They stayed on the riverbank for hours, doing their best to help with the desperate need that witnesses of tragedy so often have – but there was little they could contribute. None of the flotilla of craft that swarmed over the river brought back any survivors.
The army set up an emergency centre just outside the station, complete with field hospital, as people milled about, grey-faced and dazed, sleepwalking while fully awake. Otherwise, the general organisation was haphazard. The few remaining students from the university hovered about the site with goodwill and volunteerism, but were reduced to hand-wringing frustration amid the horror. As much as possible, Aubrey shadowed the Gallian colonel who was in charge, but who spent most of his time looking shattered. Eventually military barges joined the civilian craft. After cruising up and down for some time, they tried using heavy winches and grappling equipment, but after several neardisasters they gave up, the weight of the train wreckage obviously defeating them.
When evening fell, bodies began to be brought ashore and it was time to leave.
Heavy-hearted, speaking in monosyllables, they trudged past the station. George made a few gestures that they all understood and he veered away up through the woods to retrieve their hamper and blanket.
A figure Aubrey recognised came through the crowd by the station. ‘Saltin!’ he called, waving.
The Gallian major saw who was calling. He pushed toward them and Aubrey saw he was red-eyed, shoulders slumped. ‘Fitzwilliam. M’mselles.’
‘This is M’mselle Delroy, Saltin.’
‘Ah.’ Saltin made an effort to regain his usual charm. ‘You are the famous daughter of the esteemed Dr Auguste Delroy?’
‘I am.’
‘It is an honour.’
Aubrey thought there was much to follow up there, but he had more pressing inquiries. ‘Saltin, did you find out that information?’
‘Information?’ Saltin patted his breast pocket. ‘But of course. I was given a reply, but I have not read it. The bridge...’ He took out a piece of paper and his already grim face grew grimmer as he read. ‘I’m sorry. Your three agents were on the train. There is no hope for them.’
Twenty
Divodorum, already infested with rumours, began swarming with them. Major Saltin accompanied Aubrey and his friends on the night trek back to their base and, along the way, through streets that were either abandoned or crowded with a second wave of citizens fleeing the city, they overheard snatches of anxious conversations outside cafés and bars where the fearful remaining citizens gathered. Holmland agents were everywhere. Holmland battalions were marching into town in the morning. Holmland airships were about to drop incendiary devices on the city. The two road bridges across the Mosa and the Salia had been found to have explosives wired to them. And, most worryingly, Holmland forces had encircled the town to the south and west. Aubrey didn’t know what to believe and what to discard. Rumour was proving to be an efficient worker in the Holmland cause.
Saltin excused himself when they reached the factory. ‘I must return to the airfield.’ In the pool of light thrown by a single electric lamp outside the front doors, he shook his head. ‘Those poor young men.’
‘And their families.’ Aubrey couldn’t bear thinking of the outcry when the news arrived.
‘All Gallia will be shocked,’ Sophie said. ‘But we will be roused by it as well. Holmland may think us weak, but we will surprise them.’
Saltin straightened and nodded decisively. ‘You are right, M’mselle.’ He yawned and only covered it with an effort, then waved farewell.
Aubrey felt for the airman. He was a good man, doing his best in awful circumstances, but he had a feeling that more people like that would be needed before it was all over.
Aubrey brushed the lock with his magical awareness, enough to sense that it had remained undisturbed. Once inside, he snapped on the electric lights. He rubbed his hands together at the coolness that haunted the factory.
‘I’m hungry,’ George announced. Aubrey hadn’t realised it until his friend said it, but they’d missed their evening meal. Without waiting, George took Sophie to the kitchen.
‘Keeping busy can be a good thing,’ Caroline said. She sat at the oval table and crossed her arms, hugging herself.
‘When in distress? Agreed. And having someone understanding close by is useful, too.’
‘I wish we didn’t have to keep up appearances.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘There’s nothing I’d like better right now than to stretch out on a chaise longue. Or a pile of silk cushions.’
