Moment of Truth

by Michael Pryor

  ‘In a factory.’ George’s face was bleak. ‘Dr Tremaine is making me very angry.’

  ‘There’s no mistaking his magic.’ Aubrey hesitated. Even though the spell was clearly Dr Tremaine’s it had an odd cast. It wasn’t fresh.

  George frowned. ‘Let me see if I have this straight, being magic stuff and all. These poor fellows have been put into a trance by Dr Tremaine’s magic.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And we’re currently rolling with them toward Baron von Grolman’s factory.’

  ‘Most apparently.’

  ‘Where Dr Tremaine is.’

  ‘Ah.’ Aubrey thought for a moment. How could these benighted soldiers have been enspelled by Dr Tremaine if Dr Tremaine was in the factory they were being shipped to instead of from? ‘I suppose he could have whipped over to wherever these fellows came from, cast his spells, then whipped straight back here.’

  ‘That’s a lot of whipping. Even for Dr Tremaine.’

  ‘And von Stralick said they hadn’t noticed him coming. Or going.’

  Aubrey frowned. Had Dr Tremaine discovered a way to cast spells over a great distance? Or was it something even more fantastic – had he managed to package spells so others could activate them? In a way, it was a variation of the principle that governed potentialised clay. For a man who needed to be everywhere, it could be a revolutionary discovery. Another Dr Tremaine revolutionary discovery.

  ‘Thank you, George, for throwing that little sparkler into the pot.’

  ‘Least I can do, old man.’

  As they drew closer to the factory, Aubrey could feel Dr Tremaine everywhere. His presence was stamped on the whole complex. It fairly radiated with markers of his spellwork, both residual and active, and it all became confused with the multiple connections Aubrey had formed with his mannikins.

  Aubrey’s head started to ache. The life of a spy was taking some getting used to.

  When the lorry passed through the entrance, Aubrey felt a slight tingle, which announced they were crossing the magically guarded perimeter. No alarm sounded at the ensorcelled soldiers, so Aubrey assumed that the detection level had been set high enough to allow such to pass – which explained why Sophie’s disguising magic had gone unnoticed.

  He was impressed. She’d shown a light touch for someone out of practice. He wondered how good she could be if she really put her mind to magic.

  The lorry followed the leader and pulled into the loading area of the enormous warehouse, alongside the railway line. Immediately, two armed soldiers appeared and peered inside. ‘Ten in here,’ one of them called.

  ‘Act like them,’ Aubrey whispered to George, who nodded. The backboard of the lorry banged down. The soldiers showed no reluctance, nor any untoward cruelty, as they manoeuvred the wounded out of the lorry and assembled them in rows. It was as if they were moving furniture. Aubrey and George adopted the dazed, preoccupied expression they’d noted, shuffling with arms dangling at their sides, mouths slack, heads bobbing, and they were herded with the others.

  When a large man entered the loading bay and stood in the light coming through the open double doors, Aubrey desperately wanted to draw George’s attention. He stumbled and nudged his friend, cocking his head in what he hoped was a hintful way in the direction of the man, who was studying a clipboard given to him by a respectful – and unwounded – captain of the Holmland infantry.

  Baron von Grolman. The barrel-chested, bald industrialist studied the clipboard and pulled at a lip. Then, startlingly, he lifted his head and smiled expansively, like a man who has just seen a long-lost friend.

  A white burst of radiance filled the loading area. It made Aubrey blink, and at first he thought it was a spell of some kind, then he caught the familiar stink of flash powder. Baron von Grolman scowled at his clipboard while the photographer slid another plate into his camera.

  Aubrey had difficulty in coming to terms with how bizarre he found the whole scene. The soldiers who were swarming about the loading bay treated the baron with respect but that was only half the picture. They were on best behaviour, snapping out salutes and making sure that all commands were carried out with gusto as they organised shambling, pliant, wounded infantrymen. While this was carried out under the watchful eye of Baron von Grolman, a photographer was regularly interrupting proceedings to snap pictures. He was a cheerful young chap, the only civilian Aubrey had so far seen in the complex, and he had no hesitation in calling for soldiers – or the baron himself – to stop and adopt a pose suitable for his next photograph.

