Moment of Truth

by Michael Pryor

‘He is his brother’s brother. That is enough for the authorities.’

  ‘Who are now mostly pro-Holmland, since the invasion,’ Sophie pointed out.

  The discussion on the way to the farmhouse didn’t make the Goltan situation much clearer to Aubrey, and he only half-listened as it bounced about him. He had other matters on his mind.

  Madame Zelinka and von Stralick were sitting at the kitchen table. The Holmlander jumped to his feet when he saw them. While the other Enlightened Ones crowded around cheering – and after Théo had been introduced – von Stralick stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head. ‘I do not believe it. You are all alive.’

  Chairs were provided for Aubrey and the others. Mugs of tea were thrust on them. Aubrey savoured the aroma for a moment with closed eyes.

  ‘Hugo was sure he had seen the last of you,’ Madame Zelinka said. ‘He wanted to go after you but I persuaded him to wait.’ She paused. ‘Then I wanted to leave, but he persuaded me to stay.’

  ‘But now...’ Von Stralick spread his hands.

  ‘Now we need to get back to Albion and report,’ Caroline said.

  ‘We have plenty to tell them,’ George said. Then he blinked. ‘Sophie. I suppose you’ll take Théo home?’

  Sophie, anguished, looked at her brother. ‘Théo?’

  Théo studied the floor for a moment, his hands behind his back, before answering. ‘I think I would like that.’

  ‘We can cross the border together,’ Caroline said, ‘but then we must go on without you. We need to get to Albion.’

  ‘George?’ Sophie’s voice and gaze were steady.

  George looked at her, then at Aubrey, then at Caroline, before looking at Sophie again. ‘Can you bring your family to Trinovant? They may be safer there if Holmland crashes through.’

  Sophie brightened, and her hand stole out and took her brother’s.

  ‘I will do that,’ Théo said firmly. ‘They must not stay in Gallia. If Holmland invades, Father will be in great danger.’

  George scowled. ‘Perhaps I should go with you...’

  Aubrey interrupted. He put a hand to his chest and rubbed it. ‘Dr Tremaine is heading west. Further into Holmland.’

  ‘What?’ Caroline said. ‘How do you know that?’

  Aubrey looked down. Since Dr Tremaine had undertaken his investigation of the connection in the factory, it had been stronger. He shook his head. No – not stronger. He was more conscious of it, but it was maddeningly erratic in its presence, almost disappearing at times before reappearing, clear and strong, for short periods of time. ‘I felt it. The connector. It was stronger there for a minute.’ He concentrated. ‘He’s about ten miles away, moving fast.’ He looked at all of them. ‘I have to go after him.’

  Naturally, in a room of opinionated individuals, this was like dropping a stone in a pond full of ducks.

  ‘You can’t!’ Caroline cried, louder than the others. ‘We have to report to the Directorate.’

  ‘I must.’

  George glanced sharply at him then, and Aubrey was sure he’d noticed the pronoun, but Caroline went on before he could say anything. ‘Aubrey, you’re being ridiculous!’

  ‘ I don’t think so.’ He rubbed his brow. He was tugged in all directions, and had to resist. ‘It’s Father, and the country.’

  George frowned. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  Trust George to see to the heart of the matter. ‘It’s the Ritual of the Way. I’m sure that Dr Tremaine is getting close to having it ready for the first great battle.’ He explained about the artificial magical language Tremaine was developing. ‘If I can stop that, I may be able to stop his plans entirely. Without his driving it, the Holmland war effort will fall apart.’ He sighed. ‘And I can’t let Professor Mansfield languish in his clutches.’

  Caroline was breathing very deeply, her arms crossed, giving every sign of being on the edge of a fearful rage. ‘If you don’t come back to Albion with us and those photographs are made public, your name will be ruined.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that. It’s why I need you to convince Father to disown me before they do.’

  Uproar, again, as he explained about the photographs and what he wanted to do.

  After a babble of shock and discord subsided, Aubrey shrugged wearily. ‘It’s the only thing to do, strategically. Of course, I’d prefer that he knows the truth, but he must keep that private. As Prime Minister, he must declare me a traitor.’

