Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

  'Ah. Of course. Your Albionish sense of humour is perplexing, sometimes.'

  Caroline glanced at Aubrey, then shifted her attention to Duval. 'I'm sorry, Claude. I've been busy.'

  'Despite your not being able to pursue your beloved taxonomy? What is filling your days?'

  'Oh, this and that. Some modelling for Mother. Other tasks.'

  Claude took Caroline's hand. 'Have you heard about the social occasion of the year? A great ball is to be held to celebrate the great Albion–Gallia alliance!'

  'I wasn't aware of a ball,' Caroline said, glancing at Aubrey.

  'As the president of the Albion Friendship Society, I am sure to be invited. Would you like to accompany me?'

  Caroline withdrew her hand. 'Ask me again when the invitation arrives,' she said evenly.

  Duval struck his forehead with an open palm. 'Of course! How gauche of me! I should not be so forward as to ask such a thing in anticipation. Please forgive me.'

  'Of course.'

  'But you will do me the honour of considering it, when the invitation arrives?'

  Aubrey cut in. 'Claude, old chap, the chorus is looking lonely up there. They're missing your decisive direction.'

  Startled, Duval turned to the stage. The players were lounging, sitting on the floor, chatting. Several had taken the chance to light up pungent Gallian cigarettes, and four of them were playing cards. 'Thank you, Fitzwilliam.' He made to bound toward the stage, but he paused. 'Your role. Have you learned your lines? Your songs? The show is depending on you as the Buccaneer King.'

  'Er, not entirely, no.'

  'Not to worry, Duval,' George said brightly. 'We put on The Buccaneers at school last year. Aubrey got good reviews. He'll be splendid.'

  It was the last thing Aubrey needed, taking on something like this, but a commitment was a commitment. He frowned. 'When is the show, exactly?'

  'Next Sunday,' Duval said. 'The day after the embassy ball. I thought we could invite some of the dignitaries who attend the occasion. Your father, for instance.'

  'Here?'

  'It's all we have, but it will look good on the night, I assure you.'

  Aubrey stripped off his jacket. 'Well, let's run through a few scenes, shall we?'

  Two hours later and Aubrey was consumed by the familiar exhilaration, terror and frustration that was rehearsals. Most of the cast were competent. The chorus wasn't a total shambles. The sets had nearly been started. The new pianist was clever, and tireless. If Aubrey could hold up his end, it would be a show of some sorts.

  Duval called for a break. 'Coffee, I think.' His suggestion was greeted with tired cheers.

  Aubrey stretched and wandered across the stage to where a youth and a young lady were arguing at the side of the stage. The youth was at the top of the ladder, swearing and fiddling with an arc lamp. The young lady looked up angrily at him, hands on her hips.

  Aubrey drifted closer. 'What's wrong?' he asked in Gallian.

  The young lady had long black hair, held back with a jade comb. She wore an embroidered blouse with a black artist's bow. 'Robert is pig-headed,' she said in good Albionish. She glared up at him. 'You men simply do not accept that a woman can do something you cannot.'

  Caroline joined them. 'This is a problem for you as well?' she asked.

  'Yes. It's a constant battle. I fear that change will not happen without a political struggle.'

  Aubrey felt Caroline's gaze. He stared at the wall and pretended he was interested in the cast of a long ago performance of Christian II.

  'I agree, wholeheartedly,' Caroline said. 'We need more women in politics and fewer men.'

  At that moment, Robert swore at the top of the ladder and Aubrey could have kissed him. The young lady stamped her foot. 'It is the screw. Robert always has trouble with adjusting the rods on the flame arcs.'

  'Flame arc lamps?' Aubrey asked. 'You use them for coloured light?'

  'It creates a pretty effect. Most spectacular.'

  'So you don't use ordinary carbon rods?'

  'No, of course not. Flame arc lamps are special. The carbon is mixed with . . .' She flapped a hand. 'Other things.'

  'Metal salts,' Aubrey said. 'Magnesium fluoride. Barium fluoride.'

  'Yes, yes. Those and others.'