  It was like being at a wedding, or an important birthday party, instead of in a factory involved in secret military work.

  An opportunity is an opportunity, Aubrey thought. The photographer arranged the baron so he appeared to be joking with one of the lorry drivers. When the flash went off, Aubrey added a subtle intensifying spell. The result was blinding. The baron swore, and shouts and cries came from the soldiers nearby. The photographer was immediately apologetic. In the confusion, Aubrey dragged George behind the nearest lorry. Within seconds, they emerged, but now they looked smart and clean in the uniform of Holmland lieutenants. No bandages, nothing to associate them with the entranced cargo.

  Carefully, Aubrey reached into the cabin of the rearmost lorry. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and a lantern. He gave the lantern to George and with the papers in his hands they looked as if they had a purpose. It didn’t matter that George was carrying a lantern in the middle of the day; carrying something made it less likely they’d be questioned than if they were empty-handed.

  Aubrey glanced at the papers. It didn’t really matter what they were, but he was intrigued to see that he’d picked up invoices, shipping manifests and delivery dockets, with duplicates in best military fashion. All of them confirmed that the lorry had been in Fisherberg – but its cargo had come from the battlelines on the border with Muscovia. Each of the unfortunate wounded had been transported through Fisherberg for ‘treatment’, before being sent on to Stalsfrieden.

  While in Fisherberg, Aubrey thought, they’ve been specially prepared by putting them into this trance, thanks to Dr Tremaine’s spells at a distance.

  It was both efficient and ghastly, with the typical Tremaine indifference to suffering.

  The soldiers in charge were obviously accustomed to dealing with the entranced wounded. They barely had to speak. Aubrey and George followed at the rear, Aubrey making great show of counting heads as they went, while wooden batons were used sparingly, guiding the wounded out of the loading bay, across a short gravelled area and into the heart of the complex: the factory itself.

  Aubrey was startled. He’d been expecting they’d be taken to an infirmary faculty, or a hospital, or some sort of medical facility. This was industry on a grand scale. Through the battering noise, he could smell hot metal and the distinctive tang of ozone. Looking upward, Aubrey could make out exposed beams and girders, skylights, caged electric lights, chains and gantries.

  The vast space was full of machinery – great blocky shapes like enormous cabinets – cabling, chains and conduits hanging from gantries overhead, humming conveyor belts, clanking shuttles and hoppers. Iron walkways ran around the perimeter, high up, for maintenance and supervision. Aubrey’s eye immediately went to what looked like an office or control room, up in the heights. Well lit in the industrial gloom, it would provide the perfect bird’s-eye view of whatever was going on in the infernal place.

  It was an overwhelming place. Noise and stench. Hammering, crackling, hissing and pounding. Ozone, burnt rubber, hot metal and the cloying, nauseating smell of organic waste.

  All of this assaulted him, but Aubrey also became aware that whatever process was going on in the cavernous building, it incorporated powerful magic.

  The magic roared at him as they stood there, actually making him squint, as if he were facing a gritty wind. Then it slackened and played on his hearing, tickling with unkind fingers made of ice and bitterness.

  The magic was
not constant. It ebbed and veered, and was hard to grasp.

  Aubrey took in as much of the surroundings as he could, already preparing for a report. Soldiers hurried past, disappearing through gaps in the massive pipes, or mounting the walkways up high. Moving with less haste and more deliberation, however, were whitecoated civilians. Their coats didn’t cover uniforms, just the rumpled suits and askew ties Aubrey had come to associate with academics or theoreticians. While they may have been barbers on a field trip, Aubrey was prepared to wager that they were more likely to be either scientists or magical researchers. Or perhaps both, he thought as he noted how each of the white coats was accompanied by a fully-armed uniformed soldier.