  More protests, louder than ever. Aubrey waited. ‘It’s the only way. A pre-emptive move like this will shore up his position as a strong leader and forestall any accusation of his covering up for me.’ He shrugged. ‘He must do it before the newspapers receive a mysterious envelope full of photographs. If he denounces me first, it will give him enough to survive any calls for his resignation.’ He held up both hands. ‘Caroline, Father will listen to you. Convince him. George? You too. Send a telegraph message if you can, but talking him face to face will be necessary, I’d imagine.’

  ‘But Aubrey!’ Caroline said, her voice catching in her throat. Then she stopped herself and took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, of course. Sophie, we can organise our journey so we find your parents first.’

  Sophie had been following this carefully. ‘Théo will come with us. He will help.’

  Théo nodded.

  Von Stralick, too, had been watching carefully. ‘This looks like a time for some drastic rearranging.’ He stood, then took Madame Zelinka’s hand. He kissed it. ‘My dear, I have to take leave of you. It seems I have an opportunity to even the score with that madman Tremaine.’

  Madame Zelinka was grave. ‘As it must be. We will be reunited.’

  ‘Of course. Now, Fitzwilliam, you will need assistance to get to Tremaine’s stronghold.’

  Aubrey rocked on his heels. ‘You know where it is?’

  ‘I know where it was. I was not a valued member of the Holmland intelligence services without learning a few things. One of those was to accumulate little bits of information that might come in handy later. To protect oneself, of course.’

  ‘Hugo. I’d be glad of any help. But we should leave right away.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  George stood, then took Aubrey’s hand and shook it. ‘Take care, old man.’

  Sophie went to George’s side and linked her arm with his. ‘Thank you, Aubrey, for your help. I am grateful.’

  Madame Zelinka unrolled a map on the table and conferred with her Enlightened Ones. Aubrey tried to see what they were pointing at but Caroline caught his eye. ‘Aubrey. Can I speak to you outside?’

  Aubrey would have been lying if he’d said he agreed without trepidation. Caroline led the way without looking back, while he followed, finding that whatever he did, his hands were out of place. They were awkward by his sides, uncomfortable in his pockets, strange when his arms were crossed on his chest. He briefly wondered if should try simply holding them up and surrendering when he realised that Caroline had stopped and was leaning against the ramshackle dairy, studying him evenly.

  ‘Aubrey.’ She nodded. ‘Aubrey.’

  ‘Caroline,’ he said carefully, reluctantly engaging in this over-obvious identification exchange.

  ‘Aubrey,’ she said a third time. Then she took three rapid steps and, before he could move, she seized him by the shoulders, then she clasped both hands on the sides of his head.

  She kissed him soundly.

  ‘There,’ she said, or may have. Aubrey’s hearing had gone strange. The world was coming to him through the sounds of giant bells and rushing winds. In his unsteady vision Caroline gazed at him, utterly, utterly controlled despite the moistness of her eyes and the quivering of her lips. He almost couldn’t bear it when she pushed back a stray wisp of her hair. ‘Now, do what you have to do and then come back. No silly nonsense, you hear? Or I’ll have to come and get you.’

  Then she turned on her heel and marched in the direction of the farmhouse.

  Aubrey
put out a hand to prop himself up against the dairy. The timber was rough, needed paint, was warm in the sun. He understood, then, that his self-imposed mission to win Caroline had been taken out of his hands. He couldn’t decide if it was inoperative, lost, or merely ill-founded in the first place. Then he remembered the kiss and knew that all along, while he thought he knew what he was doing, he had actually had no idea at all.

  Von Stralick was discreetly lingering at the door to the farmhouse. Aubrey gestured to him. ‘We should go.’

  ‘Of course. We have a mission to attend to.’

  Aubrey sighed and thought of lost opportunities. ‘Don’t call it that, Hugo. Please don’t call it that.’

  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 (including for Blaze of Glory and Heart of Gold), has been nominated for a Ditmar award and longlisted for the Gold Inky award, and five of his books have been Children’s Book Council of Australia Notable Books (including Word of Honour and Time of Trial). He is currently writing the final book in the Laws of Magic series.