  'It's old technology,' Aubrey explained to a puzzled Caroline and George, who'd come over, brushing sawdust from his trousers. 'Filament lamps are more reliable, especially when magically stabilised.'

  'But more expensive,' Robert said from above. He swore again. 'If we had the money, we would replace this cursed thing tomorrow, wouldn't we, Simone?'

  'Where do you get the special rods?' Aubrey asked Simone.

  'The same company that provides chemicals to photographers. It's the only supplier of such things in this part of the country.'

  'Splendid,' Aubrey said. Pieces were falling into place. He turned to Caroline and George. 'We need to go there. Now.'

  'What is it?' Caroline said.

  'The Soul Stealer. He must get his material somewhere, especially the components for the flash powder he uses. A chemical supplier may have records.'

  'It's late,' Caroline pointed out. 'They may be closed.'

  'That's why we must hurry.'

  Simone, perplexed, gave Aubrey the address.

  As they went to leave, Duval broke away from an earnest conversation with three of his cast. 'You are going?'

  'We must,' Aubrey said.

  'The next rehearsal?' Caroline asked.

  'Tomorrow evening.'

  Aubrey groaned. He had thought it was an internal one, but when everyone stared at him he realised otherwise. 'Sorry. I just thought of something.'

  Duval raised an eyebrow. 'And the ball?' he said to Caroline. 'You will consider my offer?'

  'When you get your invitation.'

  More farewells and they were off, with Aubrey brooding over the embassy ball. In many ways it was a small thing, considering the events that were unfolding, but it was taking a considerable amount of his attention. How was he going to invite Caroline to the ball now that Duval had made advances? The Gallian had stylishness, flair, confidence and never seemed overawed in the company of the opposite sex. I'm sure he's never been tonguetied, or started babbling, or generally been an embarrassment, Aubrey thought. Why was it that he could conceive and execute a fiendishly complex plan to catch a master criminal like Dr Tremaine, but when it came to deciding the best way to approach a young lady, he had no idea what to do?

  He sighed. It astounded him that the human race hadn't died out millennia ago, considering how difficult it was to arrange a simple thing like getting to know each other. Apparently people had managed it for a long time, but the whole business made his head spin.

  In this glum mood, he didn't object when George hailed a cab. The horse ambled through the Blessine district, past the great cemetery of the Five Brothers, to the industrial area next to the rail yards that were part of St Denis Station. Along the way, Aubrey counted three sink holes that had opened, swallowing buildings whole. They had been barricaded, but the stench that came from them was not so easily blocked off.

  The evening was turning into night when the cab deposited them in front of a modest red-brick building. It had an elaborate sign announcing that it was the establishment belonging to Poyas and Stern, Chemical Suppliers, a company modern enough to boast a telephone number. The building was in a short street that seemed to be entirely made up of foundries and metal works. The smell of hot oil greeted them as Aubrey alighted, only to be confronted by a heavy grille over the front door.

  George rattled the grille. 'No late workers here, it seems. I can't see any lights.'

  Aubrey wasn't satisfied. 'Perhaps they don't do much walk-by trade.'

  'A lane runs down the side,' Caroline reported. 'There's a long yard behind the building, and a gate.'

  'Very good,' Aubrey said. 'Let's see what we can see.'

  The yard was quiet. Barrels were piled against the wooden fence, a
nd a mound of scrap metal stood just inside the gate. Dozens of wine bottles were stacked against the far fence. Two delivery lorries were backed against the wall of the building, under a long, barred window.

  The back door of the building was open. Aubrey stopped. The quietness made him nervous, as did the fact that the door was not wide open – it was barely ajar.

  'Shall we knock?' George asked. 'Or just waltz in and ask for a dozen of their best carbon rods and their customer record books?'

  'I see movement. A light,' Caroline said softly. 'Someone is inside.'

  'George,' Aubrey murmured. 'Can you go back to the front of the building, please? Take note of the telephone number, then go to the telephone box back at St Denis Station and ring it.'

  Caroline nodded. 'If those inside pick it up, we'll know whether they're legitimate or not.'

  'If they answer, ask them about strontium fluoride carbon rods. That will test if they know what they're talking about.' Aubrey smiled. 'But if they simply let the telephone ring, I'd say that they're intruders.'

