said as he clattered up the stairs. 'And this is a top class idea, one of the best I've had for a while.'

  Aubrey reached the turret at the top of the tower. He had a moment of vertigo when he stepped onto the iron walkway, tottering until he braced himself against the windows that ran right around the perimeter of the room.

  The tower was leaning slightly, tilting so that Aubrey felt as if he were looking down on the buildings below. He could see the university grounds, Conscientiousness Street and the nearby bakeries where a grocer's delivery cart was overtaking a street sweeper who was battling with a backed-up drain. On the other side of that was a peculiar gap in a row of houses, as if a rotten tooth had been pulled. Aubrey was puzzled and tried to see more, but all he could make out was a dark hole in the ground.

  The windows collected light and funnelled it into the depths of the tower through the central shaft of the staircase. The turret was also the observatory and watchtower so often found in these ancient magicians' strongholds. Overhead were the massive hinges that would allow the roof to open for unfettered access to the night sky.

  George joined him, gulping as his feet skated on the iron walkway. He propped himself against a window frame. 'I say, old man, this isn't about to fall down, is it?'

  'It's lasted hundreds of years, George. We'd be a mite unlucky if it decided to collapse right now.'

  Aubrey hummed to himself, adjusting his position as the ancient tower creaked and groaned. He inched along, carefully, keeping on the balls of his feet.

  George rubbed his chin. He glanced at Aubrey. 'Is this place moving?'

  'Yes. Hold on . . .'

  Aubrey's magical awareness had warned him, so when the tower lurched to one side he had a good grip on one of the wooden window frames. Secure, he flung out a hand and caught George's arm to prevent his friend from toppling into the stairwell.

  'Thanks, old man.' George straightened his jacket. 'Is this what Maurice was talking about?'

  Aubrey nodded. 'This place is questing. It's attuned to magic, and as a result it's nosing in the direction of the most powerful magic there is.'

  'The He
art of Gold.' George's brow wrinkled. 'Why wasn't this place pointing at the Chapel of the Heart, then?'

  'I'd say that the disturbance is responsible. Once the Heart of Gold was wrenched from the place it had been for centuries, the tower responded to it. The Heart of Gold is on the move, it seems, and the tower is tending toward it.' Aubrey pointed through the window in the direction the tower was leaning. 'We can use it, George, like a bloodhound.'

  George stared out over the roofs, steeples and towers of Lutetia. 'If we trace a line that way, the Heart of Gold is out there?'

  Aubrey was slow in answering as he worked through the implications. 'The Heart of Gold will be out there in that direction, but how far in that direction? If we follow that line out to the horizon, we're bound to find it, but that's hardly practical.'

  George's face fell. 'That's a lot of Lutetia out there.'

  'Unless we can repeat this from another location.' Aubrey stared out at the metropolis. 'Trace a line of yearning from here, then do it again from another place. The two lines will intersect and there will be the Heart of Gallia.'

  'Dashed clever, Aubrey, but how are we going to get a second bearing? We can't exactly shift the tower a few miles to the right.'

  'First of all, we need a map of the city. While you find one, I'll take care of the rest.'

  'Find a map?'

  'Use your initiative, George.'

  George was blank for a moment, then held up a finger. 'I'll be back before you know it.'

  After George went down the stairs, Aubrey shifted his attention to the tower.

  He knelt and placed a hand on the brick wall underneath the nearest window. He closed his eyes and felt the magic that had soaked into it. It was a stew of countless spell fragments combining to give the tower its uncanny sensitivity.

  Aubrey knew that, in the right circumstances, the Law of Constituent Parts could be extremely useful. Similar to the Law of Origins, the Law of Constituent Parts maintained that if something large was broken into small pieces, each piece would retain some of the properties of the whole it came from. All that was needed was the correct spell to enhance the particular, required property, and Aubrey was eager to do some spell-casting, now he felt strong again.

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs made him turn. 'Maurice.'

  The long-faced porter flapped a hand. 'What can I do for you, young sir?'

  'I need a cold chisel and a mallet.'

  Maurice gaped.

  'I want to remove a brick. It's important,' he added, when Maurice's expression went from bewildered to aghast.

  'It might be important, but you'll not ruin the tower.'

  'I need a brick. The fate of Lutetia may depend on it.' And Gallia, and Albion, and Holmland, Aubrey thought, but he felt the drama of the statement would be lost if he extended too far.

  'You can't take a brick from there. It's load bearing. You take one out and the window frame will drop. Then the window will collapse. And then –'

  'Yes, yes, I can work out the rest.' Aubrey stood and drummed his thigh with a fist. 'I still need a brick.'

  Maurice bobbed his head. It was a disconcerting movement, like a balloon caught in a chimney. 'A brick. From the tower.'

  'Soon would be best.'

  'I've got a spare door stopper in my room.'

  'Won't do, I'm afraid.'

  'A brick.' Maurice peered around as if he expected one to drop into his hands.

  'This is quite urgent, Maurice.'

  The old caretaker tapped his nose. 'Professor Castillon's rooms. He tried to put in a furnace and started knocking a hole in the wall he shared with Dr Cisco.'

  'We can find a loose brick there?'

  Maurice didn't answer. His expression was dreamy. 'Dr Cisco flew into a terrible rage, he did. Stormed into Professor Castillon's rooms and then it was a battle royal. Enough magic thrown around to light up the city.'

  Aubrey was interested, despite himself. 'When was this?'

  'Ooh, a hundred years ago, more or less. My pa told me about it.' Maurice shook himself. 'Those rooms were sealed up, not used after that. I'm sure I can get a brick for you though.'