The image both disturbed and enchanted Aubrey. ‘I’m sorry...’ He patted his pockets. ‘But I don’t have anything like that with me. Not at the moment.’
Caroline sighed. ‘I’d even pay good money for a hot bath. If there was bath oil included.’
Aubrey wondered why it had suddenly grown so warm. ‘I thought the shower bath arrangement we set up worked quite well. Hygienic.’
‘Sometimes, Aubrey, one wants more than hygiene.’
Savoury smells began to waft from the kitchen – herbs, garlic, onions – and the clatter of pans gave Aubrey an excuse to turn away, to try to work out what Caroline was hinting at, but he accepted that the pyramids would be worn to nubs in the desert before he could ever hope to reach that state of wisdom.
George and Sophie brought laden trays to the table and served piping hot mushroom omelettes, a green salad and the last of the fresh bread. Sophie was pale with tiredness, but did her best to smile bravely. ‘The omelettes, I made. The salad and bread is George.’
Caroline stood and guided Sophie to a chair. ‘You poor thing. Sit.’
Aubrey eyes widened as he tucked into the remarkable omelette. It was succulent with mushrooms that were fragrant and earthy, while a hint of – thyme, was it? – added a piquant edge. ‘Good work, Sophie.’
She smiled, wanly, and pushed her own omelette around the plate with a fork. Aubrey watched this closely, knowing from experience how a lack of appetite could be a manifestation of inner torment.
‘Now, Aubrey,’ Caroline said. Aubrey looked at her to see that she, too, was studying Sophie with concern. ‘What is it you say about the best remedy for worry?’
Aubrey froze with his fork in mid-air, lettuce glistening with good olive oil. ‘The best remedy?’ he repeated, trying to buy time. ‘Or the only remedy?’
A steely look from Caroline let him know that she knew what he was up to. ‘The sovereign remedy, Aubrey.’
‘Ah.’ He had it. ‘The remedy for worry is to do something about it.’
‘Something?’
‘Just about anything, really. Sitting around and stewing only makes worry worse.’
‘So you advise that we should do something instead of sitting here and stewing?’
The banter had a brittleness about it, but Aubrey thought it was a game effort in the circumstances.
‘That sounds right,’ George said. ‘Waiting around like this is wretched.’
Aubrey put down his knife and fork. He steepled his hands in front of him and then dropped them to the table, embarrassed, when he realised it was one of his father’s favourite gestures. ‘First things first, then. We need to communicate with the Directorate about the loss of the remote sensers, and we need to gather intelligence. To continue gathering intelligence. Caroline?’
Aubrey was already forming some plans in this area. He knew that remote sensing was a speciality to which he was unsuited, but he’d had some experience with finding out what was going on at a distance, skills that had come in useful growing up in the Fitzwilliam household when he wanted to know what his parents were saying about him.
‘I have it under control. I’ll send a report at midnight.’ She checked her wrist watch. ‘An hour away.’
‘I’ll work up something and crunch it through the encoder,’ Aubrey said, ‘as soon as I finish this altogether superb meal.’
‘I can do that,’ Caroline said.
‘No...’ Aubrey caught himself. He was about to contradict Caroline outright and he’d learned this was rarely a good ploy. ‘No need. The encoding device is tricky.’
‘I watched you over your shoulder. I can handle it.’
I’m sure you can. ‘All right. If you can do that, I can start something where I need two helpers.’ He glanced at George. ‘Two helpers who will be ready, bright and early, tomorrow morning.’
George responded gratefully. ‘And isn’t it lucky that you have two people here who are keen and willing?’
Late though it was, Aubrey took George and Sophie down to the workshop area in the basement. It was set up with four benches and magical paraphernalia ready for the remote sensers, but it had remained unused. He ran his fingers through his hair as he studied the equipment they’d managed to procure.