  George patted his pockets. 'I hope you have change, old man.'

  Aubrey pulled out a handful of coins and then George was off. 'We need a vantage point,' he said to Caroline.

  'To see without being seen.' Caroline scanned the yard. 'The scrap metal?'

  'Not good enough,' Aubrey said slowly, his mind working. 'I may have a solution . . .'

  'Magic?'

  He nodded. 'A spell of concealment. It's effective, but short-lasting.' He cleared his throat. 'The area of effect is limited. And there are two of us. To conceal. As it were.'

  'Enough, Aubrey, I understand.'

  'I wouldn't suggest this if it weren't –'

  She held up her hand. 'It's important. I know. Let's not be so prim, shall we? Can we move while this spell is in force?'

  'Yes. As long as we stay close together.'

  'Good. Do your trickery and then we can move until we're inside the fence. We'll take up a position to the right of the gate so we can see the window and door. Satisfactory?'

  'Yes. Good. Stand behind me.'

  'Is this close enough?'

  Aubrey felt her hands on his shoulders. He smelled violets and his head swam. I will not be distracted, he thought. 'Hmm?'

  'How's this?'

  Her arms went around him.

  It doesn't mean anything. It's practical, that's all, nothing more. 'Just about perfect.' He tried to concentrate on the spell.

  She leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. His brain turned to jelly.

  'What did you say?' she asked.

  'Nothing.'

  'It sounded like "blattoo".'

  'Spell talk. Magic stuff. Very complicated. Now, don't move.'

  He had done harder things than working a spell with Caroline Hepworth embracing him – preventing his soul being drawn into the true death came to mind – but not many.

  'There,' he whispered. The air around them rippled like a desert horizon at midday. He smiled. The gathering darkness would obscure the warping effect. 'We're concealed. Speak softly.'

  She put her mouth to his ear and he did a remarkably good job of not buckling at the knees. 'That waviness in the air? That's the spell?'

  'What? Oh, yes. Law of Photonic Flow. Or something. An observer sees what's on the other side of us rather than us. So to speak.'

  'Let's move.'

  Aubrey didn't know what to do with his hands. They were hanging by his sides like lumps of dough. In for a penny, he thought and placed them on top of Caroline's. 'Left foot first,' he whispered. 'One, two, three, go.'

  Together, they shuffled through the gate, awkwardly, splendidly. Then they inched sideways until they had the fence at their back and an uninterrupted view of the rear door. His heart was pounding, but the sensation was delicious.

  The telephone rang, shattering the quiet. Aubrey could make out movement inside, then – while the telephone continued its shrill call – the rear door of the supplier opened. Three men hurried out. One did something to the lock and suddenly the door was closed again.

  The three men spoke in soft, guttural tones, then seemed to come to some sort of agreement. Without another word, they separated, two heading toward the main street. The third was very familiar. He darted down the lane.

  Aubrey felt the spell dissolving. The waviness rippled more vigorously, then evaporated.

  Much to his regret, Caroline slipped her hands out from under his. She stepped away and gazed into the distance, straightening her hat. She glanced at him, then turned away again. 'I . . .'

  She seemed to be having trouble speaking, but Aubrey was content to wait and gaze at her. She looked at him, more directly this time, with no words on her lips, but that was agreeable as well.

  Then she smiled and said, 'That was very clever of you.'

  He sorted through all the layers of meaning in that simple statement, found them all delightful, and it was as if he'd suddenly stepped into a world that was altogether brighter, more colourful, and sweeter smelling than the one he'd previously dwelt in.

  Pounding footsteps sounded and the moment was lost, a bubble of time that was too delicate to last.

  George burst around the corner of the gate. 'I say, did you see who that was running away?' He stared. 'What's wrong with you, Aubrey?'

  'Wrong? Nothing. Nothing at all. Who was it?'

  'Von Stralick.'

  'Ah.' Aubrey had been considering a spot of burgling to investigate the customer records, but this changed matters. 'Let's see if we can find our valued Holmland friend.' He grinned. 'It's time for him to share.'

