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Heart of Gold

Page 39

by Michael Pryor


  'He was at the ball?' Aubrey asked weakly.

  'Indeed. Once I apprised him of the situation he telephoned Professor Lavisher, rousing him from bed.'

  Numbly, Aubrey decided it was like standing in the path of an avalanche. His fate was bearing down on him with stately, inevitable grandeur. 'The university is a complex place, as I've found out in my dealings with it,' he began.

  'Don't make matters worse, Aubrey,' Sir Darius advised wearily.

  Aubrey shut his mouth.

  'Thank you, Darius,' Lady Rose said. 'Professor Lavoisier confirmed your part in events, Aubrey. He remembered you well and expressed surprise at the Chancellor's enquiries.'

  'It wasn't meant to work out like this,' Aubrey said. Even to his ears, it sounded pathetic.

  'Quite,' Lady Rose said. 'But I'm afraid it's a worrying symptom. You've displayed a careless attitude toward other people before. You enjoy manipulating them to your own ends, convinced that you know best. You disregard their wishes and charge ahead heedlessly. Is this inaccurate?'

  Aubrey felt ill. 'No. It's blunt, but not inaccurate.'

  'Good. I mean to be blunt.' She stood. 'Caroline has asked if she can accompany me on my expedition. I think it's an excellent idea. I do not believe you are good for her.' She held out her hand. Caroline rose and took it.

  Aubrey leapt to his feet. 'Caroline?'

  She looked at him. He saw the anger in her face, which was hard to bear, but what was worse was the unmistakeable disappointment in her features. 'You knew that I wanted to participate in that course, Aubrey. You knew it and took me away from it anyway.'

  'I was going to get you back in. By the end of the week, certainly.'

  Her brow wrinkled. 'And you really think that makes your actions acceptable?'

  She didn't wait for an answer. She nodded to Lady Rose and they both left the room.

  Aubrey studied the floor. 'No,' he said in a small voice. 'I don't suppose it does.'

  Sir Darius frowned at his son for a moment then crossed the room and poured himself a brandy. 'We will give them some time to leave the embassy gracefully. Then we will go back down to the ball and show the Gallians that the alliance with Albion is as strong as ever. Show the flag, as you put it.'

  Stricken, Aubrey lifted his head. 'Father!'

  'Listen to me, Aubrey. You've achieved great things in the past few weeks. Important people will want to thank you for it, and deservedly, too.' He held up his brandy and considered it. 'But while you've triumphed on the big stage, you've tripped over your own feet in other regards, wouldn't you say?'

  Aubrey heard the understanding in his father's voice, but couldn't meet his gaze. 'Yes, sir.'

  'You're feeling despondent, I have no doubt about that. And so you should. But now comes one of the hardest lessons of all. In this glittering world you so much want to be a part of, you must be able to mask your feelings. You must be able to hold your head up and perform while feeling like hell inside.' Sir Darius drained his brandy and put the glass down on a side table. 'It hurts, but it's possible – and I should know.'

  Aubrey looked to George, who had remained silent by the window during the confrontation. 'George?'

  'It's the last thing in the world I feel like doing, old man, but it seems to be important. I'll be there with you.'

  Aubrey knew he was getting more sympathy than he probably deserved. He stood, straightened his jacket and sighed. 'Let us go, then.'

  Twenty-

  Four

  FROM ALBION IS HE, FROM ALBION IS HE.

  It adds greatly to his status,

  The way other nations rate us,

  For he is from Albion, he is from Albion.

  The words were stirring and the chorus was in tune, but Aubrey found it hard to be moved. In front of an audience full of Gallian and Albionite dignitaries, he stood, centre stage, the Buccaneer King being feted as the epitome of Albion manhood. Even Sir Percy Derringford was there, his soul having been safely restored to him; Aubrey saw the Albion Ambassador glowering from a front row seat in between the Prime Ministers of Gallia and Albion.

  The song of praise went on. All Aubrey had to do was smile and doff his bicorn hat. It left him plenty of time to brood.