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

  Read on for a sneak preview of

  The Laws of Magic Book Six: Hour of Need

  You’re the one who betrayed us!’ he croaked. ‘I always knew it was you!’

  Aubrey flinched as the accusation echoed on the rock walls that had been their home for almost a month. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, trying not to startle the wild-eyed Holmlander. A restraining spell was on his lips but he was unwilling to use magic unless he had to, not with the magic detectors around the estate below, so close, so sensitive.

  ‘Traitor!’ von Stralick snarled at him. ‘You, and the rest of them! Everywhere!’

  ‘I’m not a traitor, Hugo.’

  ‘Traitor.’ Clawing at the air like an animal, Hugo von Stralick, the ex-Holmland spy, advanced. ‘We have photographs.’

  Aubrey hesitated, and was dismayed to see von Stralick had a rock in his hand. ‘Put it down, Hugo. You’re sick.’

  ‘Hah! Sick, am I?’

  A grunt, then the stone thumped into the wall not far from Aubrey. He sighed. Von Stralick may have been sick, but enough was enough. Aubrey caught him around the waist and shuffled him backward. A feeble blow or two landed on Aubrey’s back, then von Stralick faltered, groaning. His knees buckled and Aubrey had to move quickly to avoid falling on top of him.

  ‘Traitor,’ von Stralick murmured as he lay stretched out on the rocky floor of the cave.

  Aubrey groped for his electric torch to find that the Holmlander’s eyes had closed. His face was pale, a disturbing chalky-white. He was shivering, too, and when Aubrey touched his forehead he was dismayed at how hot it was.

  Alarmed, he dragged von Stralick back to the pile of tree branches that was his bed.

  Aubrey arranged him as comfortably as he could, picked up the notebook he’d been using to work on his spellcraft from where he’d accidentally kicked it during the struggle, then sat by his side. The Holmlander’s lips moved, a meaningless stream of half-words and names, as if he were alternately reading from a street directory and a poorly compiled dictionary. Aubrey had thought von Stralick had been getting better, but it had obviously been wishful thinking. The fever and the delirium hadn’t broken. For nearly two weeks, von Stralick had been ill, and Aubrey was now starting to worry that the ex-Holmland spy was going to die.

  What had begun as a mission to find Dr Tremaine’s estate and to confront the rogue sorcerer had become frustration after frustration. Careful initial observation had been necessary, for Aubrey wasn’t about to move on the rogue sorcerer without meticulous preparation, but after von Stralick had collapsed with fever, Aubrey had no choice but to nurse his companion. As von Stralick’s illness worsened, this meant that Aubrey had much time on his hands – but using this rare gift, he had formulated a daring move that could end with war with a single stroke.

  The crag that overlooked Dr Tremaine’s retreat was high in the Alemmani Mountains. It caught the wind, no matter from what direction it came, and it constantly reminded Aubrey that this place was the natural home of ice and snow, and probably bears and wolves. ‘Forbidding’ was possibly the kindest thing that could be said about it, but its dramatic outlook probably appealed to the rogue sorcerer. That, and the relative isolation.

  Their three-hundred-mile cross-country scramble had taken them more than a fortnight. They’d become expert in avoiding Holmland troops, but Aubrey had come to understand that ‘living off the land’ sounded altogether grander than the reality, which was actually spending hours scrounging for food and water. He never thought he would have seen the day when his mouth watered at the prospect of the larger of the two grubs they’d found. Occasionally, while pawing at the leaf mould in the darkness of woods, he’d wished he’d studied mycology instead of magic, just so he could have known the difference between the edible mushrooms and the attractive ones that drive people mad.

  Dr Tremaine’s stronghold was a local landmark. From its position right on the edge of an impressive granite cliff, it had a view over the mountains and the woods that surrounded it, then the open expanses of farmland. The city of Bardenford was perhaps twenty miles away, clearly seen by day or by night. The retreat wasn’t cut off, however. A tarmac road had been rammed through the forest, switching backwards and forwards up the face of the mountain until it arrived at the gatehouse. The road was wide enough for supply lorries, and comfortable enough for town cars – including that of the Chancellor, who had visited twice since Aubrey and von Stralick had been there.