  DINNER WAS IN A CROWDED LITTLE BISTRO CALLED THE Patriot. They managed to find a booth at the back, away from the chattering drinkers at the front of the establishment. Paintings of riots, stormings of prisons and the trials of aristocrats adorned the walls. Aubrey thought the engravings of various executions were rather grim, but they didn't seem to be upsetting any of the diners.

  Aubrey ate his lamb and bean casserole with relish. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted. At least, the best since his last meal.

  'So von Stralick isn't telling us everything he knows,' George said after a mouthful of his fish soup.

  'I never assumed he did,' Aubrey said. 'He's a spy, after all.'

  Caroline had finished her chicken with sausage. She sipped her glass of mineral water. 'So it appears he is after the Soul Stealer too. What for?'

  'Let us assume it's for the obvious reason, while agreeing that there may well be an answer that's not obvious.' Aubrey spun a spoon on the polished wood of the table. It flashed as it caught the light. 'Holmland is preparing for a war. Weapons are the key to winning a war. Imagine if the Holmland army had a weapon that could steal the souls of the enemy soldiers.'

  'Sounds like a good reason to me,' George said. He munched on a slice of crusty bread.

  Aubrey sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. 'Or maybe the Holmlanders are simply going to do a spot of photography. I don't know.'

  Caroline tsked. 'Do you think the Holmlanders would be breaking and entering if that were the case? No, they're up to no good.'

  'You're right.' Aubrey drummed his fingers on the table. 'The Soul Stealer. The Heart of Gold. These are our priorities, but I think the Heart of Gold is the more important.'

  A burly man entered the bar. He was greeted with shouts and cheers by the drinkers, but his face was furious rather than delighted. A beer was thrust into his hand. He swallowed half of it and slammed the glass on the counter. While the others crowded around, he launched into a loud and bitter tirade, thumping the bar regularly to emphasise his points.

  Aubrey listened. The man had come from the country, delivering a wagonload of pears, but something had happened.

  'Why is he so hot under the collar?' George asked.

  'More roadblocks, on every road, more than one in many places,' Caroline said. 'His day has been a nightmare, it's taken him hours longer than usual to get out
to the market gardens and back again.'

  'The authorities are doing their best to keep the Heart of Gold in the city,' Aubrey added, nodding. 'He says that when he left the city this morning, his cart was held up while Bureau of Exceptional Investigations operatives went over it. He claims that the Bureau has a ring of magical operatives around the city. They boasted that nothing magical could get out.'

  'We should come here more often,' Caroline said.

  'Really?' George said. 'The food's good, but I wouldn't say it's outstanding.'

  'It's not the food. These carters are a wealth of information. One of them just mentioned that a lion was killed in the city today.'

  Aubrey had a strong desire to turn around in his seat so he could better hear the gossip, but resisted. 'Where?'

  Caroline pushed a wisp of hair back behind her ear. 'Near the military hospital. It was shot by the police.'

  'The military hospital is near the Liberty Gardens, isn't it?'

  'They're not a mile apart.'

  Aubrey was seized by an idea. He patted the pockets of his jacket. 'I need a platter, or a large bowl.'

  Caroline straightened and looked toward the front of the restaurant. In an instant, three waiters were hurrying to their table. After Caroline explained what she needed, they vied in fetching it for her.

  'They appreciate it when foreigners speak Gallian,' Caroline said when the waiters left, pushing their way toward the kitchen. 'It must be exasperating, being brayed at all day in Albionish by people who think that the way to good understanding is to speak louder.'

  The tallest of the waiters wove through the tables. He had a large, oval platter in his hands. With a flourish and a broad smile, he presented the white dish to Caroline, then backed away to crow over his disconsolate colleagues.

  Aubrey took some of the magically impregnated brick fragments from his pocket. He placed them on the platter, very carefully, then he sprinkled on some of the brick dust.

  The fragments quivered and shifted. 'It's faint,' Aubrey said. 'The Heart of Gold could be a long way away.' He shook his head in frustration. 'We'll have to do the triangulation again, George.'

  'Ah. The map.'

  'Yes?'

  'I think I lost it at the Liberty Gardens. When the lion attacked, you know.'