  Subtly, knowing that George would follow his lead, Aubrey lingered as the wounded were led away into the factory. He waited for a pair of white coats to walk past, then consulted his papers, shaking his head in disgust. He was pleased that his disguising spell was working well, for he’d added an extra variable based on the Law of Familiarity, where scrutiny can be manipulated to become acceptance, based on plausible appearance. It was a delicate application because the effect had to be subtle. Trying to apply it to someone or something that was egregiously out of place was doomed to failure. Therefore, as well as looking like Holmland soldiers, the more Aubrey and George could behave like them the more chance of their presence going unremarked.

  The weight of the revolver rubbed just under his armpit. Some may have found it reassuring; Aubrey found it disconcerting. A revolver tended to imply shooting people, something he wasn’t altogether in favour of. As an option, he had it near the bottom of his list, just above ‘being shot’.

  Aubrey and George moved away from the entrance and stood with their backs to a bright red fire alarm. George hung his lantern from a hook on the wall, crossed his arms on his chest and looked sidelong at Aubrey. ‘I’m hoping that you’ve worked out a way to find Sophie and Caroline.’

  A frenzied din hammered from the depths of the factory. The sound of metal on metal was deafening.

  ‘An aspect of the Law of Contiguity would appear to be best.’

  ‘I’m glad. Sooner rather than later would be excellent.’

  ‘That’s the problem. I’d like to use the Law of Contiguity, but I’d need something belonging to either Caroline or Sophie. Something that has been in close contact with either of them.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ George reached under his jacket, fumbled about for a minute, then brought out a fine silver ring. ‘Here. It’s Sophie’s.’

  Aubrey stared at the ring in his palm. ‘She gave it to you?’

  ‘A few days ago, after we slogged through that marsh. It wouldn’t fit on my finger, and we had a laugh about that, so I strung it on a shoelace.’

  ‘A shoelace.’

  ‘Needs be, old man. I’ll organise something more suitable when we’re home.’

  The unspoken provisos and conditions that went with that declaration hovered about them, but Aubrey was thinking more about how lucky George was to have such a token. He readily admitted to being envious of his friend, but happy for him at the same time. With the only ring Caroline wore, if she gave it to him he’d probably slice his own finger off.

  If she gave it to him.

  Aubrey cast the spell with no hesitation, keeping his voice low, with George keeping a discreet look-out. With the busyness about them, however, no-one wasted any time on wondering what two perfectly ordinary lieutenants were up to. Too many other things to do.

  As soon as Aubrey completed the spell, he closed his hand on the ring, and was rewarded by feeling its tugging. ‘She’s in here.’

  The sound of a thousand motorcars being pushed off a tall building made them both jump, and before they were quite settled it happened again. Two white coats wandered past, shouting at each other about reducing valves, oblivious to the hideous noise.

  ‘I see,’ George said, shrugging. ‘If she’s in here – with Caroline, I hope – how are we going to get her out?’

  ‘By getting everyone else out first.’ Aubrey took two steps to the red box on the wall. He seized the hand crank, agreed with the sign that this was an emergency, and wound it for all he was worth.

  It was a very good siren. It had to be, Aubrey supposed, to cut through the noise that owned the place. Aubrey’s cranking was picked up and amplified through some neat magic, and a banshee howl sprang out of the speaker horns high on the walls. The alarm didn’t just cut through, it sliced the factory noise to pieces and then danced on the shreds. It had an edge to it that you could shave with, as long as you didn’t mind its teeth-jarring, bone-numbing quality.

  Aubrey clapped his hands to his ears and stopped cranking, but the siren didn’t diminish. It rose, echoing across the factory floor and sending workers running for the exits.

  ‘Well drilled!’ Aubrey shouted.

  George had his hands over his ears. His face was screwed up. ‘Like my head!’

  ‘We won’t have long!’ Aubrey signalled, and George followed. They had to push through the soldiers and white coats who were headed in the other direction, but Aubrey found that a well-wielded toolbox at kneecap level was a wonderful path clearer.

  They worked their way past benches where soldiers had flung down tools. Lathes and punches were still whirring, shaping brass and steel. Waves of heat came from industrial ovens they passed. The far end of the building was taken up with huge machines that nearly reached the roof, but iron pillars and great brick chimneys made it hard to see their purpose.