  'Will it be safe?'

  Maurice chuckled. 'This place'd never hurt me. Not Maurice. Be back soon.'

  Aubrey was left alone. He gazed over the city and wondered where the Heart of Gold was. If the thieves had been able to elude the roadblocks, it could be out of the country.

  He rubbed his hands together. They didn't hurt in the slightest. His body and soul were as snugly united as they had ever been since the disastrous experiment. It was such a relief that Aubrey hardly knew how to feel about it. He'd been living with the constant threat of dissolution for so long, teetering on the brink of the true death, that having the hazard removed was oddly unsettling.

  On a practical level, however, it meant that the energy and attention he'd had to devote to keeping himself from slipping toward the true death could now be turned to more useful ends. Like becoming a hero.

  Aubrey snorted. He had to curb the Fitzwilliam Hero Impulse, no matter how much it appealed to him. He accepted that, in some ways, it was an exaggerated version of the Good Samaritan Complex, combined with a deep-seated (and hereditary) Decency Syndrome, but it did make matters difficult, at times.

  He had a number of challenges placed in front of him. All of them were worthwhile and honourable. Some were relatively trivial, others were daunting. If he could fulfil them he'd be helping people he respected and doing his part to prevent a war.

  And proving yourself? a voice whispered.

  Aubrey thrust his fists in the pockets of his jacket. He stalked around the turret. He didn't like to think that his actions were prompted by something as trivial as measuring himself against his father, but he was honest enough to admit that an element of that was always lurking.

  Sir Darius had high expectations of people. An idealist, his opponents called him, but it was a trait that had inspired his troops and it continued to inspire loyalty. People tended to rise to challenges that Sir Darius set, often achieving things they never thought they could.

  Aubrey had observed this all his life. He'd seen his father's aides, colleagues and confederates become substantial figures in their own right, thanks to Sir Darius's guidance.

  With his own son, however, Sir Darius refused to make his expectations explicit. He said he wanted Aubrey to set goals for himself.

  Aubrey's answer was to look at what his father was doing and to try to do much the same thing, equally well. Of course, being competitive by nature, that actually meant doing these things better.

  Maurice appeared, tromping up the stairs and interrupting Aubrey's thoughts. 'Here's your brick.'

  He heaved it at Aubrey, who caught it in both hands. He felt a deep, distant tingle. 'Any problems?'

  'None to speak of. Dusty place, those rooms. I'll give them a good clean-out when I get a chance.'

  Aubrey didn't have time to thank the porter. George rushed up the stairs brandishing a large roll of paper. 'One map of Lutetia, as ordered.'

  'Where did you get it so quickly?' Aubrey unrolled a detailed chart of the city.

  'We're in a university. I guessed it would have a cartographic department. Full of mapmakers, cartographic departments are.'

  'George, your Gallian is abysmal. How could you find a cartographic department, explain what you want and then negotiate for it?'

  George waved a hand. 'I pride myself on my resourcefulness. Present me with a difficulty and I find a way around it.'

  'You had help, didn't you?'

  'Not at all. I crossed the road to the nearest café. I slapped a hundred-Gallia note on the bar and said it was for the first person who could get me a detailed map of Lutetia. In five minutes I had three to choose from. Money is an international language, I've found.'

  'You're a marvel, George.'

  'I do try, old man.'

  George supplied a pencil. With it, and with Maurice pointing out the landmarks, Aubrey was
able to trace a line on the map in the direction the tower was leaning.

  Maurice saw them to the door. 'The Heart of Gold's gone missing, has it?'

  'It's supposed to be a secret,' Aubrey said. 'But we want to find it.'

  'And return it to where it belongs?'

  'That's our aim,' George said.

  'Do that.' The porter rubbed his hands together and inspected the sky. The sun was a dull, brassy colour. The few clouds were ragged and fretful, despite the lack of wind. 'The city isn't the same without it.'

  Maurice left, clanging down the stairs.

  'What did he mean by that?' George asked.

  As if in answer, the air over the city rippled, and the tower shook. Aubrey felt a wave of magic pass. 'I'd say that the sooner it's returned, the better.'

  AUBREY AND GEORGE TOOK A LATE LUNCH AT AN EATERY NEAR the Ironmonger's Bridge. Aubrey devoured his omelette with relish, enjoying the return of both his appetite and his sense of taste. He enjoyed the clean taste of basil, and the bite of the black pepper, and realised he'd missed such homely pleasures.

  His attention was drawn by the water in the river. He stared, his fork in mid-air. 'Do you notice anything about the Sequane, George?'

  George looked up from a Lutetian newspaper he'd picked up through force of habit. 'Sorry, old man, just getting up-to-date with the goings on in the Assembly.'

  'Don't lie, George, it doesn't become you. Look out there and tell me what you see.'

  George peered through the window. 'Water. Boats. Ducks. Nothing extraordinary.'

  'But look how slowly the boats are travelling, even with the current.'

  George folded the paper and stared. 'The wake looks strange, too.'

  'And see how distressed the ducks are? They're having trouble climbing out of the water.'

  'Bizarre.'

  'I can feel the magic.' Aubrey leaned closer to the window.' George, it looks as if the water is getting thicker.'

  They paid for their lunch and went to the river bank. A man in a striped shirt was sitting in a rowing boat a few yards away, cursing as he worked the oars. Each pull seemed a huge effort.

  The wake from the vessels was washing sluggishly against the stone retaining walls, as if the waves were made of treacle.