  As continental holidays went, he supposed it had been an interesting one. The Gallian government appeared as if it was going to last for a while longer. Life in the capital was getting back to normal. The rampaging dinosaur had eventually been tracked down, but drowned in the Garonne marshes before it could be captured. The other ancient beasts had managed to find their way into the forests that still kept secrets in this new century.

  He'd spent some time with Commander Paul, setting up a program to restore the souls of the dispossessed ones. Scores of photographic plates had been found in Farentino's home, along with extensive journals. Most of the writing was doom-laden ravings, but Aubrey found enough to instruct a squad of Gallian magicians from the Bureau of Exceptional Investigations in the best way to bring the souls back to the vacant bodies.

  While all of this had been happening, he'd been holding on to his soul through tenacity and some makeshift spell work. He was prone to fatigue, and a headache was never far away, but he refused to let it stop him from doing anything.

  A dispassionate part of him had been counting down, and as the chorus wound up with a thunderous 'He is (he is) he is (he is) he is from Albion!' he bowed low and strutted off the stage, head held high, to rousing applause.

  George was waiting in the wings. He handed him a glass of water. 'You're doing a fine job, old man. A bit stiff, here and there, but the audience is loving it.'

  'Thank Ivey and Wetherall,' Aubrey muttered. On stage, the comic baritone and the comic tenor were engaged in a trippingly fast song which confused calendars and colanders, with puns on Holy Months and sifting dates. He watched gloomily, not really caring if they messed up or not.

  'What was in the telegram?' George whispered.

  'Telegram? Oh. Craddock sent his congratulations on bringing matters to a satisfactory conclusion.'

  The comic tenor launched into the difficult tongue twister verse, with alliterative descriptions for each month of the year, all at breakneck speed. 'Jaded, jaundiced, January, jejune, jocund January, jolly, joyful January, judicious, jumped-up January. Friendly, faithful February . . .'

  Aubrey held his breath as the tenor teetered for a moment, on the edge of disaster, but then rallied and raced to a red-faced and breathless climax.

  The audience erupted, and Aubrey joined in, mechanically. George made up for his lack of feeling, stamping his feet and whistling. The curtain came down for interval. 'Well done, Charles.' George pounded the tenor on the back as he hurried off stage. 'Costume change, Aubrey?'

  'Hmm? Oh, right.'

  Aubrey followed George through the crowded backstage area, weaving through old backdrops and props left over from grand costume dramas. The changing room he shared with the male cast members was large enough to accommodate all of them, but only if they didn't move at all. Changing, as a consequence, became a form of polite hand-to-hand combat, with elbows and knees finding sensitive spots more often than not.

  George waited outside while Aubrey twisted in the corner, removing the Albion naval uniform and donning his buccaneer garb. The dressing room was full of good cheer and excited Gallian chat, but after a few attempts to congratulate Aubrey, the others left him alone.

  When Aubrey eased out of the dressing room, he saw that George had wandered over and was chatting with Sophie Delroy, who was writing an article about the play. Claude Duval took Aubrey's elbow as he eased out of the dressing room. 'It is going well, I think?'

  'Splendidly, Duval. You've done a fine job.'

  'Still, we are only halfway through.' Duvall studied Aubrey. 'You sing well enough, Fitzwilliam, and you haven't missed a cue, but your heart is somewhere else, is it not?'

  Aubrey shrugged. 'I want to put on a good show.'

  'You are, and I'm sure you will.' Du
vall paused. 'Miss Fitzwilliam. She sent me a telegram to say she couldn't help with the play.'

  'She's left for Albion.'

  'Ah. I see. That explains much. You would rather she were here.'

  'Yes.' So I could talk to her, explain, apologise, do something instead of moping about.

  George came over. 'Hello, Duval. Splendid stuff you're putting on.'

  'Thank you, Doyle. I must get back to the musicians.'

  'Where's Sophie?' Aubrey asked George.

  'She's gone out into the foyer to see if she can ask your father some questions for her article.'