They’d been able to get carboys of chemical reagents, standard stuff like acids and salt mixtures. Lots of glassware – beakers, retorts, distillation tubing. A small high temperature furnace, with a collection of crucibles. Bundles of wires, insulated and bare, of various ratings. Modelling clay. Chalk in powder and stick form. Mirrors. Rubber tubing. A selection of hand tools that had originally been meant for working wood and leather. Odds and ends, bits and pieces. Shopping for materials that may prove useful in magic was difficult – especially when one didn’t know what sort of magic was going to be undertaken. All he could do was make sure that standard ingredients for familiar spells had been procured and safely stored.
It was all fairly ordinary and didn’t necessarily look like the workings of a magical cabal. The remote sensers were meant to be bringing the more esoteric stuff.
It meant, as usual, Aubrey was going to have to work with what he had at hand.
‘Sophie, tell me about the weather in these parts,’ he said as he strolled between the benches. He held his hands behind his back and, almost without being aware of it, began to hum, deep in his throat.
‘The weather?’
She glanced at George. He smiled. ‘Go on. It will make sense sooner or later.’
She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I am not from this part of Gallia, you understand, but I am told that summer here is variable.’ She turned to George. ‘Is that right, variable?’ He nodded. She continued. ‘We will have sunny days, of course, but the nights can be cool.’
‘What about the wind?’
‘It can be windy.’
‘But from what direction?’ Aubrey mused. ‘That’s what I’m keen to know.’
‘From the west, mostly, at this time of year.’
‘Splendid. Just what we need.’ Aubrey rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, George, how long is it since you’ve made a kite?’
‘Box or diamond?’
‘You’ve made a box kite?’
‘As a little fellow, on the farm, I went through a kitemaking mania, you might say. Became rather an expert.’
‘George, you’re a wonder.’
‘I do my best.’
Sophie yawned, then apologised. ‘It has been a long day.’
‘I understand,’ Aubrey said. ‘I’m going to check on Caroline first, but you two should get some sleep.’
The door to Caroline’s telegraph station was shut. He could see light through the cracks and he could hear the steady tap-tap-tapping of the key. He crept away, leaving her to it.
When he couldn’t find George and Sophie he assumed they’d taken his advice. Their sleeping quarters were dark and quiet.
Which left Aubrey alone. He drew a chair up to the oval table and was immediately seized by an overwhelming yawn that left very little room for anything else. He wiped his eyes, stood up, turned around, then sat down again.
The yawn that took him this time was even more encompassing than the first.
I will not go to sleep, he told himself, not until I’ve seen Caroline.
Sunlight coming in through the front window of the factory made Aubrey lift his head from the table.
He groaned. Then he sat up and groaned again as an ache bloomed in his back. And one in his neck. And his knees then complained because he wasn’t paying them and their hurts enough attention.
A slip of ivory-coloured paper on the table – the same sort Caroline used to jot notes when sending or receiving – caught his eye. With as few movements as possible, he picked it up.
You looked so comfortable where you were that I didn’t want to disturb you. I’ll report in the morning.
Aubrey studied the note, gave it time to sink in, then shuffled off in search of coffee. With a steaming mug in hand, and his body recovering from his uncomfortable sleep, he went to find Caroline – only to see that she was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, still in her clothes, curled up on her straw mattress, breathing softly and slowly.
He gazed at her for a while, then a while longer. It was only the thought of her waking and finding him midgaze that made him leave, reluctantly.
Half an hour later, the kite-making cottage industry was in full swing. George sawed light bamboo into appropriate lengths, Sophie cut brown paper into the required sizes, and Aubrey puzzled over how he was going to achieve the effect he needed.
It was a vague idea to begin with, but one that he believed had promise. It drew on a number of different magical principles, synthesising them in the sort of way that appealed to him. He needed to use the Law of Amplification, and Intensification, and Sympathy, and Contiguity ... he ticked them off as he fiddled with the tiny mirrors.
‘It’s all a matter of care,’ he said, raising his voice over the sound of George’s sawing. ‘Can you pass me that hammer, please, Sophie?’
‘Take these first, Sophie,’ George said and passed several lengths of bamboo across the bench.