  Within the walls of the estate were a number of buildings. One clearly housed an electrical generator, from the thick cables and the unceasing whine. Another sported a tall chimney and could be a foundry or furnace of some kind. The purpose of the scatter of other structures – clearly newer than the main house, and perhaps temporary – was uncertain, but Aubrey wouldn’t have minded wagering that at least one was a laboratory. The others? Living quarters? Workshops? Prisons?

  On their journey, four days after leaving Stalsfrieden behind, it had been von Stralick who had insisted on finding some news. While Aubrey hid in what turned out to be a mosquito-infested bog, von Stralick, after doing his best to improve his bedraggled appearance, strolled into the reasonably sized town of Pagen and bought a newspaper.

  Aubrey had been sickened by the triumphant headlines that crowed over his father’s humiliation. The more sensationalist newspapers were full of glee at the Prime Minister’s disgrace. More correctly, of course, it was Aubrey’s disgrace: ‘the traitor son of Albion’. He took some solace in that it confirmed that Caroline and George had arrived home safely, because Sir Darius had implemented Aubrey’s plan: he had denounced him before the Holmlanders could publish their photographs.

  Aubrey was now, officially, the blackest of black villains in Albion. He was the son of privilege who had turned his back on everything the nation had done for him. He could almost hear the cries for his blood, the press running riot; he only hoped that his father’s pre-emptive action meant that he could stand firm, positioning himself as the wronged father of an ungrateful son, and that the public would feel sorry for him.

  Aubrey wasn’t confident, however, that this would mean that he would be treated as a hero in Holmland. Traitors rarely were and, besides, he was sure that Dr Tremaine had him on a list of people of interest. If he dared to make himself public, a cell was no doubt waiting for him somewhere secret and unofficial.

  Or perhaps a more dire fate would be his, to judge from what he’d glimpsed of the activities of Dr Tremaine’s retreat.

  Aubrey glanced at von Stralick, who had ceased his muttered outpouring and appeared to be sleeping
more soundly. The Holmlander’s condition had begun as a simple cold, a few days after finding the cave in the crag. It had worsened gradually until he’d collapsed while on surveillance duty. In the ten days since then, Aubrey had been dividing his time between tending him, finding food and water, and working on the spells that could win the war.

  Cut off as they were, the lack of information frustrated Aubrey. He was desperate to know what was going on. What about the siege of Divodorum? What were George and Caroline up to? Sophie and Théo?

  At least he had some hint about the success of his sabotage at Baron von Grolman’s factory in Stalsfrieden. Yesterday, a lorry had made a canvas-shrouded delivery. When it unloaded, Aubrey had been instantly on his feet.

  Three Holmland soldiers were needed to manhandle the ominous metal shape from the back of the lorry. They stood it upright on a trolley and it towered over them. It took all their effort, but the monstrous golem-machine hybrid was eventually wheeled into one of the temporary buildings to the north of the main house.

  Aubrey had been sure that his efforts to destroy the hideous creations, back in Stalsfrieden, had been successful. The contagious spell would infect golem after golem, embedded as it was in the enhanced coal that was the vital, energising element in the creatures. If the spell hadn’t been successful, Dr Tremaine would have hundreds of ghastly mechanised soldiers ready to storm through Allied lines and lead a Holmland assault on Gallia.

  But why had a single mechanised golem been brought to Dr Tremaine’s retreat?

  Movement below had caught Aubrey’s eye and, when he had the binoculars focused again, he saw Dr Tremaine striding across from the main house and entering the building where the mechanised golem had been taken.

  A tense hour later, Dr Tremaine had shouldered through one of the gates at the rear of the main building, his arms full of metalwork. He strode to the edge of the cliff and, with one disgusted motion, flung the pieces wide. They fell in a glittering arc, but Aubrey had time to see a boxlike head and what was unmistakably a stubby chimney.