  'Bright, isn't she?'

  'As the noonday sun.' George put his hands in his pockets. 'You know, old man, I think I'll take up a place at university, if it's offered.'

  'Which place?'

  'Prince's College. Reading history.'

  'History? I didn't know you'd applied to read history.'

  'I'm sure I can organise it. All that genealogy stuff started me thinking about the past and the people who lived there. Intriguing, and just perfect for a Renaissance man.' George rubbed his chin. 'Are you going to study magic?'

  Aubrey shrugged. 'I haven't made up my mind.'

  'You have to do something, you know.'

  'Why?'

  'Because you wouldn't be Aubrey Fitzwilliam if you weren't hurtling about everywhere dazzling everyone.'

  'Perhaps I don't want to be Aubrey Fitzwilliam any more. I'm tired of being him.'

  George nodded. 'Your mother's taking Caroline on an expedition. The Arctic.'

  'I know.'

  'She said she never wanted to see you again.'

  'Mother or Caroline or both?'

  'Caroline.'

  'How can I blame her?'

  George scratched his ear. 'There's one thing, old man. At least you've learned what remorse feels like, now.'

  'I'd rather not have to.'

  'That would mean never making a mistake.'

  'An admirable goal, I would have thought.'

  'Achievable?'

  'Perhaps.' Aubrey sighed. 'What am I going to do, George?'

  'The same as usual. Kick yourself roundly. Swear never to do whatever you've done again. Then you'll throw yourself into some adventure or other to take your mind off things. And most of all you'll ask me what you should do, then promptly ignore whatever I say.'

  A smile struggled onto Aubrey's face. 'Why do you put up with me?'

  'I can't abide dullness.'

  The stage manager waved at Aubrey. Together, he and George hurried to the wings. George slapped Aubrey on the back. 'Go and dazzle them, old man.'

  Aubrey stepped out on the stage, alone, with the spotlight firmly on him. The small orchestra threw themselves into 'The Lament of the Buccaneer' and Aubrey was away.

  The second half rollicked along. Plots were foiled. Mistaken identities were resolved. True love triumphed and along the way, Aubrey was swept up in the mystery that was theatre.

  By the time the finale came, Aubrey was immersed in the role. He led the whole crew, becoming the Buccaneer King surrounded by his henchmen, policemen, schoolgirls and humorous aristocrats. When the final notes lifted the rafters, the audience members were on their feet, applauding with as much vigour as the cast had displayed.

  Aubrey basked in the applause. In the front row, his father clapped and grinned, and Aubrey was touched when Sir Darius winked at him. The Prime Minister of Gallia was bemused, but was applauding enthusiastically. Even Sir Percy was clapping, if a little begrudgingly.

  Aubrey let the acclamation roll over him. Well, he thought, I've saved another country from ruin. I've found my grandmother's precious memories. I've discovered that the heir to the throne of Albion could be the true king of Gallia. I've made some friends, and hurt someone dear to me. I've stabilised my soul and then had it wrenched apart from my body again. I'm older, by a few weeks, and wiser. Definitely wiser. I suppose it hasn't been your typical Gallian holiday.

  He took hands with the junior male lead and the female lead. They bowed and the applause became even louder.

  Aubrey nodded, they stepped back, and the curtain came down.

  About the

  Author

  Michael Pryor has published more than twenty fantasy books and over forty short stories, from literary fiction to science fiction to slapstick humour. Michael has been shortlisted six times for the Aurealis Awards, has been nominated for a Ditmar Award, and three of his books have been Children's Book Council of Australia Notable Books. Michael co-created (with Paul Collins) the highly successful Quentaris Chronicles. He is currently writing Time of Trial: The Fourth Volume of The Laws of Magic, as well as further books in the Chronicles of Krangor series.

  For more information about Michael and his books, visit www.michaelpryor.com.au.

  And visit www.HouseofLegends.com.au for news about upcoming books, plus competitions, book trailers, and an exclusive Laws of Magic short story!

 

 

 


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