‘Care is vital in any magical enterprise,’ Aubrey continued. ‘One element loosely employed can wreak havoc.’ He paused. Why was havoc the only thing that was ever wreaked? Could you wreak boredom, for instance? What about wreaking envy?
‘Have you finished with that glue pot, Aubrey?’ George asked.
‘Mmm?’ Aubrey blinked, remembering where he was. He stared at the glue pot on the bench nearby. A brush stuck out of it like a flag at the North Pole. ‘I wasn’t using it.’
‘I know. It was a roundabout way of asking you to shove it over here because we have our hands full.’
‘Oh. There you go.’
‘Care, Aubrey,’ Sophie prompted. ‘You were – how do you say, George? – droning on about it.’
‘Droning on?’
‘In an interesting way, old man.’
‘Of course.’ Aubrey hefted the hammer. ‘As I was saying, care is vital for finely functioning magic. Care in preparation, care in execution, care in monitoring. If you care to care, care will care for you, as Professor O’Donnell always said.’
‘Was that Ding-Dong O’Donnell, the world’s most baffling lecturer?’
‘Where did you hear about Ding-Dong O’Donnell?’
‘You told me.’
Aubrey spied an empty ammunition box lying in a corner. With a bound, he hauled it up from the floor by one of the handles. ‘Just the thing.’ The box was made of sturdy wood, with metal clasps and hinges. With it, he wouldn’t need the hammer, so he dropped it on the nearest bench.
‘Just the thing for what, Aubrey?’ Sophie asked, and Aubrey was glad for her interest. His decision to involve her was working. Left alone, brooding about the fate of her brother would only have been all too easy. Here, she was doing something practical; her natural intelligence and curiosity were asserting themselves.
Aubrey brought the ammunition box close to the bench and trapped it there, level with the surface, with a hip. ‘Just the thing for this.’
With a flourish, he swept the pile of mirrors into the box with a crash. Seizing the handles with both hands, he lifted the box onto the bench and shut the lid. While Sophie watched, aghast, he fastened the latches.
‘But the mirrors,’ she said. ‘They are brok
en.’
‘Not broken enough.’
Aubrey shook the box from side to side, up and down, then side to side again. ‘I should have thrown the hammer in,’ he said, panting.
‘I have never seen magic done like this before,’ Sophie said.
‘Aubrey has a special way about him,’ George said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
Something Sophie said made Aubrey pause. He stopped his vigorous shaking and dropped the box on the bench. ‘You’ve never seen magic done like this before?’
She shook her head. ‘No. It has always been more formal than this.’
‘More formal? You’ve actually seen magic done before?’
Sophie looked at George. ‘Sophie did some magical studies, old man. Quite talented, she was.’
‘George.’ She dimpled. ‘It was years ago.’
‘You have some magical talent?’ Aubrey said.
‘I did, but now?’ She shrugged. ‘I lost interest.’
It baffled Aubrey, but many people who showed early signs of magical ability turned away from it later. It may have been the discipline needed, or the debilitating effects that spell casting sometimes had, but only a few had the necessary combination of ability, determination and perseverance that resulted in competent magicianhood.
‘You never lose it,’ Aubrey said. ‘It’s part of you forever. With some practice, you’d get it all back.’
She looked thoughtful. ‘I would?’
‘Of course. It’s like picking up a golf club after years away from the game. You’d be rusty at first, and it would take time, but you’d be hitting it sweetly before you know it.’
‘Then tell me, Aubrey, what you are doing, while you do it. Who knows? I could be useful.’
‘You already are, my gem,’ George assured her.
‘Thank you, George, but I want to do what I can.’ She put her hands together decisively. ‘So, Aubrey, magic is not always formal?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Aubrey said. ‘Sometimes it is. It depends on how you go about it.’
Aubrey knew that his approach to magic was rather different from the norm. Most professors and scholars conducted their magic as if they were holding a funeral service. He’d seen it many times since he’d been at the university and sometimes it made him want to shout out loud. He always found it thrilling to be doing magic, and when it was treated with such boring solemnity it made him frustrated to the extreme.
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