  Whitecoats and soldiers fled the factory with an alacrity that suggested they’d experienced an unpleasant state of affairs or two in recent times. It didn’t take long before Aubrey and George gazed about, alone, while the siren wailed away, echoing madly.

  George flinched. ‘Can you do anything about that noise?’

  Aubrey sympathised. His head felt as if it were being rasped out from the inside. He studied the fire alarm and thought of the work he’d done back at Stonelea School on amplifying voices in Clough Hall via an inverted application of the Law of Attenuation. If he could just add to that...

  He cranked the handle. He spoke some careful Akkadian. The siren rose in pitch, then swallowed itself in a pained, electrical squawk.

  The silence was wonderful. They pushed into the factory, looking for Caroline and Sophie.

  The immense factory floor was divided into sections, with conveyor belts and chutes running between them. Some parts were obvious in their function, with banks of lathes and metal-working machinery indicating light engineering works, but other parts were less apparent. Those stone walls in the rear corner, for instance, didn’t match the rest of the architecture. Two walls making a small room which was separate from the factory floor? It looked as if it were an addition, and a secure addition to judge from the heavy brass door – which had been left ajar by whoever had been inside when the sirens went off.

  A secure facility within a secure facility that was making something useful to the Holmland military. Aubrey considered exactly how difficult it would be for him to ignore the open door, and it actually made him dizzy.

  Of course I’m going to investigate, he thought. It would be wrong not to.

  George followed him, avoiding the belts and chains that hung from the walkways.

  Aubrey raised an eyebrow at how thick the walls of the secure chamber were. Double walls made of large stone blocks, reinforced with steel bars. Whatever was in here was extremely valuable.

  Or extremely dangerous, a small voice at the back of his mind said. He stopped at the entrance. A dusty, oily smell came to him, and it brought to mind trains and locomotives, but this smell was sharper. Carefully, he reached around and fumbled for an electric light.

  Racks. The entire chamber was lined with wooden racks. Resting in the racks, in separate concave niches, were hundreds of metal cylinders about the length of his forearm and four or five inches in diameter.

  In the centre of the room was a manhole. A larg
e brass cover over a circular hole in the wooden floor. It was locked with a heavy padlock, brass again.

  George, leaning over his shoulder, frowned. ‘Why brass?’

  It hadn’t occurred to Aubrey, but once George had thrown up the question, it intrigued him. Surely steel would have been cheaper and quicker to machine. ‘It looks good?’

  George eased Aubrey aside and stepped into the chamber. He picked up one of the cylinders. ‘They’re light.’ He tilted it from side to side, then shook it. ‘Empty.’

  Brass. Aubrey had it on the tip of his tongue. Something about brass. ‘What’s brass used for?’

  ‘Musical instruments. It has a lovely tone.’ George placed the cylinder back in the rack, and Aubrey realised he was relieved he had. ‘Some plumbing fittings, things you don’t want to rust.’

  Aubrey examined the room. Featureless, apart from the electric light, the manhole and the racks of cylinders. The floor was wooden, which was interesting, as the walls and the ceiling were made of stone. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Lots of things, old man. Brass is jolly useful. It doesn’t spark, for instance.’

  The hairs on the back of Aubrey’s neck rose. ‘Step outside, George. Carefully. And don’t knock any of those cylinders.’

  George heard Aubrey’s tone of voice, and he was out of the chamber in a flash. ‘Are they dangerous?’

  ‘No. But they’re stored in a double stone-walled, reinforced chamber. With a wooden floor, just in case they’re dropped. And they’re made of brass, so as not to cause sparks. I’d say that someone is taking precautions against explosions, wouldn’t you?’

  George paled. ‘I gave one of them a good shaking.’

  ‘It was empty, you said.’ Empty. Waiting to be filled with something?

  ‘So it seemed. Famous last words, “I’m sure it’s empty.”’ George snorted, then he pointed. ‘Are those machines the same as the one you commandeered from Fisherberg?’

  Aubrey turned. ‘Golem makers.’